A Non-Definitive Top Ten

Of things that I could go without eating again in my lifetime.

1. Chorizo and haloumi. Haloumi is the styrofoam of cheeses. Chorizo is the gourmet meat of choice for wankers who are only eating Mexican because they're told its the next big thing by their friends.

2. Pork broth. Japan was the worst for this, I think because (despite the cuisine's reputation for delicacy) they seem to like a lot of strong flavours (bonito, soy etc.) in their cooking which eliminates chicken stock from their arsenal of ingredients. They don't have a lot of agricultural space, so pigs are the next best (or worst, if you given even the slightest fuck about factory farming) thing to "grow". Japan needs more Muslims. (Gosh there were a lot of brackets in that paragraph.)

3. Whelk. If you don't know what whelk is, I envy you.

4. Any lollies that have a base made from that sweet flavoured white shit. You know, strawberries and cream, racing cars. Wrong.

5. Fruit flavoured hot tea. Most of them don't even contain fruit, they have "fruit flavour" instead. You might as well just chew on a packet of Hubba Bubba and count it as five serves.

6. Mackarel. Revolting, greasy, bastardly fish. It has none of the rustic charm of sardines, none of the salty delight of anchovies - it's just a big lump of sump. Someone should begin investigating methods of turning them into crude oil.

7. Caraway seeds. They have but one place, and that is sporadically sprinkled through sauerkraut. The rest of the time their presence is downright offensive - take this toast I had for breakfast, for example. It looked like a delicious grainy loaf, I was nomming away on it - and all of a sudden, FUCKEN' CARAWAY SEED. IT RUINSES IT!

8. Chicken in pasta, closely followed by chicken on pizza. Chicken is already kinda doughy in texture. Putting it in pasta is like stuffing a cooked potato with rice.

9. Panini. Actually, any sandwich that doesn't involve (a) steak; (b) sausage or (c) being purchased from a roadhouse where the only choice one gets to make for their salad sanga is whether or not one wants salt and pepper (combined in a caterer's shaker, of course).

10. Rocket. In its defence, there are few occasions where rocket is required. One of them is in my dear Cunter's exceptional balsalmic-y, bocconcini-y fettucine sauce. Such is the radness of her cooking skills that she manages to turn the evil weed into a mouth-watering concoction. The other occasion is as an accompaniment to Bosc pears, walnuts, balsalmic, olive oil and reggiano. Aside from these isolated incidences, rocket can go fuck itself.

Actually, on second thought, perhaps it's not the rocket's fault that I dislike it so immensely. In fact, I think the real culprits here are the cafe staff who have replaced their compulsive snow-pea sprout garnishing with piles of rocket on the sides of plates across this wide, brown, unpleasant land of ours. Die cafe staff. Die.