DOUBLE STANDARDS

Even food writers get it wrong.

It is a sad indictment that the only way to make a name as a thrusting journo is to think up any old reactionary, idiotic view and sell it to the highest bidder. And what a pyrrhic victory this weekend has been for Jan Moir in the Daily Mail with her mean-spirited and quite undelicious comments about the death of Stephen Gately.

After her salad years of rookie feature writing in the Scottish press, she made it to London. Not only did she rise up the ladder to become a decent writer for the Observer, she finally made it to become an award-winning columnist and food writer for the Daily Telegraph. So what a complete bore to have boiled all that down to a congealed sludge by becoming a two-bit hack on the Daily Mail.

Her bilious dyslogy has just shown up once again how the tabloid press works in all of its simplistic, not-surprising-at-all predictability. So I’m not joining in the moral outrage. If we allow such papers to exist, then we deserve what we get. But what is so disappointing is that back in the day in Glasgow, Jan was a nice, fun girl – pushy – but who wasn’t in the late 80s? Pity for her now to have wantonly crapped all over Gately’s family, Boyzone, gay men and the sanctity of marriage like a bulldog with the skitters for the sake of further enhancing her already well-established career.

I don’t usually use this blog as a vehicle for spleen. But there is a link. For me Moir’s outrage is sadder because I was impressed by her progress as a food writer. Ever so slightly envious, even. Her prize-fighting work has increasingly become more interesting and engaging. Unlike many writers, she rather deftly extracts more about the food than her own opinions.

But life of the foodie is riddled with double standards. My own included. I love game but detest hunting. And yet I’m quite happy for someone else to stuff a goose full of porridge and enlarge its liver on my behalf. I love to meander up to Islington Farmer’s Market on a Sunday and pick my way through fresh Wessex red chard and Cornish crabs but when I decide it’s ok, I’ll eat asparagus from Kenya and prawns from Thailand. I love the idea of Fergus Henderson’s ‘nose-to-tail’ ethos but the Belgian and I get fed up of reading menus that promise the eviscerations of fish and fowl. Stuff we used to chuck out is now haute cuisine.

Putting aside the diatribe, here’s something for the month in the interest of demonstrating some consistency. When autumn days close in, I want the last salad of the season - Salade Chatelaine. It contains three of the fore-mentioned ingredients.

On a bed of baby spinach, layer steamed asparagus and slice soft-boiled quail eggs. Fry in butter, foie gras lightly dusted with flour, until browned. Throw in some cooked, peeled tiger prawns. And for the pièce de résistance, the duck confit I made earlier in the year makes its annual performance. Shred the meat over the rest of the salad. Finally, an orange, coriander, crushed red peppercorn and honey dressing. It’s rich, calorific, piggish, cruel and unsustainable. But at least no-one else will suffer. Get a grip Jan.