Well Done

 This episode takes on the holy trinity of British summer: vegan food that insists on impersonating meat, the sacred chaos of the back garden BBQ, and restaurants that charge £5.50 for a bowl of chips. Expect socks-in-sandals discourse, smoke-scented laundry, a beetroot burger nobody can tell from the real thing, and a full audit of why bread is suddenly an appetiser. 

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Am I out of touch? Is the world weird or is it just me? Welcome, welcome to Well Done, the podcast where we talk about the things that truly matter in this country. Not politics, not the economy, not the creeping accidental dread of modern life. No, we're talking about food. We're talking about summer, we're talking about the moments your neighbour fires up his barbecue and your freshly washed duvet comes back smelling like a harvester on a bank holiday. I'm your host Allison, and today we need to have a serious conversation about three things: vegans, restaurants, and the great British barbecue season, which as we all know lasts approximately 11 days a year and is treated with the same reverence as a royal coronation. Grab a drink, possibly something cold, it's gonna get warm in here. You want meat free, fine, but why does it have to look like it's wearing a disguise? Let me be very clear from the start. I have nothing against vegans, nothing. It's a free country, you do what you do. If you want to exist entirely on the output of plants and sheer moral superiority, that's absolutely your right and I respect it completely. What I don't understand, and someone is going to have to explain this to me slowly using small words, is this. If you have made this conscious, deliberate, philosophical decision that you do not want to eat meat, why do you want your food to look exactly like meat? I'm serious. Walk into any supermarket these days, and the vegan isle is basically a fancy dress party for vegetables. You've got the no-meat burger, you've got the plant-based sausage, you've got the vegan chicken nuggets, vegan bacon strips, vegan pulled pork, and I promise you this is real, vegan scampi. Vegan Scampy. Now Scampy for the uninitiated is a small crustacean. It lives in the sea, it has literally never had anything to do with a plant. And yet somewhere in a factory unit, probably just outside Swindon, a team of food scientists are sitting around a table going, right, what if we took some pea protein, some methellulose and a dream and made it taste like something that used to live on the ocean floor? And here's the really baffling part. It's not even pretending to be something new. It's pretending to be the exact same thing you've decided you don't want. It's like giving up alcohol and then asking for a pint glass full of something that looks like lager, smells like lager, and has little foam on the top, but going, this one I'm fine with. You look at that person and you think, mate, are you alright? And the names. The names these products get. They can't just call it a bean patty. No, it has to be the ultimate bleeding burger, which, and I cannot stress this enough, is bleeding because they put beetroot juice in it. Beetroot juice. So you've got a burger that's bleeding. But it's fine because it's beetroot and it's sitting in a brioche bun next to a little flag saying planet friendly. Meanwhile, your arteries are perfectly clean, but your white shirt looks like a crime scene. And look, I get it. I get that people are transitioning. They miss the texture, they miss the ritual, they miss the feeling of eating something that used to have a face. And the food scientists are doing their absolute best to bridge that gap. But just once, just once, I want to see some honesty in vegan food marketing. Not plant-based crispy strips, just bits, seasoned bits. They're not chicken, don't think about chicken, have some bits. Now here's when it gets really interesting because all of this, all of this becomes spectacularly awkward at a barbecue. And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us neatly on to segment two. Summer has arrived. The men have got their sandals on, God help us all. You know summer has arrived in Britain, not because of the weather. The weather is unreliable, the weather is a liar, the weather in this country has the emotional stability of a reality TV contestant in week three. No, you know summer has arrived because of two things. One, men appear in sandals, two, somebody on your street fires up the barbecue. Let's start with the sandals because we really need to talk about this. There is a type of British man, and you know exactly who I mean, you've got one on your street, possibly in your family, possibly you are him, who spends all winter in sensible shoes, normal shoes, shoes that a functioning adult wears without incident. And then June arrives, or sometimes late May if he's feeling ambitious. The temperature gets around 17 degrees, which in this country qualifies as a heat wave, we're not proud, and out come the sandals. Not just any sandals, sandals with socks. Now there are many people who will defend this. They'll say it's practical, they'll say it's comfortable, they'll say the Germans do it, and yes the Germans do do it. But the Germans also brought us the autobahn and some very efficient railways, so we don't always have to follow their lead in everything, do we? On a side note, why do young men think wide tube socks and sliders are okay? Why do they think it's different from socks and sandals? Someone please explain this one to me. Okay, back to socks and sandals, and there he stands, in the garden, in his shorts, that he's had since 2009. His vest that may be a bit ambitious, red shoulders already because he forgot sunscreen again, and he looks at his disposable barbecue tray that he bought from the garage forecourt with the same quiet pride that Victorian Explorer might have felt planting a flag on an undiscovered continent. This, this is his moment. He's been waiting for this since October. He doesn't cook the rest of the year, he wouldn't know where the garlic presses. He once asked, where do you keep the saucemans in the kitchen? He has lived in for eleven years. But today, today he is a chef. Now the thing about the Great British Barbecue is that it operates on a very specific and deeply irrational set of principles. Principle one, everything must be cooked at exactly two temperatures, raw and carbonised. There is no middle ground. The outside of the sausage will be the colour of Victorian chimney, the inside will be, medically speaking, alive. Principle two, there are always too many people for the equipment. You've got a grill the size of an A4 piece of paper, and you're trying to feed 14 people, including three kids who only eat plain things, and one person who you've just found out is vegan. More on that in a moment. Principle three, someone always brings corn on the cob. Nobody asks for it, nobody specifically wants it, and that yet there it is, slowly charring in the corner like a sacrificial offering to the barbecue gods. Principle four, the music. Oh the music. Now I'm not anti-music, I'm a fan of music, but there is a subgenre of barbecue playlists that I can only describe as songs that were popular enough for everyone to recognise, but nobody's favourite. It's pumped up kicks, it's Mr. Brightside, it's that one killer song that isn't Mr. Brightside. It's something by the black-eyed peas that you'd forgotten existed until this exact moment and will spend the next three days trying to move it from your head. At a volume that says, I'm sharing this experience with you, whether you would like to participate or not. And your neighbours, your actual neighbours, are getting this in full surround sound, over the fence, along with the smoke. Because here's the thing: nobody tells you about the smoke. The smoke is aggressive. The smoke is personal. You can't light a barbecue on one side of a semi-detached house, and somehow, through a combination of physics and spite, the smoke will find the one window that's been left open. Travel up the stairs and sit in your guest bedroom for three days. And if you've got your washing on the line, mate, you may as well just marinated your sheets in charcoal brine and hung them back up. The towels now smell like a smokehouse, your pillowcase smells like a pub car park in 1987, your good white blouse, the one you washed specifically for your Monday meeting, smells like somebody has been slow cooking brisket inside it. Meanwhile, back at the barbecue, the host is now swearing considerably, fanning the coals with a paper plate, insisting it'll be ready in five minutes, a phrase which at a British barbecue means anything between 20 minutes and the literal heat death of the universe. Children are becoming feral, dogs are circling, someone has two cans of cider and is offering opinions on the football. There is a bowl of coleslaw that everyone is ignoring, there is a bag of birkabuns that have inexplicably gone hard despite not being open, there is potato salad that no one asked for, and everyone is vaguely suspicious of. And in the corner, quietly, politely, with the kind of patience that should qualify them for sainthood, is your vegan guest. They brought their own food, of course they did. They know better by now, they arrived with a little tupperware container of marinated portobello mushrooms and halloumi, which technically isn't even vegan, but everyone's given up asking the question at this point. And the host, who is a good person, a genuinely lovely human being, says the following sentence with complete sincerity. I've saved you a bit of space on the grill. Which sounds very inclusive, very thoughtful, very considerate, until you realise that bit of space on the grill is the same grill that has for the last 45 minutes been processing sausages, burgers, two chicken thighs, and something that might have been a lamb chop. The grill that is essentially marinated in the essence of every animal that has crossed in this afternoon. The vegan is looking at the mushroom, the mushroom is looking back at them, and the mushroom now faintly tastes of beef. And look, this is where everything comes full circle, because your vegan brought a plant-based burger, the kind we discussed earlier, made of pea protein, bleeding beetroot, looking exactly like a real burger. And when they put it on the grill, nobody can tell the difference. The host can't tell the difference, the kids can't tell the difference. Dave from next door who's been drinking since noon definitely can't tell the difference. And at some point, inevitably, someone, and there's always one, picks up the wrong burger and bites into it. And they say, actually, that's not bad, is it? Which is the highest possible compliment the British are capable of giving about food, and also the closest we will ever come as a nation to genuine progress. When did a main course stop coming with anything? And why is everything £4.50 extra? Right, let's talk about restaurants, because while all of this outdoor chaos is unfolding, some of us, sensible people, people who own a tablecloth, people who have decided that life is too short to inhale smoke and eat raw chicken in the garden, some of us are going out for dinner. And going out for dinner has changed, my God, has it changed? There was a time, and I know this sounds like the beginning of a speech at a retirement party, but stay with me. There was a time when you went to a restaurant, you ordered a main course, and it came with things. Accompaniments, the implicit agreement of food. You ordered steak, chips came, maybe a little salad, maybe some peas. They just arrived, unbidden, uncharged, a gift from the kitchen to you, the paying customer. Those days are gone. Now you go to a restaurant, you look at the menu, and you see pan roasted chicken breast with Time Zou, 18 pounds. Which sounds lovely, which is lovely. But what you do not immediately clock, because the menu is beautiful, the lighting is ambient, and there's a candle on the table, and you've already had the bread, which is also extra, but we'll get to that. What you do not immediately clock is that it's just the chicken. Not chicken and something, just chicken alone on a plate with jus, which is gravy but French, so it costs more. The chicken is standing there like it's waiting for a bus, just a chicken breast in a puddle. And then you look to the side of the menu, the sides section, and this is where the real theatre begins. Because the sides are not included, the sides are not a given. The sides are an entirely separate financial transaction that you must negotiate as if you're buying a used car. Seasonal vegetables, £4.50. 10 cent broccoli, £5. Mashed potato, £4. Triple Cook chips, £5.50. A bowl of chips, £5.50. That's it, I've done the math. This is more than the chips cost in a chip shop. An establishment whose entire purpose and identity is based around chips. And it's not even the price, it's the assumption. The assumption that you, as a sophisticated modern diner, probably don't need potato. You're fine, you've got your chicken, you've got your jus, you've got your tiny smear of something on the side that the waiter described as puree, but looks something like you find on a charging mat. And you want to eat a complete meal, as in protein, carbohydrate, vegetable, the things that constitute eating like a human being rather than a Michelin-starred bird of prey. You're looking at your 18 pound chicken plus £5.50 chips plus £4.50 greens, and suddenly you're 28 quid for a dinner for one person. Plus the bread, don't forget the bread, because the bread arrived first. Because you've even seen the menu, it just appeared. Warm, gorgeous, with some kind of whipped butter that has been sorted by someone who really understood their assignment, and you ate it. Of course you ate it. You're British and it was there. And then the bill arrives, and there's bread at £3.50. And you think, when did bread become an appetizer? Bread used to be the thing that was there, like cutlery, like a napkin. You don't charge extra for the napkin. And of course, there's the service charge. Now look, I support tipping. I believe in tipping. The people who work in restaurants work hard and deserve to be compensated, but there is something deeply unsettling about a £12.50 optional service charge that appears pre-added to your bill and is starred with tiny asterisks that say, entirely your choice to remove, in type so small it requires geology degree to find it. It's optional, technically, yes. Can you remove it? Technically, yes. Will you? No. Because you're British and you'd rather leave the country than cause a scene. And the vegan menu, oh, we've come back around, haven't we? Beautiful symmetry. The vegan option at a nice restaurant used to be we can do the risotto without the parmesan, reluctantly, slightly sighing as they write it down. Now the vegan menu is an event. It's got its own section, it's got words like foraged and heritage and soil, and there will be a dish described as charred leek, smoked walnut crumb, fermented kolrabi, meadow herb oil. And you look at it and think, is this food or is it a map of a National Trust property? Meanwhile, the meat eater next to you is having beef. Just beef with stuff. And the leek is somehow £22 because it's been charred, and charring apparently is a technique that requires specialist equipment, years of training, and roughly the same overhead as sending a satellite into orbit. What I'm saying is, somewhere between the vegan sausage roll, the barbecue smoke flavoured washing and the £5.50 bowl of chips, we have as a society made food very, very complicated. And yet, and yet there is something, and I mean this sincerely under all sarcasm, there is something genuinely wonderful about the fact that we care this much, that we argue about it, that a man stands in his garden at half past six with a pair of tongs and a borderline unsafe disposable barbecue, and he is happy. That we crowd around a smoky grill, clutching warm cans and paper plates, getting in each other's way, cooking things unevenly, arguing about when the chicken's done, and it is genuinely one of the best possible ways to spend a summer evening. Even if your washing smells like a steakhouse, even if the vegan's mushroom tastes of someone else's burger, even if the restaurant charged you extra for the chips, we're going to be okay, probably. That's it for today's episode of Well Done. If you enjoyed it, tell someone, tell everyone. If you didn't, tell someone else and really sell it. Either way, word of mouth is how these things survive, much like the undercooked sausage. So until the next episode, wear sunscreen, not the factor 10, the proper stuff. Put it on before you go out, not when you're already pink. Your nose is not a warning light. I'm your host Allison, and this has been well done.