Lunch, let’s talk about it. Not Sunday lunch, or a picnic in the park, or in the local Chinese, but lunch in its drabbest incarnation: at work.
Lunch at work — distinctly different from the working lunch, at which wine must be encouraged — is the dullest kind of meal. It is usually taken at a desk, or in a staff room, or in one of joyless high street Pret-a-likes. Colleagues may be in attendance, albeit not often voluntarily. Such lunches position food in its saddest, simplest form: as fuel.
