Some dishes just aren’t made for sharing

Some filthy food secrets are simply unforgivable. Best that you keep them behind closed doors

Recently I became a national hate figure. Not since I admitted I thought negronis taste like bad dental mouthwash, have I felt so reviled. Apart from the time I rolled my eyes at nasty sour espressos. And the time I admitted to having eaten a festering sausage off one of those carts in Trafalgar Square late at night. But this one was especially intense. You’d have thought from the violent tweets and emails, that I had suggested roasting times for one of Prince George’s chubby thighs. When all I did was give out my recipe for cheese on toast.

By which I mean my real recipe. Oh sure, I could have avoided all the vitriol by coming up with some rustic fantasy recipe involving West Country cheddar and a pinch of finely chopped shallot. But ever the generous soul I gave them the real thing: I announced that it involved any old cheddar, a thick dusting of that brilliant rust-coloured Caribbean Everyday Seasoning sold in shops across Brixton, a big splash of Tabasco. And bacon. Because everything is better with bacon. Especially cheese on toast.

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