Nights Out At Home by Jay Rayner | Book Review | Fig Tree

 

A lot of my book buying is carefully planned. Often I'll have a running list of books I want to read (in my head or on my phone, say), and each time I visit a bookshop, I can run my finger down that list, looking for a title that would fit the current mood, the current need, the current wish for my next read. Which is why I think people who take out book subscriptions are quite simply masochistic, depriving themselves of the pleasure of choice.

My point is though that sometimes I'll go a bit rogue - and although with Nights Out At Home by Jay Rayner, I did have a notion that this would make a good read, I hadn't made a conscious decision to purchase it. It just found me the other day, and here I am, having devoured (. . .) Rayner's first cookbook in just a few days.

This is, by all accounts, a solid choice for any food enthusiast, and even though I don't read Rayner's column religiously (nor casually, to be honest), I am well aware of his standing and skill as a restaurant critic. I had no doubt I would be in good hands.

Nights Out At Home skillfully balances a two-pronged identity, being full of amusing anecdotes and mouth-watering recipes. The real skill is that, even though the recipes do take up most of the real estate in the book, one still ends up reading this cover to cover, because the introductions to each - as well as the step-by-step instructions themselves - are so entertaining that it would be a shame to skip anything. See All the roast chickens: 'Take a photograph and send it to your friends or they won't believe what you've done.' Or the Deep fried apple pies: 'Serve with whipped, sweetened cream. Because you don't get that from bloody McDonald's.' Or I wish I could remember which recipe included an instruction along the lines of 'Or don't. I'm not watching, I'm not your dad.' 

The point is, Rayner makes a conscious effort to keep things simple, dialled into the needs of a home cook. No fancy chicken stock? Get the cubes. Don't have Chingkiang vinegar? Sub in the balsamic. One recipe calls for (I'm not making this up) one packet of Frazzles, one packet of Scampi Fries and 30g Pickled Onion Monster Munch. It's incredibly user-friendly, and the variety of recipes is just as surprising: from recreating Michelin restaurant dishes in a manageable way, to cooking up home alternatives of high-street favourites, it's a wonderfully eclectic selection. And though, if I'm honest, I'm still unlikely to make a lot of these, unless someone else does the washing up - as much as I wish to eat incredible-sounding Louisiana cracklins, I have seen the picture of what the kitchen will look like afterwards - you never know. I'm glad to have these recipes on the shelf, just in case. And I will be making, among many other things, crispy cauliflower with salt and pepper; the ultimate cheese toastie; and a Malaysian chicken curry, just to name a few. The point, anyway, is not the actual cooking, but the delight of daydreaming of cooking these things, and the blood, sweat and tears that Rayner clearly put into bringing these recipes to us.

Interjecting essays, on everything from the life of a critic to anonymity to body image, add to the fun, and these again are written with Rayner's writerly flourish, full of humour and saliva-inducing memories. 'I like being alive,' he shares at one point. 'I've concluded that the best way to stay alive is by not dying and that's what I'm attempting to do. So far it seems to be working. Unless you're reading this after my death. In which case, boy did I have fun...'

But perhaps my favourite bit is the very beginning: Advice to readers. Any writer who advises me to rustle up a jazzy Bombay mix to snack on before I begin reading has my eyes, ears and mouth. I feel seen. 

The book is a beauty to behold, and while I wouldn't want to get my greasy fingers on it - so perhaps not strictly speaking a cookbook in the usual sense - it is a gorgeous read for any foodie and cook out there. Glad it found me. 

Aesthetitcally pleasing markers in an aesthetically pleasing book