If Food be the Food of Love

My old friend Sarah’s Dad used to own a bistro in Sheffield way back in time, before he discovered absentee-landlordism and a love of skiing. On his first Valentine’s Day as a restaurateur, he spent most of the day sawing four-tops in half and cobbling together table legs to double the number of tables in the restaurant. And therein lies the problem with Valentine’s Day, it is an opportunity for the restaurant trade (not to mention florists, chocolatiers, greeting card manufacturers and God know’s who else) to profit from your tender feelings. Money might not be able to buy you love, but it can certainly buy you some garish commercial trinkets instead.

Having cooked my share of Valentine’s Night meals in restaurants – a staple diet of oysters, , sea bass (for the ladies), steak (for the gents) and rock-hard out of season strawberries – I know better than trying to eat out on February 14th. If the overpriced set menu doesn’t bore you to tears, the couple in the window with the psychopathic loathing for each other will at least ensure the night is memorable. When I was in the kitchen, our main amusement would come from trying to convince one of the Commis Chefs to hide a ring in some unsuspecting bastard’s girlfriend's dessert.

So what did we eat last night? A late dinner of orcchiette pasta with some early season purple sprouting and a healthy dose of garlic, chilli and anchovy alongside a half-bottle of Bisol’s unimpeachable Crede Prosecco. A simple dinner for two in the peace and quiet of our own kitchen. I wouldn’t have it any other way.