Day Two: Sunday 25 June

The strangest ideas occur to you in the middle of the night. High on the success of my first new recipe attempt, I lay awake in bed, trying to recall the name of a dessert that my Iraqi grandmother used to make. Why I was thinking of dates mashed with spices at 2 in the morning is a mystery, but once the idea was embedded I couldn't shake it off.

A quick conversation with my dad confirmed the name that had escaped me: halawi, a play on the Arabic word halwa meaning sweet (both noun and adjective) and halawiat, a generic term for dessert. Both words cover all manner of spreadable, sugary delights, but the recipe in question comprised (to the best of my memory) of melted dates that are mixed with fennel seeds and left to cool to form a thick, fragrant paste. My grandmother (Bibi, in Arabic) always kept it in an ancient Carte D'Or ice cream tub, and would bring it out at the end of a meal for a final, sweet hit. You can eat it on its own or with khobez bread, but my family have always preferred to spread it thickly on plain crackers, such as Bibi's cherished water biscuits. This is a delicate business, as halawi is solid stuff; put too much pressure on the knife and the whole thing is liable to crack into a hundred fragments, leaving you with sticky fingers and a lap full of crumbs.

I'll be the first to admit that, as a child, I couldn't stand halawi: why would you ever want to ruin dates with something as yucky as fennel? And why did it smell so much? No, I only wanted choc-ice for dessert, thank you, and so would turn my nose up at halawi whenever it was offered. Meanwhile, my dad reached for cracker after cracker, lost in nostalgia for a time when he could eat it every day, when the dates came, not wrapped in clingfilm, but in baskets, fresh from the back garden.

Unsurprisingly, my dad's memory extended only to his experiences of eating halawi, not to its preparation, and so I called Bibi to get the recipe first hand. To my relief, she seemed to have no recollection of my disdain for the dish (or was at least polite enough not to mention it), but was instead delighted to hear that I was interested in making it. When I asked if she would give me the recipe she laughed and said "there isn't one". Halawi is one of those family dishes that is always present in the kitchen in some form or other, but is so well known, and has so many variations, that no one has ever felt it necessary to write the recipe down. It turns out that the fennel seeds, my defining memory of the sweet, are by no means obligatory (I had to prompt her to mention them at all) and that sesame seeds and rosewater are also optional. In a final traditional-family-recipe cliché, after hanging up the phone I realised that Bibi had neglected to pass on any instructions related to measurements. You use the dates you have and tailor everything accordingly. That's it.


So off I trotted into the kitchen, the recipe in my head, as it seemed in the spirit of the dish not to need to write anything. There was a squashy packet of Medjool dates lodged at the back of the cupboard, and I pitted them in turn, a slow but surprisingly therapeutic task, even though it makes your fingers a gooey mess. As I worked I imagined how different it would have been to make halawi in Bibi's tiled kitchen in Baghdad, homemade yoghurt dripping gently in a corner, molasses boiling on the stove, with the hot desert sun burning relentlessly through the open window. Back in drizzly Britain, I tipped the fruit into a frying pan on a gentle heat, prodding it impatiently with a wooden spoon to encourage it to soften. Little by little the unfortunately brown and sticky pile began to give, rendering a textured paste to which I added ground ginger and fennel seeds. I neglected to add the traditional cardamom as I didn't have any, and, unlike my Iraqi  relatives, don't see the need to add it to every dish in the kitchen. (Sorry, Dad). Merely opening the bottle of rosewater reminded me of dinners at Bibi's house, where it makes its way into all sorts of dishes, even plain boiled rice. Only a drop is enough to scent the entire kitchen, and my sister (whose superior olfactory capabilities make her the ultimate recipe tester) came along to investigate.

Teaspoons in hand, we carved away at the unattractive-yet-fragrant brown blob, and closed our eyes to taste it, trying to work out what was missing. After much deliberation, and adding a little bit more of everything, we concluded that it tasted good. Not the same as Bibi's, but good all the same. As I scooped it up into an appropriately battered plastic tub to harden, it occurred to me that the curse of the inherited family recipe is that, no matter how hard you try, no matter how strict a recipe you follow, it will quite simply never taste the same as you remember. Food is bound up in so much more than just method and ingredients: flavour is tied to feeling, to fellow diners and the environment in which a meal is shared. It's true that this realisation can leave you, like Proust, bitterly disappointed that the taste of youth cannot be experienced anew, but sometimes I think it's for the best. The past is a different country; ultimately, what matters is the here and now. After all, six-year-old me couldn't stand Bibi's halawi. But my own? Well, 20-something me likes it just fine.  

Something in the air has changed. After months of skin-pinching chill, the mercury has finally climbed and I can leave the flat without a coat. The light is different, the sun feels warmer, and, at long last, the bounty of summer is beginning to appear on our tables. And I have gone a little bit crazy. Perhaps it's the result of months of waiting through an interminable-seeming winter, but now that summer is truly here I am determined to make the most of it and not waste an ounce of sun-ripened goodness.

Historical and emotional significance aside, the fact that packed lunches are a daily routine for much of the British working population makes office canteens ideal locations for examining the current social and culinary landscape. Enter the pantry at 1.30 and your nose will be assaulted by a cacophony of smells emanating from the microwaves: last night's sausages and mash, soups of varying colours, dollops of shepherd's pie and questionable variations of curries and stews. Not forgetting, of course, the leagues of sandwich eaters - unwrapping parcels of baps, pittas and sliced white at their desks. By looking at peoples' choices it is possible to identify key trends shaping modern diets, as well as examining the cultural and social traditions that have influenced their food.

As with every meal, what someone chooses to pack for lunch is hugely indicative of their personality and their relationship with food. The excessively organised (exquisitely presented foods, carefully portioned and planned with Koolpak), the bulk-cookers or leftover-lovers (usually chilli with rice, or indistinguishable dishes that always seem to include peas), the undomesticated 20-somethings (piles of cold spaghetti with pesto,brought in a supermarket carrier bag) and those who forget or have no time to prepare, and so shop over lunch and perch on the crumb-laden worktops, attempting to "build" their meals: cranking open tins of tuna, and spooning out sad dollops of cottage cheese.

Thank you @ikeauk for making the most perfect lunch boxes for #aldesko days! #joyofstorage… https://t.co/1JWIWW54fI pic.twitter.com/Pes5yjoyEM

— Chloe (@chloelikes2talk) July 12, 2016

Many diners opt for the same food every day, choosing the comfort and security of routine over the challenge of coming up with new ideas. In a recent survey, 77% of participants admitted to eating the same lunch for the last nine months, with 58% saying they'd been doing it for as long as they could remember. (Unsurprisingly, ham sandwiches were the most common culprit.) Some of us may wring our hands in exasperation at the thought of such monotony, but for many, repetition just works. My cousin has eaten a bagel with Dairylea cheese every day for 15 years, and insists he is neither bored, nor dissatisfied. Habits are cemented over a lifetime that can be hard to shift: after all, we like what we know. Furthermore, not having to decide what to eat removes one more decision from our choice-saturated and time-restricted lives. Even though participants in the survey admitted to being bored with the meal, 7 out of 10 said they opted for repetition to save time.

As such, an increasing number of people are opting to buy food daily, rather than bringing it with them. Not, as with our Victorian predecessors, due to a lack of resources, space or access to food,  but rather a lack of interest or time. And given the fact that there are probably more branches of Pret A Manger per square mile of London than public toilets or post boxes, it is understandable that, rather than opting for a cheese and pickle roll every day, you would rather spend £3, £4 or £5 buying a hot pulled pork bap, an elegant box of sushi or a steaming pot of soup. In this context, choice can be exciting, and we revel in the opportunity to buy whatever we fancy, without feeling restricted by our culinary skill, our families or the content of the fridge.

AAA = @abokadouk & @attendantcafe addiction. Send help (no wait, send more!) #aldesko http://t.co/gVnIqtUQ8F pic.twitter.com/1f971RmIwT

— GastroGays (@GastroGays) September 11, 2015

Even so, only a few people can keep up the pace of picking new foodstuffs to try every lunchtime. Work in one place for long enough and you'll have tried everything available in the local area - you'll know what your favourites are. Afraid of disappointment, you start picking what you know - buying the same sandwich every day rather than making it, feeling secure in the knowledge that it will be tasty (or, at least, familiarly bland) and will satisfy.

This search for familiarity is particularly evident in the staggering number of people who opt for supermarket ready meals every day. For every person reheating a home made curry, there are at least four more warming a ready-portioned fish, cottage or shepherd's pie; British classics, with reliable, dependable flavours. Despite the boom of juices, sandwich thins and salad jars, it would appear that a desire to follow the trend only goes so far where lunch is concerned. You could argue that this habit once again highlights the fact that many of us do not consider the packed lunch as a meal with the same value as others (no need for extra effort or imagination), or, alternatively, that we rely on it so highly to provide us with the comfort to see us through to the end of the day that we cannot bear to try anything new, for fear of disappointment.

The environment in which the packed lunch is consumed also influences attitudes towards it. Is it eaten alone, or in company? In the canteen, on a park bench, or at your keyboard? Eating together can make it an enjoyable, sociable occasion, lending the packed lunch a positive connotation of friends, conversation and free time. If eaten in isolation, it can feel the pinnacle of loneliness; a sad meal, a pitying distraction from the grind of the working day. Surrounded by groups of chatting colleagues, nibbling a salad alone at a canteen table can be depressing enough to avoid it altogether, and stick to "al desko", where, with focus dominated by the work at hand, you may barely notice your packed lunch at all. It becomes a meaningless ritual, a necessary habit.

LUNCH CHALLENGE: Whose lunch is more boring than mine? #aldesko pic.twitter.com/HRO2fB6WiU

— WeAreBne / James (@WeAreBrisbane) July 29, 2015

So what does this teach us about the packed lunch? It is a meal of contradictions: both an expression of independence and a search for childhood comforts, to keep you feeling safe and coddled until it's time to go home. It may be seen as a opportunity to showcase one's culinary skill, or to avoid it at all costs. For some, it represents the opportunity to escape work and focus on the real world, either alone or in company. For others, it is simply a ritual that must be dispensed with in order to continue with the day. If eating is considered primarily a social occasion, this meal specifically designed for one may be seen as automatically inferior to all others, especially when it is so heavily associated with the world of work. Alternatively, a sense of childhood glee can remain, with this mono-portioned feast seeming like nothing short of a present.

As with any meal, with each bite we are interacting with our cultural and social history, although, in Britain, this is perhaps rarely at the forefront of our minds as we bite into our favourite sandwich. What is clear is that we should not regard the packed lunch as a mere pit-stop in between two meals with greater nutritional and social importance: its unique position as a meal prepared ahead of time, portioned solely for one, arguably provides greater insight than all other meals into the way we and our society feel about food. I truly believe that it is worth our attention.

For many of us, packed lunches have an automatic association with school: either as a daily occurrence or as a special feature of geography field trips. The impact of the childhood packed lunch on our adult selves and eating habits ought not to be underestimated, as, being the only meal of the day eaten without parental supervision, it becomes fertile ground for shaping attitudes to food.

School dinners began in earnest in the late 19th century, when it was discovered that poor pupils were not gaining sufficient nutrition at home to adequately equip them for a day of study. From 1906 schools could offer meals, and from 1907 these meals had to meet government-approved nutritional standards. As detested as they often were, canteen meals were a cheap (or even free) way to get a hot meal down thousands of young people every lunchtime. By the 70s, however, students were able to bring their food with them, and the trend gained popularity in the 1980s under Margaret Thatcher, who increased the cost of school meals, It is now estimated that about half of students opt for a packed lunch, at a cost of almost £1 billion to the nation's parents.

In the 70s and 80s, school packed lunches would largely feature homemade sandwiches, with perhaps the occasional sausage roll or scotch egg. By the 1990s, the concept of "kid food" was becoming well established: bite sized, fun-shaped morsels of processed food thought to appeal to children's capricious tastes. As Bee Wilson notes in First Bite, in reality this means processed carbohydrates, sugars, dairy and salt,  thought to recreate the simplicity and comfort of nursery food. So came the likes of snacks such as Pombears, Cheese Strings and Dairylea Lunchables. Sugar-laden "fruit bites", squashes and fizzy drinks also began to feature, promising "no artificial preservatives" but offering negligible nutritional content or energy for learning. If the meals of childhood set up our tastes for the future (and Wilson is emphatic that they do) then it is unsurprising that millennials are opting for ready-made lunches as adults, filled with the processed flavours to which they are accustomed, rather than creating​ something from scratch.



The school packed lunch is crucial in developing attitudes to food because of the environment in which it is consumed. For reasons of logistics, packed-lunch eaters are often segregated from their hot-dinner peers, meaning that a good portion of the lunch hour is dedicated not only to eating your own meal, but also to looking at everyone else's.

I like to think of the packed lunch room at my own school as something of a microcosm of the wider world, a place where the hierarchy of the classroom really came into play. When we were 9 there was a rota for sitting next to the most popular girl, who was  smart, rich and athletic and ate, as far as I can recall, meals made up almost entirely of grapes and melon slices. Without the social-equalising element of the hot dinner (when everyone, regardless of wealth, is forced to eat the same slop) everyone's packed lunch reflected their personality and background: my German friend brought salami sandwiches and chocolate-filled brioche, the neat-as-a-pin class brainbox brought perfectly portioned rolls, with a pre-halved kiwi and spoon. There was the girl who ate only grated cheese sandwiches on fluffy white bread and another who never wanted to eat anything at all, who would nibble dolefully on a Golden Delicious for 45 minutes. We looked and copied one another, demanding from our parents the same snacks and treats we saw in other girls' meals. We shaped our eating habits around each other, reevaluating and fine tuning our preferences according to what was considered the best way or coolest thing to eat. (And this habit continues in adulthood: women are constantly asking​ one another about their lunch choices, eyeing up the next soup and salad trend that could enliven the never ending weight loss struggle.)

As whitewashed, bland and unpleasant-smelling as the packed lunch room was, eating there felt like being part of a special club; as though, by consuming our own food, rather than that intended for the masses, we were getting away with something. We did not have to endure the whims of the catering staff, but rather the affection and fussing of our mothers, who sought to provide us with food that was both fun and sustaining. Whether or not their choice was  met with approval (the girl who only ate apples insisted that her mother didn't understand that she hated sandwiches), there was no denying that this was a meal designed solely for us, which did not have to be shared. Thus the lunchbox (container included, obviously) became a source of pride, a badge of personal identity.

In these instances, the school packed lunch can feel like a treat. The sense of pleasure is heightened by the fact that, for young children, most lunchboxes contain foods to be eaten with fingers, things normally associated with parties: tiny squares of sandwiches, tomatoes, grapes and mini chocolate fingers. They are thus relieved of the frustrations imposed by cutlery at home, and eating feels more like play. This idea is thrown into relief most noticeably on school trips, when everyone is required to bring their own food. Ask any 8 year old to identify the highlight of their day and you are guaranteed to receive the response "lunch".

Children often associate packed lunches with treats

The lunchbox may be a source of pleasure for the child (a feast of Hula Hoops, cocktail sausages and Iced Gems!), but it is often less so for the parent in charge of its preparation, who is forced to do battle with the need to feed their child responsibly and the desire to spoil them. Leanings towards the latter are in no way helped by the preponderance of advertising of this so-called "kid food" and the normalisation of processed fast food into the diets of children. Although much has been done to highlight the poor quality of school meals thanks to Jamie Oliver, research has shown that parents are no better than schools at feeding their children healthy meals in the middle of the day. A study published last autumn revealed that only 1.6% of children's lunchboxes met the nutritional standards required by school dinners, with only 1 in 5 lunchboxes containing any vegetables or salad, and 52%-60% containing too many sweet and savoury snacks, or sugary drinks. This has resulted in increasing numbers of children leaving primary school obese, setting up unhealthy eating habits for life.

It would be easy to demonise parents and their lack of nutritional awareness at this point, but it we should not underestimate the financial and time pressures they face when trying to scrabble together one or more lunches for their children every night after a full day of work. It is a fact of modern life that not everyone has the time or resources to create healthy feasts for their offspring every day. However, beyond these limitations, there is clearly a lot more at stake when it comes to preparing a lunchbox, beyond emulating the government's "eatwell plate". The tie between parental love and feeding should never be underestimated; with parents seeing their food as a true expression of their affection for their children, and as their first and foremost responsibility. 

Making a packed lunch for your children is a way of allowing your love to infiltrate the school environment, reminding them of how much they are cherished. But it is also a way of keeping control of them; without relying on the whims of the school catering staff, it is possible to know exactly what your children have (and, crucially, have not) eaten over the course of the day. Or so you think. Ultimately, every parent has to struggle with the knowledge that children are perfectly capable of tipping their sandwiches and fruit away, lying about how delicious they were and skipping merrily off to the canteen or vending machine to buy crisps and chocolate. If children are fussy, and liable to waste or flat refuse anything other than their favourite, beige foods, it is only too understandable that a parent will opt to give it to them, believing that it's better for them to eat that than nothing at all. Surely no one can forget the images of mothers desperately passing their children burgers through the school gates when Jamie Oliver overhauled school dinners, in fear that they would go hungry. 


 
Added to the mix is the fear of appearing a sub-standard parent by not providing a good enough lunch. This parental pressure is particularly notable in Japan, where the ritual of bento is an important part of school life. Schools apply strict nutritional standards to which parents must comply, and there is huge social pressure to create edible works of art for children each day, thanks to the trend for kyaraben - the fashioning of food to look like cartoon characters. Women have spoken of the highly competitive nature of bento-making, with mothers devoting hours to the careful preparation of these delicate meals in order to maintain a sense of superiority, as well as to prevent their children from being bullied for having a boring lunch. Teachers may even send written warnings home if the bento is considered insufficient. The concepts of love and feeding are so heavily intertwined that a mother who is not seen to put in significant effort into her child's lunch can be considered to be lacking in affection, and therefore a lesser parent.

The great irony of parental angst is that no amount of stress will guarantee how your child feels about packed lunches. No matter how long you agonise over the correct carb to protein ratio, once they reach a certain age, there is no way of knowing whether the little darling will throw it all away in disinterest. Some cannot wait to throw off the shackles of the parental packed lunch: hence why British sixth formers, freed of the rigours of the canteen, spend a good portion of their lunch hours visiting McDonald's or making toast, simply because they can. Others continue to feel the connection to home, and yearn for the feeling of comfort provided by a mother's meal. I recall the absolute delight on an A-Level trip of discovering a jam sandwich that my mum had slipped in my rucksack, because she just knew I'd be hungry. I was filled with the warmth of her affection, and I nibbled it contentedly in my bunkbed, feeling as though she were right there with me.

We should not underestimate the connection between packed lunches and parental affection (Photo: Oh Sweet Bag of Mine)

Despite reveling in the opportunity to choose our own foods as adults, the connection between a packed lunch and parental love is still somehow present, even if well disguised. One need only look at the number of people who opt for ready meals such as spaghetti Bolognese, cottage pie and casserole for their working lunches - warming comfort foods associated with childhood. These are the meals our mothers would.make: hot, hearty and filling, seen as important for a child's growth. And this is not restricted to Britain - as Meera Sodha wryly notes, although office workers in Mumbai have access to Westernised foods in their tiffin, they still prefer to eat "what mummyji makes". As hard as we may try to shake it off, the premise that the packed lunch represents the caring presence of a parent remains.

While this harking back to childhood speaks volumes about our modern anxiety epidemic, it also highlights the long-lasting impact of the food consumed in our earliest years on the habits we maintain in adulthood. Despite our independence and maturity, in the middle of our working days we long for the time when feeding ourselves required no work other than the lifting of steaming forkful to mouth, and we didn't have to worry about vegetables. In the havoc of the working day, eating a meal that comes pre-wrapped and ready to eat provides momentary relief from the responsibility of adulthood; even if you made it yourself, it can still feel like the home-packed delights of youth. The packed lunch becomes a gift, a treat and an act of self-love.

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.

Thali, a highly structured meal

In 2015, Professor of linguistics Dan Jurawksy published a book called The Language Of Food, containing a collection of essays about the ways in which food and language interact. They range from analysis of the choice of words on menus (when is it of financial interest to refer to something in French rather than English) to the origins of the term ketchup (hint: it's old). The final chapter is my firm favourite, in which Jurawksy presents a theory called "The Grammar of Cuisine". Having discussed the language used to describe food, Jurawksy argues that cuisines are languages in their own right.

Like all languages, cuisines have structure, with inherent, mathematical rules that must be followed in order to create the correct phrase or dish. Such "grammatical" rules also impact the order of dishes within the sentence of a meal. As with dialects and local slang, these rules differ from culture to culture, with minute variations appearing within a single nation. Consider, for instance, the rules governing Indian thali, where even the arrangement of dishes on the tray is crucial, with different ingredients and dishes appearing in different regions. Or compare the rules governing the order of cheese and dessert in France and the UK. The rules of preparation and where each dish should sit are firmly grounded in cultural identity, the product of thousands of years of gastronomic development.

Jurawksy asserts that a meal, like a sentence, can be analysed and broken down into an algebraic equation - a sum of parts that must be combined in the correct order to create the product. As with nouns and adjectives,  flavours must "agree" grammatically in order to create the correct, authentic taste. Thus a traditional cottage pie cannot be made with filo pastry and a Margherita pizza cannot contain cheddar - the flavours would not fully agree and would not be recognisable as the original dish. The Italian government has gone so far as to have the recipe for the Margherita protected by the EU - cementing the grammar of the dish in international legislation.

Nonetheless, there will always be cooks who purposefully subvert the instated rules. Jurawksy offers the example of bacon ice cream, a clear aberration of the usual rules governing American dessert. But, as his book highlights, it is this subversion, this introduction of new, unusual flavours and ingredients that help cuisines to develop. And the same can be said for languages; new inclusions and structural changes always reshape them for the future. In both instances the initial reaction is often horror (think of the outrage following the introduction of  "chav" into the OED, or the removal of the circumflex in certain French words) but eventually cultural appropriation takes over and nobody notices. If you weren't aware, bacon ice cream is now a thing. And as we know, many of Europe's most central ingredients are foreign imports that have quietly been absorbed into the national identity. The potato is not native to Ireland, nor the tomato to Italy; even fish and chips, that stalwart of the Great British Menu, can (according to Jurawksy) be traced back to ancient Persia.

The concept of the grammar of cuisine is also a reminder that, as much as cooking offers huge scope for creativity and experimentation, it is still highly structured and based on a founding set of cultural principles. Some of these unwritten rules go beyond the kitchen and can become a matter of national pride - just ask an Italian how they feel about ordering a cappuccino after 11am. And what are the implications if someone veers from the strictures? Even if it sparks a new wave of creativity that shapes the cuisine for the future, for many it signifies the transgression of a fundamental order around which their lives are based. Jurawksy highlights the horrified attitude of Chinese acquaintances towards salad, as, for them, the act of cooking food is seen as a sign of civilisation and culture, of exercising control over the elements. To eat raw vegetables as a dish, or even unboiled water is, for some, highly ungrammatical and even insulting.

I am completely taken with Jurawksy's theory, because it offers two new methods of studying food. Primarily, it provides a unique way of analysing the composition of meals. Each ingredient has a specific role within the phrase of a dish; mushrooms could be the noun, rice the verb, cream the adjective. Adding a twist of black pepper to a carbonara, or sprinkling almonds on a curry becomes akin to checking that your verb endings agree, or that you've added the correct accents. It reminds us that food is multi -faceted and complex, encouraging us to study in detail the flavours and techniques that best complement one another, both to understand a traditional dish and do justice to the ingredients themselves.

The theory also appeals because, by seeing food as a language, we acknowledge that it is a crucial form of communication. To cook for someone is to pass on some kind of message, and, using Jurawksy's theory, we can argue that each plate in a meal, like each word in a sentence, has meaning and subtext. Each dish is the carefully chosen expression of a certain emotion or desire, whether subconscious or not, in both the private and public sphere. Consider the importance of food in politics (as analysed in the Radio 4 Food Programme), especially at international summits. The meals served at such events are in no way separate from the diplomatic conversation, as they can reflect the arguments being made in the board room - blurring the lines between the dining and negotiating tables. At home, cooks can impregnate food with emotion, from the ingredients used to the mood of the person at the stove. Salman Rushdie gives a beautiful example of this in Midnight's Children, describing how aunties use their food to make a point, creating “the biryanis of dissension...the curries of disquiet".

Certain flavours suggest emotions more obviously than others; something bold and spicy might signal excitement, something smooth and luxurious perhaps more indicative of desire, with something plain more likely signifying comfort. As with the words we use, the dishes we choose to make for ourselves and others are indications of our personalities and intentions. This is why certain foods are appropriate at some occasions but not at others, regardless of season: hence the difference between the first meal you cook for a partner, at a birthday party, or following a death.

As eating is a fundamental element of our existence, the language of food speaks to our innermost selves. Its basic nature means it has a unique ability to alter our mood, hence why a tub of ice cream following a breakup can do more good than a stream of comforting words from a friend. We eat for strength and survival, which gives the language of food an inherently positive vibe - after all we rarely give ourselves food to make us unhappy. And cooking for another is, beyond physical touch, one of the most elemental ways of showing that you care about them.

With the multitude of recipes and ingredients at our disposal, I would argue that food is one of the richest languages of all - simultaneously primal and complex. Although steeped in rules, tradition and cultural inheritance, the language of food still offers a simplicity of message, no matter what you make, or for whom. A way to say welcome, and a way to say I love you.

Sometimes, only an egg will do. At the end of a long, tough week, I was (like many others, I have no doubt) feeling tired, washed out and run down. For three days I'd been feeling off, vaguely unwell and uninterested in eating. By Friday I decided enough was enough, but felt too tired and too nervous to concoct anything involving more than 5 ingredients and salt. Naturally, an egg was the answer. Not scrambled or fried (the thought of milk or butter made my stomach churn), and the idea of just boiling one seemed to depressing to contemplate. I concluded that, while the day had not been much of a success, there was still an opportunity to turn things around - so I decided to be adventurous. I'd poach one instead.

Sadly that isn't even a joke. For someone who considers themselves an able cook, a poached egg is something I had never attempted alone. I usually just hovered behind my mum, marvelling at the strange alchemy that takes place when you crack an egg into water. I think it was always generally presumed by all (myself included) that I was simply too clumsy to pull it off. I'd always wanted to try, but always managed to avoid it, declaring that it was too faffy, too likely to go wrong. Boiling is simple, reliable and free from goo: leave the poaching to the chefs at the Wolseley. Yet for some unfathomable reason, after a hopeless day and a harrowing week, I decided to give it a go. After all, while there is ample opportunity for disaster, when done correctly, a poached egg is rather miraculous - dainty and delicate, with a completely unique texture and flavour. And it is extremely à la mode, of course, overtaking menus and Instagram feeds worldwide. (Please note that no avocados were harmed during the creation of this meal.)

Not willing to rely on my memory for this grand undertaking, I consulted Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's Veg, which has a double page spread dedicated to the dish of poached egg on toast. With one finger on the recipe, I brought a pan of water to the boil, cracked an egg in a ramekin, and used a spoon to create a whirlpool. It took almost a minute to get anything resembling a vortex - exactly how are you supposed to create a space into which an egg can drop whole? Taking a deep breath, I tipped it in and rammed on the lid, switching off the heat, as directed by HFW.

It was at about this moment that I started swearing.

As I looked on in horror, the egg started spinning in the water, wispy and translucent, like a ghost caught in a cyclone. I turned away to prepare the toast and heard a strange popping sound, followed by the characteristic thump of a pan lid being lifted up and down by internal pressure. "What is this monster I have created?" I thought to myself, grimacing and turning to look back at the pan. Bits of egg white had drifted from the centre and seemed to be boiling, creating a bad-smelling, eggy foam, which promptly spilled over the edge of the pan, and onto the hob. I swiftly moved the blasted thing away from the heat, and removed the lid. The water ceased to splutter, but the lid was left covered in a web of sticky ectoplasm. Delightful.

The toaster popped, the timer beeped, and the moment had come to test the egg. Tablespoon in hand (I am yet to acquire a slotted one for the purpose) I lifted the blobby monstrosity from the water and poked it gingerly. To my great relief, nothing popped, ooozed or splattered. Just the faintest hint of a wobble, which I took to be a good sign. I scraped the butter packet with a knife and spread it on the toast, and slipped the egg onto it. After a dusting of salt and pepper, I eased a small knife through its glimmering surface. Sadly there was no cascade of yolky gold, as promised by HFW's image, but it was soft and yellow, and seemed full of potential. Not even bothering to take it to the table, I stood by the toaster and took a bite. It was the ultimate combination of good bread (strong and sour - photo above), salty butter and creamy egg. Well, half an egg anyway, given how much was lost to the water. Still, it had the desired effect; my shoulders relaxed and I sighed, tension melting away at the pure joy of having tried something and succeeded (mostly), and finding that it tasted good.

I ate with great determination, hunger appearing from nowhere, and found myself thinking of The Deep Blue Sea. This bizarre jump from toast to Terence Rattigan was due to the current production of the play at the National Theatre, directed by Carrie Cracknell and starring the wondrous Helen McCrory. In the final scene of this production, (SPOILER) once Hester has realised that Freddie is never coming back, she knows she has a choice. Try to end her life again, or carry on. For the second time in the play she goes to prepare something to eat - pulling out slices of white bread, and cracking an egg violently into a pan. She starts collect Freddie's things, cradling his jacket to her chest like a child, weeping openly. The audience still has no idea what she will do: will she go on? Or will she turn back to the gas fire and aspirin? She continues to sob, and just as you think she's about to succumb to the darkness, she is roused by a crackling and spitting noise from the pan. She busies herself at the stove, still crying all the while, scoops up the egg and throws it at the bread. She takes her plate to the chair, sits and looks at it, and, with great determination, takes a bite. And then the lights go down.

It is an astonishing moment, theatre at its most simple and powerful. With the simple motion of eating an egg (a symbolic food in itself after all - representing the beginning of all life), Hester demonstrates that she must go on, that life must continue beyond heartbreak. She knows there is more to life, and more to her than past experiences have shown. From the mire of desperation in which she was drowning, a kernel of strength pushed her onwards, despite all her inclination to the contrary.

Fictional as they may be, her actions are some of the most inspirational I have ever seen on stage. And while my situation at the end of the week was in no way comparable to hers, I couldn't help but feel that to eat an egg with great conviction was a good way to reset, to adjust one's viewpoint and remember that the world would not end after three bad days. As Mr Miller, the kindest voice in the play, says "go to sleep, get up and go on living." And we must. No matter what. Tomorrow we can try again.