Why am I scared of going to the butcher?

Something to do with 'asking for what I want' – plus not-not-a-gift-guide

Food For Thought.

Every time I walk into a butcher's I feel insecure. Often, knowing this feeling will arise, I practise what to say in my head or under my breath as I walk towards it. I don't buy meat often, and as you might have guessed, it's usually a chicken I'm after.

Past experience has taught me that if you're quiet and unsure, they'll try and up sell you a bird that has a slightly more fancy name and costs 30% more. And if you don't request a specific weight – or go with the generic small, medium or large – you could end up with a 2kg chicken when you're only cooking for yourself. These are small lessons I've learned.

I try to walk in confidently, not just 'browsing' but showing I am there with a purpose. I always ask for a 'standard small whole chicken. Around 1.4kg if possible' and they never have what I ask for, so I often acquiesce. It's not that I particularly mind paying more money. Meat should cost more than £2 for a packet of chicken thighs in the local supermarket. There should be a premium on meat, to show that it's good quality and to keep us from eating it for every meal. This is why I go to a butcher.

And it might be something to do with having a constant low-level anxiety about most things, but as I was pulling on my boots, slightly hungover and gearing myself to walk to a new neighbourhood butcher (Stella's on Newington Green Road, since no one asked), I thought about how I feel if I walked into a butcher that was run by women. I definitely wouldn't be practising what to ask for. Or feel slight dread as I thought 'that's not what I want' and say yes anyway.

A line from food writer Alicia Kennedy's newsletter reinforced this idea that "meat = masculinity". For context, Alicia was coming at this from the perspective as a vegan who wants to see more vegetarian and vegan food elevated and championed in fine dining restaurants. But the principle rings true. There is an inherent, unspoken rule of masculinity that comes with meat, and for me the uneasiness of asking for it lies at the intersection of this. I can't speak to whether I'm an anomaly for feeling like this. But it is, admittedly, how I feel.

I don't feel any more feminine cooking vegetables (or buying them), nor do I feel like I'm performing masculinity by roasting a chicken every other week. There's probably something in the tradition of a 'woman roasting meat for her family' within the performative gender studies discourse, but I'll leave that with Judith Butler. I guess what I'm getting it is that I think it's telling that I still see a butcher as a 'male space' which makes me feel like I have to prepare to step into it.

In case you were wondering, the outcome of my trip yesterday was that I didn't buy the 1.9kg chicken that was the smallest they had. Instead I had a conversation about what I was cooking (obviously nurungji rice) and decided to go with a couple of plump chicken legs instead. On reflection, I think my fear of going into the butcher isn't solely based on this concept of meat = masculinity – or rather in this case, 'selling meat = masculinity'. I think it speaks more to my discomfort with asking for what I want. For acquiescing to avoid conflict. Which, of course, has a lot to do with social conditioning and gender norms and the skewed system we live in. I'll keep going to the butcher. And exercise my right to buy a small chicken – if they ever have one for me.

Recipes-not-recipes™️

Strange as it might seem, I don’t actually cook pasta that often. It’s usually a date night or a special occasion that warrants glossy, silky strands. But on days when I’ve had my fill of rice and when I desperately don’t want to venture outside for ingredients, this version of Midnight Pasta (the more poetic name for aglio e olio) is what I think of. Traditionally it only requires four ingredients (garlic, olive oil, chilli flakes, pasta). I suggest adding parmesan into the sauce. Obviously you can disagree.

This version (technically feeds two but I 100% ate the whole thing just with ‘slightly’ less pasta) is a little more mellow and creamy because you’re going to preheat the oven to 200ºC and once it’s nice and hot, roasted a small head of garlic (the top chopped off, a drizzle of olive oil, a pinch of salt, all wrapped up in tin foil) for about 30 minutes, or until it’s soft enough to be squeezed out. Once that’s done, take it out and leave it to cool for a sec. In a pan of salted boiling water, cook your pasta (I opted for bucatini) until just past al dente. In a separate pan, heat a couple of tablespoons of olive oil, a generous pinch of chilli flakes on a low to medium heat. Once the chilli flakes have oozed their spice, squeeze out the roasted garlic into the pan. Add a little pasta water and whisk so it forms a sauce. Add a small handful of grated parmesan and a little more pasta water to loosen. Then the pasta. More pasta water so it gets all glossy. Taste and add salt where necessary. Unlike a traditional aglio e olio, this is more glossy than oily. Think cacio e pepe vibes. If it’s your thing, toss through some finely chopped parsley. Maybe some more parmesan on top. A glass of this orange wine wouldn’t go amiss.

Leftovers

This week’s leftovers is not-not a gift guide for the fanatically foodie friend.

From recent experience I can confirm the negronis in this On The Table hamper are as good as they look, and more than five may give you the hangover of your life. All the good things (fancy pasta! charcuterie! festive chutney! creamy pâté!) in one box, championing brilliant, independent producers.

I won't bang on about the Always Pan from Our Place (it's amazing, the Instagram marketing is real, I've just bought one for a friend's birthday); but there's also their beautiful walnut chopping board which would look really great in someone's kitchen, preferably with a colourful array of vegetables being sliced on it.

I've had this memoir by Fanny Singer – daughter of Chez Panisse's Alice Waters – on my list for a while. I flicked through it while at a friend's house and it's every bit as detailed and heartwarming as I imagined. To be passed onto friends, sisters and bookish cousins.

Admittedly buying someone 1.3kg of salt might seem a little zany, but the joy I felt when I found this coveted US brand of salt in my local supermarket was nothing short of magical. For the friend who's partial to roasting a chicken on a weekly basis.

I'm a sucker for an overpriced, fancy olive oil. Especially when it looks like this one made for Max Rocha's Café Cecilia in Tuscancy.

Bon Appétit once wrote a compelling description of a similar Upstate handblown glass, referring to its versatility as a vessel for both your morning espresso and evening pet nat, and it so perfectly encapsulated everything I want in a cup. This one from The Glass Studio is that day-to-night receptacle.

If I were the person who didn't like following a certain crowd or being somewhat of cliché, I'd tell you not to drink the Anders Fredrik Steen coolade. But who am I kidding? I'm a millennial sheep through and through. It doesn't even matter if the wine tastes good. He makes poetry out of his labels. This one does look promising though. But then again I'm partial to the softer Alsace grape.

Ever since discovering Simon makes this gold-standard pasta in his kitchen in Forest Hill, I've been quietly obsessed with buying Pastaio A Mano in any local deli I can find it. The mafalde is classic and perfect for a vodka sauce. I've also been eyeing up the cavatappi for a fancy take on the pollo pesto from Pizza Express (but make it pistachio).

And finally, not 'technically' (or at all) food related: I'm a little biased but Andy and his neighbour have just launched a new clothing business called Type Two. Think cycle streetwear. Practical, simple, technical essentials. They're starting with a recycled polyester neck warmer which is indeed the warmest and softest thing I've ever had round my neck. Perfect for cruising from one pub to another this festive season.