A New Year dawns. Going Out team members have been carving out their resolutions. Here they commit to improving their lives for 2024. Probably.
David Ellis
Call it the weather, call it indigestion — whatever it was, by about the tail end of November, I’d begun to lose interest in eating out. Nights propping up the bar, once my stock-in-trade, suddenly seemed rather hollow, glum, dull.
Instead, I took to my kitchen cupboards, which soon bulged with spices and pastes and a questionable quantity of cloves. But, having for a few weeks dipped and evaded invites, I now am longing to be out, to see, to smell, to taste.
My main resolution, then, is to keep up with what’s new, and catch up on those I missed (Abby Lee’s new Mambow sits proudly on top of the list, Boca a Boca has an intriguing backstory, and I somehow was blind to the Dover). Last year was also the year I managed to give up going out for lunch and supper on the same day — with one ruinous exception — so I’m hoping to stick to that.
And, well, it’s about time I explored a few more neighbourhoods, a little further out of town. So I suppose I will. Also, fewer martinis. Especially at breakfast.
Joanna Taylor
Another year, another opportunity to start afresh before falling back into the same old habits approximately 37 minutes later.
This time, I’m going to give myself things to look forward to rather than berate myself about. In no particular order: finally doing my WSET qualifications; more water between the glasses, cans and bottles of alcohol in an attempt to break the habit of a lifetime and never ever fall asleep on the N29 bus again; visit Noma 2.0 before it disappears; eat fewer bad chips; enjoy a full pint of Guinness (without several glugs of Chambord); visit New York; master the art of paella; get an eye test; fall in love with anyone but a chef; steal more beer mats; avoid becoming entirely pickled. Only 37 minutes to beat. Wish me luck.
Josh Barrie
I’ve not ever made any New Year’s resolutions. Too culturally relevant. Can’t be bothered. But my editor has requested I do so this year, so here we are.
The obvious one is to delete the food delivery apps. I’ve done this before and held out for a while, but then the football is on and there’s nothing in the fridge: pizza. Or a friend is visiting and we went to the pub the night before: McMuffins. Life is so burdensome.
The fact is, food delivery apps — UberEats or Deliveroo or some other money pit — are costly and enslaving. They are black holes, convenience beyond what is necessary; a support mechanism that has fast become a demoralising reliance.
It is crucial to recapture the joy of walking to the shop. Let me borrow a Facebook meme from the Boomers: “Who remembers?” Well, who remembers waking up and forcing themselves out into the world, light unforgiving, stumbling bleakly but assuredly into Co-op. What’s inside? Must rattle the brain. Actually quite an agreeable oven pizza; Coke Zero (two litres); a four pack of Mars ice creams. They are slightly smaller than the individual ones in the big fridge but that's okay. All much cheaper without the various delivery charges is the point.
And so there we have it: I’ll delete the bloody apps and save some money in the process. It’s in writing now, in the Standard, and so I've as good a chance as any to prevail.
Mike Daw
When it comes to resolutions, I'm resolutely against them. I don't like causes or campaigns or self-improvement or the idea things will get better. But each year we resolve ourselves to the ideals of renewal, of attaining some greater enlightenment — and seeing as you are what you eat, it stands to reason that food and drink-based resolutions should make some kind of difference.
For one, I'm cutting out booze (within reason) as I'll be training for a half-marathon in May. While swerving the sauce is the least interesting new year's trope (see dry January), the continuation of such damned behaviours until May should prove challenging enough, making that first pint after the elongated jog all the sweeter.
When it comes to food, I have no intention of hitting every new restaurant opening or going to every event. On the contrary. I'll be selecting my attendance at such things with the utmost prejudice.
I'll also be eating at more of my old favourites, revelling in the magic of such places as Randall and Aubin and Andrew Edmunds and Llewelyn's in the hope they continue to thrive long after I'm gone. Granted, this could all go out the window at my inevitable new year's visit to the Devonshire...
Millie Milliken
Despite being freelance for three years, I'm still not doing it right. My institutionalised soul still sees me sitting in a feral state at my desk come 9am — I must not be late for the job I do in a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt, by myself, at home, with no boss.
Part of my institutionalism also surrounds lunchtimes — eaten in a rush, in front of my laptop, staring wistfully out of my window. But wait, I could be on the other side of that window, trotting off to a solo lunch during which I tick a first-time restaurant or cafe off my list. I can even have a drink, if I so wish, and be one of those women I glimpse through windows on my daily stomp and tell my boyfriend about when he gets back from work: "She was eating a steak and drinking a martini, alone, with a book... on a Monday."
So, in 2024, I will endeavour to be that woman for someone else. It doesn't have to be expensive (as a freelance writer, it really can't be), or fancy (sandwiches for life) or even something worth sharing on Instagram. But it does have to be alone, on a weekday and when I think I still might get told off. It's time to do this working-for-yourself-malarky right.
Another thing. As a spirits writer, I can't move in my flat for hard liquor. The words "it's for my job" roll off my tongue in the came breath as "Hi! Come in, come in" does. But when you're lucky and spoilt enough to be sent bottles of whisky, rum, tequila and more, buying booze only adds to the already unmanageable stash, which means that sadly there is a serious lack of wine in my flat despite it being something I have invested a lot of time, energy and expensive education in. So in 2024, I am on a mission to start building a proper wine cellar (read: cupboard); something I can really invest in, enjoy building and look at each bottle with no guilt for having not tasted, covered, or examined it professionally. Pure, (un)adulterated joy. Storage solutions most welcome.
Ben McCormack
Top of the list is to be less lazy in every way, starting with home cooking. A Leith’s course with my other half might be the answer (something we have deferred since lockdown, since it didn’t sound much fun in masks), but also setting time aside at the weekend to batch cook, so there's something nutritious to eat on weeknights when we get home from work late.
We must get better at finding creative uses for leftovers, too. Also, put more effort into exploring London restaurants beyond my comfort zone: as a west Londoner I’m determined once a week to head east of Tottenham Court Road and north of the Euston Road (south of the river, I’m afraid, will remain terra incognita unless there’s a Tube station nearby or the weather's good enough for cycling).
Explore new cuisines, too, the thrilling new West African movement especially. Most of all, I’m resolving not to put a single calorie in my mouth that is anything less than delicious, and to engage in mindful eating. Mens sana in corpore sano, and all that.
Clare Finney
Every food writer has something they know they should like, but don’t — and if they say otherwise, they’re just not telling you. For a long time mine was oysters, which I swallowed down food the sake of my pride until learning — slowly — to like (some of) them. My next project’s red wine.
Don’t get me wrong: I drink the odd red. I like the idea of it, especially in winter. But if I’m being totally honest, I’ll default to ice-cold white wine in the most bitter of weather if I’m in the company of family or non-industry friends. I prefer the flavour, and I prefer the feeling which comes with white wine, which is bright, light and giddy — red is drowsy and ponderous. Yet in recent months, my position on red wine has become increasingly untenable. It’s time to change.
It’s embarrassing, and it’s hypocritical; if there’s one thing I hate, it’s people saying they don’t like entire genres of food or drink — curries, cheese, pasta and so on — without acknowledging the infinite variety of styles and subgroups they contain.
So I’m calling it: 2024 is the year I discover red wine in all its forms, from decanted to chilled, sweet to sparkling. I’ll hate some, I’m sure — my dad particularly loves old Bordeaux, best described to my mind as muddy — but in wine as in life, there’s no gain without pain. I’ve started already, on merlot, and like what I’ve found: something smooth, warming and jammy. My obsession for Bread and Butter chardonnay has been a gateway to Bread and Butter pinot noir. It’s not the most worthy NYR, to broaden one’s booze horizons, but sometimes it’s better to be at the bar than to raise it. Cheers.
Douglas Blyde
In 2024, the year of the dragon, I intend to befriend baijiu. I'll be visiting a distillery of this misunderstood drink when I head to its homeland, China. While it might be the most consumed liquor in the world, it is barely known on our shores.
Each month, I plan to pick a new pub in which to savour a proper Sunday roast accompanied by an artisan ale. And I am giving up Gewurztraminer. This gaudy grape is yet to please me on account of its aromatics, akin to talcum powder and drawer liners.
I want to study sake, a family of drinks which top sommeliers are infatuated with, which will continue to mushroom onto drinks lists throughout the capital.
Finally, in this leap year, I am going to make every coffee count, asking questions about what’s in my cup. I find it surprising how even top restaurants which give so much thought to their look and menu, are still getting away with serving burnt, cash cow slops.
