UFO Info Week-End

It is salutary to report that not only was the volume a best-seller but it has been copied by another restaurant cookbook

It is salutary to report that not only was the volume a best-seller, but it has been copied by another restaurant cookbook which takes designer’s conceit to new heights. Though I loved the wooden boxes they used to come in fringed with doilies and illustrated with exotic desert scenes, dates taste like a sweetened doormat. However, I agree with Betsy that it takes dedication to polish off a load of clementines. In more ways than one, the fruit rapidly loses appeal.You may recall my belly-aching earlier this year about the design of cookery books. In particular, I drew attention to the self-indulgent lay- out of the River Cafe Cook Book Two (pounds 25), which culminated in an eight- page picture spread of a man handling Parmesan cheese. Despite its evocative aroma, the tangerine is tricky to peel and often contains an unfeasible number of pips. Nuts rarely survive the effort of getting at them and the results – more like bits of wood than anything else – are on the very cusp of edibility.

“Eggnog and a couple of clementines? Uh-uh.”Ms Berne may have a point here – I certainly hope no one brings us a pound of clems as a substitute for Chateauneuf-du-Pape – and I accord with her sour feelings regarding “the few at the bottom that are soggy or, worse, mouldy”. But what she fails to understand is that, at least on this side of the Atlantic, the clementine is engagingly user-friendly compared to traditional seasonal nibbles. “Does a clementine go with a Scotch on the rocks or even an innocent glass of white wine?” she gripes. Apparently, these dinky citruses are now taken to parties “in lieu of a fancy dessert or a bottle of wine” It won’t do, declares Ms Berne. Over the past few years, the clementine has become the Christmas fruit de choix in the Big Apple.

It is nothing so obvious as the grotesque excess of Xmas which gets the goat of a writer called Betsy Berne She objects to the latest fashion in “chic-Euro-food”. Understandably chagrined, the Footer declared that he was “fed up with all this” (or words to that effect). On his way to the door, he snatched up a corkscrew which he hurled into the throng. As luck would have it, the device struck Mrs Weasel a glancing blow.

Since we’re staying at home next Wednesday, she can be assured that the corkscrew will be in safe hands this New Year.The latest issue of the New Yorker contains a heartfelt complaint about a certain aspect of yuletide. To add insult to injury, our host did not fulfil the requirements stipulated in Maypoles, Martyrs and Mayhem: “The Footer should be entertained when he has finished symbolicking around.” Instead, the poor chap was left in a corner, still clutching cake, coal and salt, while the Japanese warlord attempted to lead a conga. To be exact, a couple of lumps of smokeless fuel, a packet of salt and a chunk of Christmas cake. Unfortunately, his entrance failed to make much impact upon a party in full swing. The recipe combines simplicity and potency: 1) take equal parts of vodka, gin and Cointreau; 2) stir together in any suitable container (our host used a gravy boat); 3) drink direct from container.
As soon as our ragged rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” had died down, our host insisted that it was vital for first-footing (the custom retains its potency in the north-east) to take place.Despite his somewhat bizarre party garb (a suit of Samurai armour), he managed to persuade a passer-by to undertake this task. In addition, as you might expect in the early hours of 1 January, he was extremely drunk.Nevertheless, this befuddled embodiment of good luck was handed the traditional first-footing symbols of warmth, wealth and food.

According to Maypoles, Martyrs and Mayhem, a recently published almanac of British myths and customs, “the Footer is usually tall and dark” and “ideally an outsider” The perplexed recruit fulfilled all these requirements. Our host, who hails from the north-east, was in high spirits after fortifying himself with a concoction he described as a “Geordie Cocktail”. I had never before seen anyone inflate a balloon with his nose and hope never to see it again. As it turned out, the New Year’s Eve Party was fairly jolly – though it proved to be an object lesson in the imprudence of reviving ancient ceremonies. I can’t honestly say that this slightly lacklustre quartier of the capital is tinged with happy memories for me where 31 December is concerned.