I’m very fond of Grace Dent’s food column in ‘Feast’, but this generally enjoyable book is a rather different kettle of poached fresh Atlantic salmon. Terrible joke, I know, and poached fresh Atlantic salmon wouldn’t appear in ‘Comfort Eating’ anyway since it’s a book about ‘what we eat when nobody’s watching’.
And what are those foods, those concoctions we resort to when we want to be embraced by food? Well, after laying down her Golden Rules of Comfort Eating, Dent dives into chapters on cheese, butter, pasta, bread, potatoes and ‘sweet treats’. These dissertations on comfortable grossness are interspersed with revelations from her podcasts in which celebrities, for want of a better word, reveal their naughty-but-nice secrets. We get a taster of the full wonderful awfulness that is to come in an introductory chapter: Russell T. Davies and his Woolworth’s pork pie with a boiled egg inside it, Nish Kumar with a polystyrene tray of kebab-shop chips ‘covered in floppy shawarma meat “from off the elephant’s leg”’, James May and the fish finger sandwich, Stephen Fry and his mashed skippers. But that would be telling…
Suffice it to say that one of these melanges of idiosyncratic pleasure was a fried bread sandwich (with or without HP sauce).
And we have also a kind of intermezzo chapter on Uncomfortable Eating. It would be fun for someone who has not read the book to make a list of the top ten items that would feature in their own list before seeing what Dent includes in hers, though I can’t resist recording that top of her list is andouillette sausage. This is largely because I’ve tried it, at the Ibis in Lille. I thought to myself, I’ve always heard about this, and since I can pronounce it passably, I’m going to ask for it. To give him his due, the waiter did not bat an eyelid and brought it out, lying unattractively alone on a white plate. It was truly as unappealing in the mouth as it was on the plate, but I do not like to waste food and managed to finish it not unpleasurably with dollops of Dijon mustard.
There is a twofold serious side to the book. On the one hand, it is a celebration of Dent’s mother and the comfort she provided her daughter, a comfort often associated with memories of the food that was always there from bread and butter and beans and crisps and chocolate and biscuits – all the usual things, but peculiarly prominent in Dent’s sense of loss. And on the other, it is an exploration of the way other people’s childhood and teenage memories of food are formed and how important to them they are. Even now, I cannot pass a barbecue or a grill house without instantly being reminded of being a teenager in Turkey, and how much I liked both the country and the food; and as for homemade Boston Baked Beans with pickled beetroot – that’s my mother and father on a Friday or Saturday night and feeling both full and secure. (My mother was Canadian and had a cookbook called ‘The Way to a Man’s Heart’, and Boston Baked Beans had certainly performed a role in her capturing my father’s heart in Halifax in 1940.)
I found Dent’s ambition to write about gorging guiltily was sometimes thwarted by there simply not being enough words to describe, usually, butter and fats, but the book as a whole is a cavalcade of a paean to Food We Like and which – if we don’t eat it all the time, and she makes that point early on – proves the validity of the old saying that ‘A Little Bit of What You Fancy Does You Good.’