Back in the days of the Loyd Grossman original, middle-aged, middle-class women from middle England cooked middling stuff they'd rehearsed with their friends from the WI. Of course, back in those days the tastes of our world didn't stretch so far. Eating foreign meant going for a French.
Now it's all youngsters fresh out of red-brick universities doing fusion food very badly indeed. Never have so many 22 year olds pointlessly smeared their plates with so much green pea purée. Last week a chap plainly in thrall to the street food revolution rustled up pork wasabi cacciatore on a bed of drunken dandelions whilst declaring his love of all things Japanese, without ever actually having been there, obvs.
I blame the otherwise great Thomasina Miers for this unrisen soufflé of the culinary zeitgeist. She marches unopposed through Masterchef then spends the next decade spreading slightly spicy joy across the capital, turning London into a reasonably-priced, Mexican-themed street party and now everybody wants a slice of the pie – but truffle-lined with a topping of fenugreek falafel.
Luckily, my wife remains oblivious to such nonsense. She is a slow food queen. Our kitchen is a brioche bun free zone. Indeed, I just asked her what we're having for dinner and she said “a Mexican meze...”