It is a warm summer afternoon in Finsbury Park, north London, and I am sitting in a restaurant preparing to eat a cricket ball. Fortunately for me, the object on the end of my fork is not five and a half ounces of cork, string and red leather; it’s only a meatball made out of crickets. Either way, it sounds like I just lost a bet.
But the cricket ball is delicious. On the other plates in front of me are a roasted vegetable salad with Moroccan-spiced minced cricket and pasta served with a cricket brisket. I find myself nibbling at all of it continuously, spoiling the photographer’s tidy composition.
