Slightly Askew

Free samples are as old as the direct marketing hills.

When I was younger, I remember getting lots of free samples of Wash & Go delivered to our house. Maybe someone thought my hair could do with a few more washes.

Those free samples worked – big, proper bottles of Wash & Go could often be found in the Waters bathroom a few weeks later.

Free samples are still alive and well. Even in the digital world. Introducing Books offers free samples on its website, giving people the opportunity to see the unique style of their books before buying.

Free samples were even available at Latitude festival. Müller (those lick the lid of life people) had a special tent where, every morning, they gave away free yoghurts, corners, rice and those probiotic thingymajigs.

I liked this for two reasons:

1. They were kind enough to give away free food to hungry, hungover people.

2. In a world where financial departments demand hard evidence of ROI, this was a refreshing change. There’s no possible way they could measure ROI or ‘brand engagement’ or any other nauseating marketing term. But they still did it. They still thought it would bring a smile to people’s faces. And genuinely believed that us folk would repay this gesture by purchasing their products on a regular basis (otherwise why do it?).

The thing I really like about free samples is their faith in the product. I love the try-this-once-and-you-will-fucking-love-it attitude. The unwavering belief that one shot at the title is all the little fucker needs to worm its way in your life forever. Free samples cry out: we are a product, and we’re not shit.

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Halfway through writing this post, the topic came up at work. Could we, an agency, give free samples to prove what a brilliant job we could do given the chance?

I’m not so sure. Yoghurts have pots and lids and are full of cream and fruit and stuff. It is a yoghurt or it isn’t. (That’s a sentence I never imagined writing.) If you like the yoghurt free sample, you buy another yoghurt full price. Creativity is subjective. And you’re only as good as your last effort. Yoghurts can rest on their laurels for years.

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In search of a spot of lunch, we headed to The Fountain in Tuddenham, a little village on the outskirts of Ipswich. It’s usually a busy pub/restaurant/bistro/whatever-it-brands-itself, but we figured that Mother’s Day last Sunday (one of the busiest days of the year for the restaurant trade) would render this Sunday a good day to get a table. And we were right: seconds after walking in The Fountain’s door we were seated and ordering drinks. My lager arrived quicker than it could’ve been poured. Remarkable stuff.

And it got better. The menu was brilliant – I wanted to order about eight meals. I settled on a homemade cheeseburger with horseshoe fries (okay, hardly the most opulent of dishes, but I do love a good burger). And bloody good it was, too. My burger was cooked beautifully and the fries were perfect. And how often do you get a perfect plate of chips? Not often. They’re often too crispy or too greasy. Or there’s a minging green one that brings all the others down.

I didn’t have dessert, although Caroline said the crème brulée was better than the Bistro’s. And the whole thing was a good price – less than fifteen quid a head (for four of us).

In fact, The Fountain at Tuddenham was pretty much faultless. Pretty much meaning I’m go to be a nit-picking nobhead.

Because for all the quick service, brilliant food and very reasonable pricing, The Fountain is in need of some smiles. Yup, smiles. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not demanding that people who work in customer service bounce around like they’re advertising the newest tampons known to humankind. But a smile – even a forced one – makes me feel that I’m not completely spoiling your day by eating at your establishment. And word has it they’re cheap.

Just a small glitch then. Oh, and the disgraceful apostrophe omission.

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After my killer butternut squash soup recipe a few weeks ago, here’s another from the Slightly Askew kitchen: Lamb Meatballs in Passata with Spaghetti.

Cut up some red pepper, red onions, mushrooms, and a cheeky green chilli.

Take some lamb mince; mine’s from Sainsbury’s – but you can go somewhere horrible like Asda.

Rip the crust off a slice of bread and chuck it in a blendy slicey thing. This makes breadcrumbs.

Put your mince, breadcrumbs, and some of the green chilli and red onion in a bowl. Add a truck load of seasoning, and mix it all up. Go on, do it with your hands.

Roll the meat into balls to make meatballs. There’s a fair chunk of common sense in this cooking malarkey.

Close up! They look a bit like brains, don’t they.

Fry those meatballs ’til they go a beautiful brown.

Add some passata. Er… from a jar.

Heat up the passata in the pan with the meatballs. Chuck in the mushrooms and red onion, as well as the rest of the red onion and green pepper.

Serve on spaghetti. Wash down with a Rioja.

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I can’t be bothered to write anything clever or thought provoking, so here’s a recipe for a cracking butternut squash soup that’ll warm your lonely heart this winter. You’ll need a butternut squash, a couple of onions, some curry powder, cumin, salt and pepper. A sharp knife, chopping board, cooker, blender, bowl and spoon will also come in handy. Onward.

Peel a butternut squash and cut it in half, longways. This is actually quite difficult, so use the biggest knife you can muster. Then scoop all the seeds out with a spoon.

Cut the butternut squash up into blocks. You don’t have to do it as perfectly as me, but it helps.

Peel a couple of small red onions (or one big one) and cut those up, too.

Chuck the veg in a saucepan and start frying. Add one tablespoon of curry powder, one tablespoon of cumin, and plenty of salt and pepper.

Mix one Oxo cube (vegetable would be a sensible choice) with 300ml of water, and pour into your pan.

Give it a mix and put the lid on.

Cook for twenty-five minutes. I spent this time watching the football, but you could learn a dance or go shoot some people on Grand Theft Auto.

After twenty-five minutes have passed, check the butternut squash is cooked by giving it a good prod.

Grab a blender, and get your game face on. This is not a job for pansies.

Blend until smooth. Looks good, doesn’t it?

Lunch for two.

Don’t forget the home baked rolls. Caroline cooked these.

Go! Stuff yourself like a Gok Wan patient.

Mmm… soup.

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If you go to the PizzaExpress (really, is a space between words that ghastly these days?) website, you’ll note two immediate options: our restaurants and our food.

It’s a shame they’ve overlooked another vital part of the dining experience: service. After all, the service you receive at a restaurant can really make or break your evening – especially when you’re eating something as simple as a pizza.

After my visit to the new Pizza Express – sorry, PizzaExpress – at Regatta Quay, I’m disappointed to report that it’s not only on their website that they’ve overlooked the service.

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Fish and chips: a very British affair. Slightly mischievous though. And not just because the food police condemn its deep-fried ways.

No sir. My whole experience of buying fish & chips (it looks so much better with an ampersand, don’t you think?) is fraught with peculiar choices and strangely consistent rituals.

Firstly, there’s choosing a chip shop. I go the nearest one - it’s always better to walk. You will find that everyone you ever meet will know where “the best fish and chip shop in the world” is. They might even know one with a cracking name.

When you arrive at your chip shop of choice, there’s the awkward who’s in the queue moment. People are scattered everywhere. Some have ordered and are waiting. Some are waiting to order. You have to guess who’s who. Don’t push in.

Once you’ve ordered, contemplate the optional extras: pickled eggs (these are my garlic bread; who the fuck eats pickled eggs?), overpriced fizzy drinks (the cans will be arranged in a 3-2-1 pyramid - it’s chip shop law), and extortionately priced condiments (presumably they’d dust that sole bottle of ketchup if you happened to purchase it).

Then there’s the open or wrapped dilemma. I’d go wrapped. It’s a salt & vinegar thing (that looks better with an ampersand too). You see, salt & vinegar added to an open bag of chips leaves the top layer heavily doused, and the bottom of the bag gasping for flavour. By selecting wrapped, the salt & vinegar achieves better coverage. Sure, you don’t get to eat them immediately, but good things come to those who wait.

Of course, if you’re at the seaside, you must choose open. If they give a choice at all.

After you’ve taken your wrapped bag of chips and begun your walk home, soak up the moment. The excitement; the anticipation; oh yes - it’s good to live in Blighty. You might even press the warm bag of chips up against your face and feel the warmth. Don’t feel ashamed, everybody does it.

You’re home. It’s time to eat. Sadly, the decisions are still coming thick and fast.

Plate or no plate? If you’re dining with your new girlfriend’s parents, take the plate. Otherwise, put the plate away and eat those chips like you mean it.

But wait. What about the sauce?

Mayonnaise. Salad cream. Tomato ketchup. Barbecue sauce. Burger sauce. All staring at you. All begging for an opportunity. An opportunity to make these chips the greatest fucking bag of chips ever.

Be brave. Choose well. Reap the rewards.

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