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.
