Clodagh McKenna might just be one of the happiest people I’ve ever met. A bundle of enthusiasm, the queen of 'Irish soul food’ has a smile as sunny as her yellow blouse, her lilting voice frequently bursting into peals of excited laughter. And it seems she has plenty to be pleased about: her new recipe column in the Evening Standard is the latest of a string of successes in her twenty-year career in food. An alumna of the Ballymaloe Cookery School & House in County Cork, Clodagh started out by running farmers’ markets in Ireland, before penning five cookbooks, opening a restaurant, hosting numerous pop-ups and appearing on television across the world.

Her food is simple, seasonal and always stylish, presented with seemingly effortless grace. She passionately advocates eating with the seasons, for the sake of our health, the environment and our palates. So it is no surprise that the natural world is ever present in Clodagh’s food and styling: her home and kitchen are filled with wildflowers and bunches of dried leaves, her dishes elegantly garnished with petals and crushed herbs. Her unbridled joy at cooking with fresh ingredients is evident from the merest glimpse at any of her recipe videos: she handles every garden vegetable as though it were the finest saffron, inhaling the scent of a bunch of parsley as she might a Valentine’s bouquet. Her excitement is infectious.


As the US ambassador for Kerrygold, Clodagh spends much of her time in America, becoming the face of Irish food stateside, introducing television audiences to modern cuisine from the Emerald Isle. Despite a gruelling schedule that sees her splitting her time between London, Dublin, New York and Toronto, Clodagh insists she loves nothing more than having guests over for supper at home. ‘My heart fills with joy when I see everyone sat around my table enjoying my food’, she says.

These simple-yet-sophisticated meals, filled with the bounty of the season, have formed the basis of Clodagh’s latest cookbook and television series, Clodagh’s Suppers, which will be released in autumn 2018. In between her monthly transatlantic journeys, I met with Clodagh to learn about her food story and the ingredients for a perfect supper.


Can you summarise a supper at Clodagh's?

Cooking for people is one of my favourite things: it's how I socialise. I make everything: down to the syrup for the cocktail guests receive when they arrive. The menu is always based on seasonal ingredients, some of which are local and foraged. I cook everything personally; there isn’t a chef downstairs while I’m upstairs hosting.

So how do you go about planning them?

The first thing I do for the menu is to look at what’s in season and what I’ve been cooking for myself at home. I try to pick dishes that really sing of that particular time of the year, so, in autumn it would be apples, blackberries, figs or perhaps wild mushrooms. Then there’s the logistics of finding all the best producers. I always try and get one producer from Ireland, the rest I find locally; the best butchers, grocers and fishmongers in my area.



If people want to organise supper clubs themselves, what advice would you give them?

I would say, start off by making dinners for your friends, and organise them really well. You will always be stressed if you haven’t planned well enough. So, start by working out how many people you’re going to invite. Work back from there and plan the menu, your shopping lists and the tableware you’re going to use for each dish. Then organise your menu so that there is one course that needs your immediate attention before serving, and make the other two things that can be prepared beforehand and served straight away. If you do too many “stand-over” dishes then you’re not going to be able to do a good job. So only pick one that will require your attention for twenty minutes straight.

When the clocks strike noon across the world, workers down tools, children abandon maths with glee and harassed office bods look away from their screens to partake in a sacred daily ritual. The packed lunch.

As people gather at benches, long dining tables or corporate break out areas, there is an unmistakable hum of anticipation as bags are rustled and clip-top containers clicked; a brief moment when eyes light up as the day's fare is revealed. Whatever its contents, the packed lunch has the potential to delight (or disappoint) daily, and it can represent an irreplaceable moment of peace in a hectic working day.

Quotidian as it may be, the packed lunch is a hugely important cultural and personal signifier. What we choose to feed ourselves (or our dependents) at this all-important meal sheds light on our personalities and social background, and, crucially, our relationship with food.

So what is it exactly? At its core, the packed lunch is a meal prepared in advance, that is eaten outside of the home. In England, the history of the packed lunch is inevitably intertwined with that of the industrial revolution. In the era before the steam engine, when the majority of work was agricultural, farmhands would return home for lunch, or were brought food in the fields by their wives and daughters - if, indeed, they paused for lunch at all. Urbanisation and the arrival of factories meant that people began to work further and further from home, with a limited pause in the day that did not permit a return to the homestead for feeding. So they had to take their meals with them. As did those working on the new railways: photographs of navvies (the infamous Irish workers) show men resting at noon with a straw "pantry" and a large flask of tea or coffee, to keep them sustained through the long working day. In Yorkshire, coal miners kept their bread in a "snap" tin, made of heavy material designed to keep out the dust and grime, so called because of the sharp snap it made when opened. The meal itself became known as snap, and the term can still be heard in parts of Yorkshire.

Poverty and working conditions determined the menu of these early packed lunches: a poor labourer's lunch (or "noonshine" as it was known) might include bread and dripping, with perhaps a piece of cheese. Pastries and pies were also popular, as the thick pastry, which was not intended for consumption, protected the contents from the blackened, greasy hands of the workers. Alongside the famous Cornish pasty was the Bedfordshire clanger - a long suet pastry containing a worker's complete meal, with meat, onions and potatoes at one end, and a sweet filling (usually jam) at the other.

We're all about coming up with new pasty flavours, but sometimes a Traditional #Cornish Pasty, is the only #Pasty that will do. pic.twitter.com/XsJmueQJRm

— Warrens Bakery (@WarrensBakery) February 28, 2017

The crucial development in the history of the British packed lunch is the rise of the sandwich. Quick to make, easily transportable, and even more easily eaten, Bee Wilson notes that "no dish has a stronger association with the world of work". Although John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich, is often credited with the invention of this revolutionary food item (the story that, while working or playing cards, he called for "beef between two slices of bread" so as to keep his hands and cards clean) it's worth remembering that the idea of putting filling in bread has been practised for centuries around the world.

Historians have suggested that the first sandwich can be traced to the first century BC, and the first Passover meal. Known as the Korech or Hillel, it consisted of apples, nuts, bitter herbs and unleavened bread, its sticky consistency intended to represent the mortar used by Jewish slaves in Egypt. Even in Britain, labourers had been eating cheese with their bread for centuries: the crucial difference (as Wilson points out) is that Montagu ordered his sandwich ready made, thus branding it a convenience food suitable for both the aristocracy and the masses. By the turn of the 19th century, sandwiches were being served at late night suppers, balls and in clubs as a fashionable snack, with fillings becoming increasingly elaborate over time. Meanwhile, an altogether more crude variety of boiled ham sandwiches was sold on the streets of Victorian Britain for 1d to hungry shop workers at lunchtime.

What brought the two traditions together to create the lunch box staple we know and love (recent stats suggest that 56% of Brits eat sandwiches daily, at a cost of £48,000 a year) was the industrialisation of bread production, allowing factories to churn out loaves at an unprecedented rate. By the 1930s, sliced bread was available in Britain, and the Chorleywood process of the 1960s (which added extra yeast, fats and other additives to make for a quicker rising time and a longer shelf life) meant that it was possible to buy bread more cheaply than ever. This was the dawn of the 'sandwich loaf': specifically designed to make the preparation of this simple meal as quick as possible. Although suitable for any time of day, the classic sandwich became a lunchtime staple, given its cheapness, ease of preparation and possibility for variation.

Sandwiches for sale, London 1972, photo by Glen F. pic.twitter.com/bY82To4T02

— Rob Baker (@robnitm) May 8, 2017

The widespread adoption of sandwiches as packed lunch food really took hold in the mid-20th century. Although chop houses and canteens fuelled Victorian city and factory workers in the middle of the day (many did not have suitable facilities at home to prepare their own food) we know that by the late 1940s, workers were taking sandwiches with them to work, in an attempt to save money. For those unable to buy lunch daily, butter and jam, tinned ham, spam and salmon all started to feature in the home-to-work sandwich, perhaps with a smear of salad cream or a slice of tomato in summer.

The wedge sandwich (as popularised by Montagu, and later, Marks & Spencer) is now known and consumed for lunch in different variations the world over. Whether it's an over-stuffed Reuben on rye in New York, a delicate tramezzino di prosciutto in Milan, or a toasted aduki-bean sandwich in Nagoya - us Brits could easily presume (in an echo of colonial superiority) that sandwiches as we know them are the packed lunch of choice the world over. This is not so, and the unique cultural traditions that surround the packed lunch in different nations show clearly that there is far more to it than simple convenience and availability of white sliced.

Take, for example, bento, a ritual rooted in Japanese history and culture. Both the name of the meal and its container, bento are boxes used to transport food that is consumed away from the home. The first bento are said to have been used by ancient hunters and soldiers, who used them to transport dried rice when they were away from home, possibly as far back as the 5th century, but certainly by the 12th century. By the Edo period (1650-1868) bento was firmly established not only as a way of transporting the meals of workers, but also for picnics among the middle classes, particularly at the theatre.

Bento boxes were made of lacquered wood or wicker, with internal divisions intended for the different foodstuffs,  including rice, pickles, vegetables and fish. As in Britain, the advent of industrialisation and the railway meant that workers needed a convenient way to eat outside the home. In the mid 19th century, bento started becoming available to buy at railway stations, allowing workers to pick up their midday meal en route. Although ready-made bento is widely available in modern Japan, the homemade variety, usually prepared by the woman of the house, still maintains huge cultural significance.

2017.5.2 #washoku #和食 #おひるごはん #息子の塾弁 #息子弁当 #娘のお弁当 #女子高生弁当 #ランチボックス #ランチタイム #japan #japanesefood #obento #bento #bentobox

A post shared by @makiko_cooking on May 1, 2017 at 4:06pm PDT

While the attitude towards lunch-making for British workers may be said to be begrudging at best (ie. a box filled with whatever is lurking in the fridge), bento is in no way treated like a second-class meal. Even if consumed as part of a working lunch, it is still regarded as something with the potential for high culinary, nutritional and, crucially, aesthetic achievement. Bento should be fresh and colourful, containing a range of protein and vegetables, the contents reflecting the location and the season, and always impeccably presented,. It is traditionally wrapped in a silk furoshiki cloth that also doubles as a table cloth, and is eaten at room temperature with chopsticks. Bento has gained fame worldwide, and in Japan, the art of its creation (as documented in the numerous dedicated websites and Instagram posts) can be said to be nothing short of a national obsession.

Another unique packed lunch tradition is tiffin, as famously found in Mumbai. The term "tiffin" has disputed origins (it is generally agreed to have meant any form of snack or light meal during the colonial era), but now it refers specifically to the ingenious packed lunch system that operates in India's capital. City workers' long commutes demand an early departure, before the kitchen and cook are up and running. So their lunches are collected from their homes later in the day by thousands of men known as dabbawallahs,  As with bento, tiffin refers to the container as well as the concept - several tiers of stainless steel tins (containing rice, curries, pickles, bajis and more) that are clamped together and stored in thermos pouches to keep warm. These pouches are then balanced on the heads of the dabbawallahs, who transport them by bicycle and train to the business districts, where they are distributed punctually to their owners. Invented in 1890 when the city was in flux, the system, which now feeds at least 200,000 people, has 99% success rate. (An award-winning film, The Lunchbox, told a wonderful story about the "unlucky" 1%). In a world dominated by Deliveroo and UberEats this seems a staggering feat, given that tiffin relies on almost no technology, using only a simple colour coding system to ensure the food arrives at the right destination at the right time. Tiffin is taken very seriously; being a dabbawallah is seen as a respectable trade, as they are crucial to the functioning of the city and its workers.



In Britain there is a tendency to consume one's working lunch with startling rapidity, as though, unlike dinner, it does not count as a "proper" meal, and is thus unworthy of more attention. It seems that, for many, lunch is an afterthought, something to be dealt with, but not necessarily enjoyed. As a result, we neglect to take it seriously. But this is not so elsewhere. A good bento is a symbol of national pride and patriotism, as well as personal culinary achievement: showing an adherence to presentation and healthy nutrition. In Mumbai, the working lunch is so highly regarded that an entire logistical system was required in order to feed the city's workers hot, homemade food. In these cultures, lunch is not an afterthought but a priority; and although our cultural landscape is markedly different (having more women at home means there is someone with the dedicated role of lunch-making every day), us Brits could perhaps do well to learn from these other countries and the way they look at lunch. The satisfaction of eating a meal prepared with care and attention should not be underestimated, and could arguably prevent mindless snacking later on.

All this goes to show that the meal eaten between breakfast and dinner is not a negligible one. Designed as sustenance for workers, at its core it is fuel; intended to power brain and body for the remaining hours of toil. Because it is so rarely associated with leisure (unless, of course, you are on holiday, but I would argue that this constitutes a picnic) it has suffered from the connotation in Britain that it need not be an enjoyable experience, merely sufficient. This attitude is exemplified by the rise of the sandwich, which is seen as the fastest, most straightforward way of eating, without having to step away from one's desk. But in Japan and India the packed lunch is seen as a tangible connection to one's cultural history, giving it a firm sense of identity. Perhaps if we were to look at our own food in this way, we would be less likely to begrudge its preparation, and thus eat with greater relish.

When faced with the prospect of losing his property to the Great Fire of London, Samuel Pepys made the smart decision to bury some of his most valuable possessions. These included important papers, his finest wine, and a block of Parmesan. Yes, really. Rather than saving his jewels, heirlooms and books, Mr Pepys opted for cheese. Though it is likely that there was a pecuniary incentive for this (since having been presented to Henry VIII in 1512  by Pope Julius II, Parmesan was well known in the English court - and it was extremely expensive) there is no denying the fact that Pepys clearly felt quite strongly about cheese.

And he is by no means the only one. A cursory glance at the diets of Western Europe indicates that cheese holds a significantly high position in people's estimations. Part of the sacred triumvirate along with wine and bread, cheese has had a colourful history and continues to play a crucial role in modern diets.

While there is naturally debate as to the origins of cheese (some archaeologists trace its production in Poland to over 7000 years ago) - it appears to be generally presumed that it was first produced in Anatolia and Mesopotamia in around 6500BC . This is likely to be due to changing climate and a move to pastoralism, though a popular story upholds that it was discovered by accident, when a traveling merchant stored milk in sheep's gut. The milk fermented in the heat, and cheese was the result. Nice idea, but unlikely, as most neolithic humans were lactose-intolerant. What we do know is that the Greeks loved cheese (Homer's cyclops made his own feta, and they even had a God of cheesemaking, Aristaeus) and the Romans considered themselves masters of it.  Some of our famous modern cheeses can be traced back to Ancient Rome: Pecorino Siciliano, for example, is discussed by Pliny the elder. Though cheese may have been created in Britain before the Romans arrived, they certainly made an impact by instating their own methods for its production,  making it part of the daily diet and paving the way for generations of cheese obsessives like Pepys.

While no one in the world eats more cheese per head than the  French, the UK  makes more varieties of cheese per capita than any other country. While Italy proudly states that it produces 487 types of cheese (which, as they like to make clear, is more than France) the Brits have over 700 types. This is an incredible feat, especially given the fact that during WW2 the only cheese production permitted was a bland cheddar hybrid, which all but wiped out other traditional cheeses.

Now that we have artisanal varieties aplenty, the UK's cheese obsession is more striking than ever. I can't be the only one to notice that cheese has an uncanny ability of turning perfectly sane, balanced individuals into drooling maniacs. Those who ordinarily follow standard portion protocol consider eating half a brie, or chewing from a block of cheddar to be perfectly normal. (Not that this is a modern phenomenon: in the fifteenth century, Boccacio wrote in the Decameron of an utopian 'mountain of parmesan cheese'.)  Buzzfeed, a reasonably reliable barometer for the mind of the average western millenial, is littered with articles for cheese obsessives,  boasting ambiguous titles such as: 23 Things You’ll Only Get If You’re Obsessed With Cheese and 25 Incredibly Cheesy Recipes You Need In Your Life. Cheese-obsessed characters are also a common feature in films and cartoons. Take Wallace, for example:

http://imgur.com/gallery/h9l5u

As it turns out, this proclivity to cheese obsession is not simply the result of Western gluttony. Recently published research indicates that it is scientifically possible to be addicted to cheese. This is due to casein, a chemical present in all dairy, that can trigger the brain's opioid receptors, potentially leading to addiction. (This puts a whole new slant on the Pepys story - was he just protecting his stash?) Such a finding might explain why the cheese toastie has such cult status. An essential post-night out or mid-revision snack for British students, such is our collective ardour for the toastie that it is  now possible to order them directly to your door. There are dozens of articles online about the art of the toastie, all laden with drool-related adjectives and references to gastronomic nirvana. One even went so far as to describe a sandwich as "sex in bread". The idea that slapping a few squares of processed dairy in plasticky white sliced could be sexy might seem ridiculous, but the author of that article is clearly not the only person to think so. Take the following clip from the 2014 film Chef - a masterclass in food porn.



Admit it, there is something very sexy about that sandwich. Is it the careful placement of the cheeses, the aesthetically pleasing range of colours, the oozing cheddar, seeping between the slices or (my favourite) the satisfying crunch as Jon Favreau slices through it with the epic chef's knife? Whatever the secret, put the film title into YouTube and the 'grilled cheese scene' is the first thing that comes up. So I'm clearly not the only one to see it that way. And this attitude doesn't stop at sandwiches - anything laden in melted cheese (especially pizza) is frequently described as 'sexy'. Like chocolate, cheese that is hot, molten and messy really seems to turn people on. Which is really saying something when you consider that up close, even mild varieties often smell (to quote author Andrew Dalby) like 'baby's vomit'.

Addictive and erotic properties aside, what is it about cheese that really keeps people coming back for more? It is the quintessential comfort food, helping us through life in a myriad of little ways: melted on toast, squished in a roll, grated over pasta (I have waxed about that particular dish here), and slathered over vegetables - a reliable way of getting children to eat them, by the way. Cheese just seems to keep people happy, combining a satisfying saltiness with the comforting creaminess of milk, which is, after all, our first food.

Cheese also has versatility on its side; it can feature in any meal of the day, and in Europe constitutes an entire course. Cheese also simultaneously functions as a sign of haute and peasant cuisine. In Britain, a sophisticated cheese course (served with port, following dessert) is the benchmark of upper class eating, whereas in mainland Europe, eating a selection of cheeses after a meal is considered standard, peasant fare. It is, after all, a basic foodstuff, something has has sustained us and kept us from starvation for hundreds of years. Its simplicity is, in itself, comforting. In agricultural communities cheese is a truly local food, representing a sense of place. The cheese will taste of the local grass, literally transferring the taste of the earth.

But there is something more to it than that, something I couldn't quite put my finger on until I visited Neal's Yard Dairy in Covent Garden in the name of journalistic commitment (and delicious free samples). I knew already that the making of cheese was part of a pivotal change in human development - indicating progress from merely gathering food to farming and processing it. Gareth at Neal's Yard helpfully pointed out that it is this process that makes cheese so special; we consider the transformation of one raw material into another to be a magical and mythological action, and we are therefore awed by the finished product. (Just look at the way people obsess about wine and craft beer production.)

This insight helped me appreciate the nature of our cheese obsession, for the look, taste and texture of a cheese is dependent on a million different variables, allowing producers infinite room for experimentation. There is always the chance that you will create something new and unexpected, a foodstuff that is wholly unique. A gift that keeps on giving, cheese promises unending opportunities for new tastes and experiences. Quite simply, it is alchemy; gastronomic gold.