I can carbon-date my transition into the world of Fine Dining to the first time my mum put Ski Yogurt on the table at tea-time. This, to a palate trained to accept cling peaches and bile beans, was a gastronomic revelation. It tasted like nothing else, except maybe sugar and fruit flavouring with top notes of sour milk, and opened new horizons of gustatory adventure. I knew instinctively that this was not the food of the lumpen masses – it was even socially superior to Dairylea Cheese Triangles (my poshest pre-Ski foodstuff). Not only was it uniquely presented (eating something out of a plastic pot with a spoon was like heroin back then) and flatteringly associated with Switzerland and middle-class leisure sports, it was the full-of-fitness food. It actually made you fit! Not that I cared – I was in it for the glamour. It was my gateway comestible to the next step – Alpen Muesli. This, again, effortlessly evoked the snowy Alps, and tasted like nothing else, except maybe sugar and fruit flavouring and cold porridge. Goodbye, cornflakes!
My initiation into Fine Drinking came much later (I am pleased to recount). It was Rob Sheppard [<REAL NAME] who seduced » Continue Reading.