Middle-class dilemmas: the supermarket packer

I’d always thought of supermarket packers as being a uniquely 1950s America thing – in old movies there’s always a middle-aged man (usually just out of prison) packing groceries into paper bags. We British spurn such profligate behaviour – we didn’t make it through the Blitz by having someone else pack our shopping for us, and anyway, it has to be done a certain way.

Thus my heart sinks a little when I walk into Sainsbury’s and each checkout is manned by a teenager with a bucket. Usually it’s a school group fundraising for a trip, hoping their offer to pack your bags will result in a small donation. 

I support their enthusiasm, I really do. Here, have £2 to take the school jazz band to Sweden, just don’t touch my shopping. I organise it by size and weight and which cupboard it’s going to end up in. Also, there are girl things in there. And most importantly, if there’s an adolescent packing my shopping, what am I supposed to do?

• Give directions, like I’m their mum
• Organise my handbag
• Interrogate them on where my money’s going
• Play with my phone
• Stand there and watch, like some kind of bag-packing overlord. 

It just all feels a bit uncomfortable, and I’ve yet to find a way to say “I’ll give you a donation, but I’d rather pack myself” without sounding a bit passive/aggressive. Suggestions please.

In praise of printed takeaway menus

It’s got so easy to order food online – although my parents’ generation don’t get it at all, in fact find it a bit disgraceful. Circling things on a menu with a biro and then phoning through an order might not be as quick and easy, but it’s a much nicer experience. It’s partly the excitement of being able to use one of the flyers that come through the door among all kinds of bumph, but also because you get to see the way a restaurant has presented itself through fonts and wording and style, none of which you get online. And then you get to speak to someone working there. All this makes me feel closer to the food. 

Have you noticed that some restaurants bring you a printed menu with your delivery, even if you’ve ordered online? It feels like a sweet attempt to make a connection they couldn’t make through an online order.

So next time you’re gearing up for a takeaway, pause before punching an order through to Hungry House or wherever, and take a little time to peruse the takeaway menus stuffed in your kitchen drawer. They add that most nebulous of MC sensations to the takeaway experience: authenticity.

The rise of the posh sandwich

As someone who grew up on a diet of Mighty White glued together with Shipphams fishpaste, I can’t quite get my head around fancy sandwiches.  It was fine when shop-bought sandwiches had two or three things in them – ham and salad, cheese and pickle, prawn and mayonnaise - but then adjectives took over the world, and suddenly ham was beech smoked or exotically crumbed or hand carved from the succulent leg of the happiest pig in Wiltshire.

But it didn’t stop there. Oh no. Now sandwiches have gone all gastro, with ingredients like refried beans and beetroot and watercress and other stuff that has no business being in a sandwich. For evidence, I refer you to this article in The Guardian, entitled “the ten best sandwich recipes”. Here’s the ingredients for the first one:

80g montgomery's cheddar, grated
10g comté cheese, grated
10g ogleshield cheese, grated
2 slices of Poilâne sourdough bread
2 tsp mixed chopped white and red onions, leek and crushed garlic

I’m concerned it might be a bit bland. Maybe a touch more ogleshield, and some fishpaste? 

Flickr: Kake Pugh

TV Suppers: The Eurovision Song Contest

One of the wonderful things about Eurovision (and there are many, I have a list), is that for one glorious week it brings all of Europe together, in all its glittery, bonkers diversity.  It’s a legitimate opportunity to laugh at foreigners, celebrate all things regional/camp/kitsch, and marvel at how hot Scandinavians are.

But let’s not forget someone else for whom Eurovision offers a not-to-be-missed opportunity – the Well-Travelled MC. He or she has not only heard of Malmo, they’ve also been there, drunk their bodyweight in Aquavit and missed the last train to Stockholm. 

So when you’re watching the Eurovision finals tonight (and you will, you know you will), keep an ear out for the MC in the room. He or she can be identified by the sharing of their extensive European knowledge, in the form of gap year anecdotes, geographical trivia and random historical facts (particularly relating to former Yugoslav nations).  A few examples are below:

• “Did I tell you about the time I went skiing in Bulgaria? So much cheaper than the Alps”
• “Extraordinary to think that technically Yugoslavia no longer exists”
• “I stayed in Hungary when I went InterRailing. You’ve never really had a goulash until you’ve been to Budapest”
• “Did you know that Azerbaijan is not actually in Europe, just in the European Broadcasting Union?” 
• “Terrible how things are in Greece. It was all fine when we were in Kefalonia.”

Just for info, the correct response to all of these is “Really? How fascinating”, before turning up the volume on Greece’s answer to Madness.

The awfulness of this year’s Apprentice; what price the Badger in 2013?

“I like to keep my class and my dignity,” sulked The Apprentice’s Sophie Lau as she was fired from the programme earlier this week. But without wishing to be mean – Sophie was one of the more dignified contestants – one has to say that she might have chosen the wrong show for that.

This year’s Apprentice features among its female team the most preening and distastefully-dressed group of business Barbies ever to “grace” the show; the flesh, sky-high-heels and predictable cattiness is reminiscent of the days when producers were trying to keep Big Brother afloat with glamour models. Luisa might have attracted most of the bad press but it’s the sight of the overly made-up mass pouting in presentations that is really depressing.

This was once the reality show that the middle classes could enjoy because it had some intellectual content, and the BBC is making a huge mistake if this direction is to be permanent. The producers seem to have forgotten the best-loved female contestant of all time was a flat-shoed, un-made-up down to earth lass from Birmingham. Bring back the Badger, we say.