Tag Archives: food review

MI CASA BACON AND EGG BURRITO

MiCasaBreakfast

An unrepresentative image

What is food?

I guess this is the big question this blog has been meandering towards all along.

And while this has become an overly sandwich and mobile food-focused medium over the last few posts, perhaps it has only helped sharpen us towards this point.

Is food merely sustenance, or should its aims be loftier?

Average Food Blog does not know for sure, but it does know that while eating at a transport interchange means your expectations are inevitably lowered somewhat, some standards can be maintained. Your brain must, at bare minimum, be registering the eating experience as something slightly more than a series of mastications and swallows.

The Mi Casa bacon and egg burrito has all but no discernible texture, colour, smell or taste. It is scrambled egg juice squirted maliciously onto a highly-faded watercolour painting of tomatoes, wrapped. It has mass, but little more can be added. Maybe this is what just under £4.00 gets you in a corporate food setting in pre-Brexit Britain.

It is surely among the worst cuisine-based cultural parodies ever. Mexico should sue or invade or both.

Incidentally, the location of this eating is not ‘Mi Casa’; it is Manchester fucking Airport. This house decrees that no food is present in this aluminium foil.

[unrated / not food]

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CLUB SANDWICH

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Club sandwich: the publicity image

If nothing else, dear handful of readers, I do hope Average Food Blog, when in full flow, has proved that mediocre foods can at times transcend their mediocrity and provide a stunning experience.

This is something no club sandwich anywhere has ever done.

There is mediocrity and there is mediocrity, and the club sandwich represents the most soul-sapping sort of foodstuff available. It is the menu option offered by lobotomised pseudo-chefs snorting coke in the back tooled up with the note they robbed off the last club sandwich eater.

Recently, I have eaten two club sandwiches. This, admittedly, says as much about me and my current mental state as the kitchen coke fiends mentioned above.

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Club sandwich: the half-eaten truth

This plate-based melee of proteins and carbs is the Cinderella’s ball of blandness, never anything but spectacularly disappointing. Crap meats between toasted but still slightly-soggy bread, a straggling bit of lettuce and tomato offering a pale parody of health food as you continue your headlong plunge into the grave selecting this consumable, when there could potentially, possibly, be art and beauty all around you.

You’d think that the few slightly-overdone chips would be the end of the insult, but oh no. The stick. The wooden stick of the type only associated with plant pots and club sandwiches, holding this shitshow together. Note to club sandwich-offerers of the world: this is not a gourmet flourish.

I would go as far to conclude that the club sandwich is not even a food; merely a reminder that, beneath our t-shirts and hair-cuts and music tastes and football fandom and affected interest in experimental theatre we are all average; so damn average.

Stop the tape, this is done.

Club Sandwich: [no rating]

ELITE CRACKERS

Elite crackers

There’s a lot of talk about the elites these days. It’s often pejorative, and mostly comes from either Owen Jones or Nigel Farage.

But Elite crackers, found across the Mediterranean nations, are the kind of elite even they might publicly get behind, perhaps even without an appearance fee.

These are modestly-priced cracker for the 99%, and considering their limited constituent parts, represent something of a triumph in the ranks of Average Food.

A common criticism levelled at cracker makers is that they lazily, unimaginatively get by on their crack, while ignoring the possibility of a greater range of notable characteristics. This is not the case among the skilled bakers, nay artisans, of the Elite brand. This cracker transcends crack.

There is an entire range of flavours, incorporating semi-natural and entirely-synthesised ingredients heavily focused around herbs, seeds and cheeses, and the sub-types I have sampled have all convinced. They are moreish, one might even be bold enough to postulate.

These snacks arrive in simple packaging, not flaunting themselves in a chauffeur-driven blacked-out Mercedes, but make no mistake, they represent a low-end luxury of sorts.

You can mark me down as a full-blooded supporter of Elite-ism.

9/10

PINGVIN LÆKKERMIXEN

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Average Food Blog does not shy away from niche international foodstuffs, and after a Danish friend left a half-finished bag of these Scandi snacks in my home, it provided a perfect opportunity to slip back into a subgenre of mediocre food writing we know so well.

First things first: on the packaging reads the words ‘Blød SKUM’. This means ‘blood SCUM’, and I have no desire to hear the views of either a) Google Translate or b) Danes as a means of proving me otherwise.

The pingvin after which these sweets are so named is also illustrated on said packaging, taking on a downright threatening pose. Armed with knife and fork, instruments of no traditional role in the eating of liquorice sweets, it is a blatant admission that the blood scum in question is of human origin.

As it transpires, the liquorice/blood scum mix is very pleasant.

I am an unashamed Liquorice Allsort fan, against all whims of fashion and good taste, and despite the addition of blood scum, these are very much playing on a similar stage. In fact, with all due respect to Bassett’s, the murderous polar bird sweets are the headliners, to Allsorts’ mid-afternoon set.

There is a broader palette of flavours here, from a deeper, more oaky liquorice than the British tongue is quite used to, to the tang of fruit. The sugary bits are more subtle than Bassett’s, more an exciting courtship than a hook-up in a pub toilet.

While this is not a Euro sweetmeat selection on a par with Isleri + Eurocrem or even Salam de Biscuiti, it is a solid, varied and worthy effort from our north European neighbours. Ultimately, though, not one for the squeamish.

7/10

TESCO 7 CHEESE SELECTION PACK

7-cheese

 

Guest blog by Dan Simpson

 

A cheeseboard at Christmas is de rigueur these days, and the supermarkets want to make it easy for you by offering a convenient cheese selection pack. Why spend two minutes choosing your own cheeses from the same shelves for a lovingly custom-made cheeseboard when you can just buy this and be done with it? I’ve eaten three of these atrocities over the holidays, and I’ll tell you why.

I have attempted to write individual reviews of the seven cheeses on offer in this selection: a difficult task, given that were you to spear a bit of any of these cheeses at random, you would not be able to distinguish one from another. The box says to “Remove from refrigerator 1 hour before serving to allow flavours to develop” – though you needn’t bother, since the flavours develop like a poorly-taken low-light night-time photograph: you wonder why you even bothered in the first place.

Brie

Brie is a bad karaoke version of cheese: the coward’s Camembert. And Camembert is itself a spineless cop out in the face of Vacherin. To choose Brie is to say: I don’t know what I’m doing, and I despise taste. But we have not chosen Brie: it has been chosen for us in this box of cheese-approximations. Which is appropriate, given your decision to buy this selection in the first place.

Cheddar

Some will say that cheddar – the most popular and, yes, often blandest of British cheeses – deserves no place on a civilised cheeseboard. Those people are snobs, and wrong: an aged cheddar, full of flavoursome bite and crunchy tyrosine crystals, is a strong part of the line-up, holding its own against the blues and soft Frenches. This cheddar is not that. This is a disgrace: not just to cheddar, but to all cheese.

Red Leicester

Indistinguishable from the cheddar, aside from the highlighter-pen-neon orange.

Edam

When chewing on this theoretically hard cheese, all rubber texture and polybutadiene taste, you may be forgiven for thinking that you forgot to remove the plastic that each of these cheeses comes vacuum-sealed in. Looking down to check and realising that no, this is it, this is the experience of this cheese, it may cross your mind to fish the packaging out of the bin and eat that instead.

Stilton

This is acceptable, in the way that Stilton often is. It tastes like a blue cheese: no more, no less. Your cheese selection is in trouble if this is the best thing on offer.

Austrian smoke flavoured processed cheese

This cheese doesn’t even have a proper name, merely a description of what it is. It’s an obvious joke told by an observational comic – with a bad Austrian accent designed to cover the deficiency of thought behind it. Adding ‘Austrian’ to the name to give it some continental gravitas is a superficial marketing trick no one is fooled by. And, given what Tesco have already done to Edam and Brie here, I can’t blame the EU for wanting nothing more to do with us.

Wensleydale with Cranberries

Grow up and buy some chutneys, and allow people to decide what fruit-flavours they want with their cheese – instead of foisting dried-up bits of cranberries into our mouths, which have the consistency and appeal of dead flies.

Summary

The word ‘selection’ in this product is a lie – it implies that thought and care has gone into the choosing of these cheeses. This is a magnificent smorgasbord of sub-mediocrity, adding up to much less than the sum of their parts. A cheeseboard can be a glorious showstopper: a bountiful overflowing of colours and shapes, textures and taste. Thoughtlessly bunging out this greyed-out selection box wastes that potential, and makes a mockery of indulgence at Christmas. Am I saying that this cheese selection has the power to singlehandedly ruin Christmas? Bitter experience says: yes.

TESCO 7 CHEESE SELECTION PACK: 7/10*

*It’s still cheese, and cheese is always welcome

FERRERO ROCHER

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Reader, I know full well what you want me to write in this blog.

You want me to go straight in on The Ambassador, don’t you.

You want me to put down on this niche blog what you’ve always wanted to express, namely this: fuck you, The Ambassador. Fuck your impeccable taste in mediocre sweetmeats, your mediocre moneyed guests with shit accents and over-enthusiasm for your mediocre sweetmeats.

Fuck everything you stand for, The Ambassador, you utter besuited prick. Fuck the diplomatic codes of politeness, clandestine soft intelligence gathering, sweetmeats arranged like ancient tombs.

But I can’t express any of that with honesty, no matter how much you might want it. Average Food Blog cannot be the crowd-pleaser you so eagerly crave.

Because Ferrero Rocher, if you look beyond all the abject wankery of Ferrero’s marketing department, are pretty decent.

Sure, it’s hardly the world’s best chocolate or premium nuts involved in the mix, but the combination of flavours and textures is somewhat compelling, especially within the context of finding yourself lolling in the sort of advanced state of passivity that only major Christian festivals can bring.

They are not the best of their food genre but nonetheless are indelibly linked to serial eating, much in the same way that Pringles are not a leading crisp but have the same effect.

Of course, there is some possibility that mind-altering chemicals have been injected into each and every bobbly, spherical melting pot of doom to make me feel this way. That ultimately I’m being duped, that the powers that be have got their claws into AFB in a way that strongly suggests the direct or at very least implied involvement of yes, you’ve guessed it, The Ambassador.

OK OK, fuck The Ambassador. You happy now?

Season’s Greetings to all on the internet.

FERRERO ROCHER: 7/10

CARROT-FLAVOURED BREAD STICKS

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And never the twain shall…oh.

Bread sticks. Carrots. Average foods, both. I have often thought that the two should be combined.

Wait, did I write ‘often’? I meant ‘never’.

Greece has, though, long decided to bring the two together in mastication matrimony. And fair play to it, because as things have transpired, it’s proved a worthwhile endeavour.

Bread sticks are of reliable quality and frequency in Greece, so if anyone was going to pull this stunt off, it would be here. And it’s a stunt worthy of a beige, bready Evel Knievel.

The eating sensation goes something like this: bread stick, bread stick, no this is just a bread stick, wait a minute, here it comes, yes!

It’s a little sweet, mildly aromatic. Overall it’s not as bland as a bread stick, not as healthy as a carrot stick. The bread stick is the winner here, and the carrot can rightly feel a little exploited.

7/10