Working in the arts and journalism is the perfect collision of culinary connections (it also allows you to write sentences as awful and contrived as that one). Lunches tend to be long boozy affairs, with theatre and actory types, the odd rock and roll musician, and a producer who is paying the bill. The topic and conversation is free flowing and high falutin’: red or white? Starter and main? Perhaps a cigar to finish?
At least that’s what they told me. The reality is more ill-conceived sandwiches that are downed at the desk, with coffee and cigarettes as dessert. Actually the latter are now firmly off the menu. You can blame modern-day Hollywood standards for that one.
As an editor, lunches tend to be strictly al desko, although occasionally you do have the excuse of meeting a writer, which tempts you out of the building. Last night’s reheated pasta and chorizo never tasted better than when scooped out of some tupperware 15 minutes before deadline.
The glamorous bits of the arts world only come out to play at night, so it wouldn’t be unusual to have three or four events, gigs or shows during a week to go to. This means that most arts writers become a mine of information for the best places to find food on the run around town. Where can you get a relatively healthy meal in the early evening for under a tenner? (Umi Falafel.) Where’s the best place to get a pint and a bite with 25 minutes to curtain up? (Bison Bar.) And where will you find a classy joint to serve you something after dark? (777.)
The real arts troopers, though, know that the best bet is to hit up a launch or two before heading to a show – this town is run by the finger food mafia. Pretty soon, I’m sure PR companies will figure this one out, and each invite will come with the caterers’ name on top. Then the place will be dripping with journalists. Yes I’m delighted you’re launching your book, but could you tell me more about where you got your braesola?
