Amid the mind-cluttering chaos of political parties ripping themselves apart like cannibal rats in a barrel, dictators threatening nuclear war, climate catastrophe and so on, we could all do with something to quieten the bad thoughts. Recently, I found mine: a globe artichoke. It had been a while since I’d been served one in the classic style, with jugs of Dijon-bonded vinaigrette. In the 1970s, these were a staple of my mother’s fancier dinner parties; a marker of a certain sophistication, which took its lead from France, where they recognised the edible possibilities of a humble thistle.
What I had forgotten was just how blissfully engrossing the process of eating one can be. Each thick, olive-green petal must be pulled from its sticking place, dipped into the dressing, before the business end is dragged over the teeth to get at the mother lode. Finally, you must dispose of that leaf, and start again. Repeat, dozens of times. Of course, it’s delicious. But more importantly, it’s impossible to think about anything else other than the job at hand while eating one. The profound comfort of that is not to be underestimated.
Different dishes serve different purposes. Some are like male birds of paradise with their Technicolor tail feathers aloft, in the hope of getting laid. They are plated to make you swoon at the visuals; to flatter you through attention to detail. Others, portioned in odd numbers for even numbers of diners, seem calculated to challenge our diplomatic skills or even merely to show off our manners. What exactly do you do with that third shumai when two of you are eating dim sum?
There are those engineered to facilitate chat, leading inexorably to disclosure. If you want to find out how someone is, by which I mean how they really are, make a shepherd’s pie, or a chilli heaped on a snowdrift of steaming rice; something that can be forked away by instinct. When the process of eating becomes automatic, then the real talk can begin. At last, you can find who did what to whom and when, and how they felt about it.
Finally, there are foods like that gorgeous globe artichoke, which are so fiddly and intense, nothing else can be thought about while they are being demolished. We talk a lot these days about the importance of mindfulness, of living in the moment. Well, there really can be no greater tool for accessing that moment, than your dinner. The problem, for me at least, is that the globe artichoke season is almost done, and yet the gut-wrenching, all-consuming global chaos is not. The cannibal rats are still in that barrel. If you have a highly developed worry gland, 2022 can be a terrifying place in which to live.
What are my options? Which other foods and dishes demand total concentration? At the low-maintenance end there are roasted, salted pistachios, in their shells. A good session with a big bag of those can gently slip me into something approaching a welcome fugue state. The grownup, heated version of this is, of course, a bucket of mussels, which comes with the added distraction of wondering whether you’re playing edible Russian roulette. Or there’s simply a well-made bowl of ramen. Because if you don’t focus totally on the business of eating, it may end up down your front. Although that may just be me. Eating these things won’t change the source of your worry. It won’t make you feel better about it all when you’re done. But it can be a form of personal respite care.
Right now, with everything in such a bloody bloody mess, I’ll take it.
