Another year gone, and I edge closer to the afterlife I deserve, namely in hospitality hell. The service will be slow, the butter will come in naff wrapped portions, and chipper staff will squat at my table between courses and ask: “Any favourites so far?”
Before then, however, I’ll digest 2024 and regurgitate my findings. My year began recovering from a mini-break in Murwillumbah with Nigel Farage and Fred Sirieix. Food terrible. Tripadvisor: 1 star. Do not recommend. On my return, my first stop was my beloved King Cookdaily, a vegan kiosk with seats in Shoreditch that serves heavenly Lao bowls, udon and jerk. By the end of 2024, however, restaurant-land’s enthusiasm for “the vegan craze” has sunk like a chickpea-juice meringue. The will of most restaurants simply to stay afloat this year, serving whatever valve or offcut they can, has drowned any urge to do something meaningful with costly aubergines. Instead, we had Bébé Bob, which serves only chicken, and Eggslut, with its £15 egg sandwiches.
