In defense of defoamation

We are living in an era of circle jerk dining: all menus look the same (bream crudo, parmesan foam, and Chin Chin vinho verde, anyone?), the modern industrial interior is ubiquitous, and if your herbs aren’t tweezed on with surgeon-like precision, well, you might as well walk into the sea right now. 

So how to cut through the goat’s curd (so to speak)? We’re currently seeing a protest play out on social media via the ‘no preparation, just vibes’ attitude of the Girl Dinner, and the unrestrained anarchy of the Husband Meal. 

I call it clandesdining.

It might be a Marmite and mozzarella toastie. Or Torres truffle crisps topped with Nutella. Or sourdough spread with Lurpak and Laoganma chilli oil. It might even be Branston baked beans on bread (not toast. Bread).

It doesn’t really matter what it is; the point is that we derive a pure and simple joy from the things we eat when we are liberated from scrutiny. Though often nutritionally questionable, the transgressive concoctions we consume in secret are infused with a resourceful, renegade spirit that cannot be quashed. It is through them that our innermost hopes and dreams are made manifest, and that we are able, for the briefest of moments, to revel in a life lived wholly and ecstatically outside the law. 

And you know what? Freedom never tasted so good.