2 days ago
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“You’ll never eat a good meal in a restaurant that puts caviar on scrambled eggs”; “Your dining companions should have a say in what you order”; “There is nothing wrong with making multiple reservations for the same evening and then cancelling them.” The Financial Times asked its food writers to produce a set of commandments for restaurant dining, which were reviewed by industry experts (and, erm, Brooklyn Beckham). The experts were not impressed: “The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard”; “Over my cold dead body”; “This is not just a bad rule, it’s an act of terrorism.”
Although entertaining, I’m not sure how useful this is at the moment. Have you seen how expensive eating out is now? When a fancy croissant costs £6 – in York! – most of us aren’t wondering whether or not a seven-course tasting menu is likely to deliver on its promises. We’re mostly eating in these days, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t rules to argue over. Here are mine – I expect, and hope, you’ll disagree.
Soup is a drink, not a meal. Yes, however “hearty”; yes, even with bread.
Toast, however, is totally a meal.
“What’s for dinner?” is a despicable question. Come with realistic suggestions or for ever hold your peace.
Similarly, if you claim you “don’t mind” what you eat, you can’t then criticise what is presented to you by someone who has taken on the mental load of planning and preparing dinner.
You can have one special mug (or bowl, or plate) that no one else can use, but just one.
Pointy-ended spoons can go to hell.
So (this is my best friend’s rule, not mine) can kitchen roll. “It’s toilet paper for the kitchen,” she says, with the devastating finality of Nicky Haslam. “Everyone should have napkins.” I’m a heavy kitchen roll user, but took this on the chin and am currently on eBay buying 12 vintage napkins for the price of a single croissant.
If I am preparing vegetables, it is NOT cute to cruise by, cheekily steal a handful and pop them in your mouth; it just means I have to chop more carrots. Rude.
Backseat cooking is never acceptable, unless the cook is causing imminent danger to life or health. Back off, or take over entirely.
A supermarket packet of fresh pasta serves one, not two.
As an adult guest, unless you’re allergic to, genuinely intolerant of, helplessly revolted by, or religiously or philosophically prohibited from eating a certain food, you should try some of what you have been served. Yes, even if it messes with your “macros”, or you’re “avoiding refined sugar” or “doing keto”. I was so shocked by another Financial Times article in 2023 that said it was OK to upset people in the pursuit of thinness (“The worst outcome is that someone resents you for a bit. You aren’t a teenager in a California high school drama.”), I’ve been brooding on it ever since. Collective eating is a sacred social ritual, and sometimes making your granny happy trumps your wellness goals.
But, if you’re the host, no food you serve should become a referendum on your worth or lovability. Get over it – worst-case scenario, there will be leftovers, which are the best reason for having people round to eat in the first place.
Speaking of leftovers, it’s finders keepers: all little bowls in the fridge are fair game.
Conversely, if you put something into the fridge, it is your responsibility to dispose of it. Don’t make me tackle your putrid prawns.
Home working couples should not have weekday lunch together. Relationships need what my husband calls “un jardin secret” – a certain mystique. For me, that’s never letting him witness the sell-by-date-defying garbage I shovel into my face at 1pm.
Never judge someone else’s condiment and seasoning choices; you don’t know what is going on in their mouth.
“One person cuts, the other chooses” is not just for kids sharing cake, it’s a lifelong, universal principle.
The maximum amount of time you can claim a dirty dish to be “soaking” is overnight (eight hours at most). Any more is gross dereliction of duty.
Hiding food is acceptable only if: 1) Society has broken down completely and it’s a survival scenario; or 2) You live with teenagers.
Everything goes in the oven at 180C. I said what I said.
Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
