My cutlery drawer is a mess. Sure, there are the usual things in there: the knives and forks, the spoons and cheap plastic chopsticks from the local takeaway. But there's also a bunch of other stuff: the spring-loaded tongs and the heavy, red-enamelled crackers with their serrated teeth, the pins, and spindle forks for digging about in nooks and crannies, and the longer wooden-handled ones perfectly shaped for spearing bread. None of these things is used as much as I would wish but the mere sight of them pleases me. They speak of eating possibilities. More than that, they speak of nerdy eating possibilities, the ones that demand accessories; of foods that do not give of themselves easily and demand serious attention and effort.
An appetite for that effort is one of those things that sets real eaters apart from the rest. Lots of people will tell you they love crab, and then order one of those hockey pucks of carefully picked-over white meat as proof. That's not loving crab. That's patronising crab. That's demanding crab meet you on your terms. Somebody who really loves crab wants the whole damn thing in front of them, shell on, claws uncracked, beady eyes staring them down with that "come and have a go if you think you're hard enough" look. And so you set to, with a toolbox of kit designed solely to enable you to get at the good stuff.
Only really interesting food experiences demand toys, and the rituals they bring. Anybody who claims it's just too much effort, who sighs wearily in the face of a proper fruits de mer, is merely showing a lack of commitment. Go get a sandwich. The lovely things are not for you.
My wife is half Swiss and we have eaten fondue unironically in our house for a very long time. When my dear mother-in-law died last year, more than a dozen of us gathered around a bubbling pot and it was curiously thrilling to see this extended very British tribe so completely attuned to the nuances of the process: the necessary height of the flame on the burner, the way the prongs had to spear the crust, the wrist flick needed at the end to make sure the bread stayed in place. The absolute imperative to eat it standing up. Get all these things right and fondue, a piece of culinary alchemy that lifts mere grape and milk to dizzy heights, is very special indeed. Without this it is just so much wet, molten cheese.
My fear is that, in an age that venerates convenience, cooks will find ways around the challenges that demand toys. For example I have noted a recent trend in restaurants to serve snails out of their shells in dimpled trays. Boo and hiss. Where's the fun in that? It took me a long time as a kid to learn that while you needed to grip the prong tightly to shift the snail from its sticking place, the grip on the tongs in which the shell was clasped had to be loose. I firmly believe they taste better that way, if you have had to work to heave them out, dragging thick smudges of chopped parsley and garlic with them.
I suspect there is something distinctly male about this, the hunger for gadgets that makes all grown boys crave a shed in which to play. Perhaps so, but I really don't care. A good set of accessories makes dinner taste better. And that's really all that matters.
