Where dinner is concerned, God is always in the detail. By this, I mean the kind of dinner you scarf by yourself when it’s so late it’s almost early; the thing you eat when nobody is watching and the options are meagre but you still regard yourself as a person of high gastronomic standards, who sees the lowliest of food items as merely the opening salvo in a negotiation.
Which is how I found myself one night pelting a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle which just happened to be lurking in the cupboard, with freshly sliced spring onions and batons of ginger, shiny black ribbons of finely chopped toasted nori and dollops of sriracha sauce and crispy chilli oil. And lo: the humble instant noodle has been elevated to the king of snacks, courtesy of my exquisitely honed culinary sensibility, and my endearing conviction that more really is always more.
This sort of thing can be habit forming. If you are the kind of person who has a fridge which is 75% sticky bottles of condiments which seemed like a good idea at the time, 20% cured meat products or funky, running cheeses, and 5% spring onions – and all the best people are – the temptation to embellish the humble is all but irresistible. Bog-standard supermarket pizzas always seem to be staring up at me, begging to be given the fairy godmother treatment. I have yet to meet one which could not benefit from a thick smear of that ’nduja I bought last week, and quite a few of those leftover salted anchovies and some thick slices of that taleggio which is almost on the turn. And it would be a shame to let that wilted basil go to waste.
A friend of mine describes doing all this as adding “kitchen lipstick”. I get her point: it’s the application of seemingly small details which vastly elevate the otherwise everyday. The original purchase suggests questionable taste. The adornments and embellishments restore one’s sense of self. Perhaps right now you have lurking in the fridge a pot of that grim corner-shop hummus, looking to stunt double as tile grouting? Why not go the full Ottolenghi and decorate it with toasted pine nuts, a thick dusting of smoked paprika, an extra dribble of that grassy olive oil over there and, for a final flourish, finely chopped flat-leaf parsley? Add fancy whole grain mustard and manuka honey to the cheapest of sausages, and glugs of madeira and a spoonful of dijon to instant gravy.
It doesn’t have to be complex. A 16p value range chocolate mousse from Asda needs only the addition of brilliant white flakes of Maldon sea salt across the surface to make it catwalk ready. Pink lemonade lollies are great. Dust them with the deep citrus purple of sumac and they become even better. (Of course you’ve got sumac to hand. You’re reading an OFM column. You’re that sort of person.)
Generally, of course, these things are a substitute for a bit of proper effort. Time is short. You want something delicious, with just a bit of gastronomic flash, so you set to work. But sometimes the embellishment is so good it becomes the dish of choice. It becomes the way you always do things. An affogato made with the most luscious of Cornish ice-creams, flavoured with single origin vanilla pod harvested from the slopes of a Madagascan hillside is, doubtless, a beautiful thing. But try pouring a shot of espresso over a slab of Wall’s Viennetta. Trust me. You’ll never go back.
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Nights Out At Home by Jay Rayner (Penguin, £22) is out now. To order a copy for £18.70, go to guardianbookshop.com Delivery charges may apply