Tag Archives: nuts


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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.




Though it certainly has an air of it, I’m not sure this is a Christmas-related AFB. The Middle Eastern-owned UK newsagent has opened our minds to nutty biscuits all year round; though as if to deliberately confuse matters I’m current well into a pack of pistachio and almond biscuits bought from a Middle Eastern-owned UK newsagent during Advent.

All this said, the miscellaneous nutty biscuit is synonymous with the festive season – at least where I grew up. My mum makes an astute almond crescent around this time of year. But even the most astute biscuit-maker would struggle to make the case of even the best nutty biscuit being a snack to inspire anything more than vague interest.

They’re fine. That’s it. A bit sweet and nutty, but you’d expect these as minimum qualities. There is absolutely no build beyond this. Vanilla and/or coconut essence can be added to the mix, but these are essences, not superheroes. I spent over an hour screaming “TRANSCEND!” at an almond crescent once – to absolutely no avail. My mum was in tears.

The fundamental, unverified fact lying behind this blog is that no-one on earth would name a nut as their favourite food. This registers the nutty biscuit’s hopes for self-improvement fatally flawed. Almond, pistachio, AN ut – there will be no rise to glory.

If a nutty biscuit were an undergraduate student, it’d get a low 2:1 from a friendly examiner. If it were a Premier League football team, it’d be Aston Villa.

6/10 – and never a point more.


Almond Magnum

We are the Pleasure Seekers. And we live our lives to the fullest, indulging in pleasures big and small. We at Magnum believe that is what makes life worth living, because we believe a day without pleasure is a day lost.

Mission: To inspire and encourage people to actively pursue pleasure everyday. Ultimately, we believe ‘a day without pleasure is a day lost’.

Launched in 1989, Magnum was the first chocolate covered ice cream for pleasure seekers. Today, Magnum is one of the world’s leading ice cream brands, selling 1 billion units annually worldwide, and is the biggest brand of Unilever ice creams.

Indulge with the tempting Magnum range – combining thick, cracking chocolate and smooth delicious ice cream made with the finest ingredients. We offer a wide range of choices that includes the original, pinnacle of pleasure Magnum Classic as well as the sweet, creamy Magnum White, CHUNKY ALMOND (emphasis added), cool Mint, Double Caramel and many others. For a mini moment of indulgence our Magnum Mini range is just perfect for an after-dinner me-time treat. The pleasure is yours for the taking.

Not my words, but the words of Unilever, an Anglo–Dutch multinational consumer goods company. Its products include foods, beverages, cleaning agents and personal care products, according to Wikipedia.

The thing is, I wholeheartedly endorse all the above prose on the subject of Magnums. The ice creams, that is; specifically the almond kind if we’re going to get picky. Thanks, Unilever, for making this just-under 300 words an absolute breeze.

Almond Magnums: 9/10



I apologise to all Average Food Blog readers. I should have mentioned well before now that Lidl Deluxe Fruit Granola is absolutely delicious. You may well have been trundling along for these few months of your existence eating AN Other Breakfast Cereal, and this thought to me is a tragic one.

I’ve eaten a lot of breakfast cereals in my life, but in truth this is more than a breakfast cereal; this is an experience, and a borderline transcendental one at that. It is also more than a breakfast cereal in the sense that it’s so good you find yourself with the bag at constant mild-hunger standby. Granola just happens, and keeps happening. Total granola.

It’s just the right level of sweet, it’s the right level of crunch, it truly gives you the sense you’re eating actual things: fruit, nuts and that, in a way that Mornflake, Jordans and other limp-wristed rivals could only dream of. They also had it at a special price of like £1.99 or something absurd last time I consumed it. With the UK economy allegedly bouncing recently, they may have since removed the decimal point. The world moves on, often in cruel ways.

Speaking of cruelty, since we need to get of the habit of giving things >10/10 reviews, I’m going to sign this off with an overly-harsh rating.




I have only ever seen my father cook two things: bread and roasted almonds. Admittedly, not being exactly sure of the necessary and sufficient conditions for an action’s being correctly described as ‘cooking’ I am unsure as to whether this was really what my dad was doing. But this is mere semantics – what concerns me presently are the almonds. (Semantics Vs Almonds: potential band name?)

Roasted almonds are a weird beast. This review focuses not an any specific almond, or any specific batch of almonds, but on roasted almonds in their generality, or at least the generality of the almonds that my father tends to roast. We can get one thing out of the way immediately: it is almost inevitable that in any batch of almonds – anyone’s almonds – there will be one or two burnt ones, and no food critic (because that is what I am) must let that sully their view of roasted almonds as an entity, however disgusting the duds may be.

Be this as it may, a more interesting conundrum presents itself for the food critic (because that is what I am). It is natural to think that any food critic (because that is what I am) should judge what they eat along maybe three dimensions: its taste (obviously), the way it is presented on the plate, and the ambience of the surroundings. Applied to a typical batch of my dad’s roasted almonds, the results come out thus:

Taste: Fairly uninspiring, but generally pleasant enough. Maybe 6/10.

Presentation: They look like almonds. Read into that what you will.

Surroundings: Usually consumed in my home, which is a veritable den of vice and depravity. Again read into that what you will.

One might argue that there is a fourth dimension along which a food critic (because that is what I am) should judge food: smell. This would usually, I think, be subsumed under the first dimension, since taste and smell are very closely intertwined, and it is incredibly rare to find an item of food whose pleasantness differs radically depending on whether it is judged along the taste or the smell dimension.

Rare, but not impossible.

See the thing about roasted almonds is that they taste pleasant enough (allowing for the aforementioned proviso that the burnt ones are not to be counted), but they smell absolutely rancid. You probably haven’t noticed this, since generally by the time you come to consume them they have cooled down and lost their smell. But freshly roasted almonds smell putrid: a sickly sweet smell that quite literally makes me heave.

So roasted almonds present the food critic (because that is what I am) with a dilemma: nice taste, foul smell. I am tempted, in the light of this, to award roasted almonds 3/10, on the basis that this is the mean average of the taste’s score and the smell’s score . But I think it behoves a food critic, such as me, to be a bit more imaginative. I thus award roasted almonds 7/10, on the basis that the disparity between their taste and their smell is extremely unique and should therefore count in their favour.

And I award myself 10/10 on the basis of having produced what is probably the only olfactorily-focused food review ever written. Or maybe it isn’t, I don’t know. I don’t do much reading.