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Toast [Unknown Binding]

Nigel Slater
4.4 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (195 customer reviews)

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Product Description

Review

'Acutely observed, poignant and beautifully written…Slater tells his heartbreaking story with great subtlety. The theme of food and love is a fascinating one and I have never seen it better handled.' Daily Telegraph

'Few, if any, food writers engender such affection as Nigel Slater. He evokes time, people and place with…unmatched sensuous energy…Extraordinary.' Observer

'Toast is a magnificent reminder of…food in family life.' Lynne Truss, Sunday Times

'A talent for prose as simple and pleasurable as his recipes.’ Sunday Telegraph

'Moving, funny and finely crafted, it's a real gem' Independent

'It achieves a remarkable freshness…[and] reveals a gift for doleful, Alan Bennett-like comedy.' Guardian

--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Book Description

'Toast is a magnificent reminder of...food in family life.' Lynne Truss, Sunday Times

--This text refers to the Paperback edition.

From the Publisher

His writing ...put you in mind of Nick Hornby, Martin Armis and Philip Larkin all at the same time. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

From the Back Cover

'Toast is a magnificent reminder of...food in family life.' Lynne Truss, Sunday Times

'Moving, funny and finely crafted, it's a real gem' Independent

--This text refers to the Paperback edition.

About the Author

Nigel Slater is one of Britain’s most highly regarded food writers. His beautifully written prose, warm personality and unpretentious, easy-to-follow recipes have won him a huge following. He writes an award winning weekly column in the ‘Observer’ and edits their ‘Food Monthly’ supplement, and he is a regular contributor to Sainsbury’s ‘The Magazine’.

--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

There were only three of us at school whose house wasn’t joined to the one next door. Number 67 Sandringham Road, always referred to as ‘York House,’ had mock-Tudor wooden beams, a double garage of which one half doubled as a garden shed and repository for my brothers’ canoes, and a large and crumbling greenhouse. I was also the only one to have tasted Arctic Roll. While my friends made do with the pink, white and brown stripes of a Nalitan ice-cream brick, my father would bring out this newfangled frozen gourmet dessert. Arctic Roll was a sponge-covered tube of vanilla ice-cream, its USP being the wrapping of wet sponge and ring of red jam so thin it could have been drawn on with an architect’s pen.

In Wolverhampton, Arctic Roll was considered to be something of a status symbol. It contained mysteries too. Why, for instance, does the ice cream not melt when the sponge defrosts? How is it possible to spread the jam so thin? How come it was made from sponge cake, jam and ice cream yet managed to taste of old cardboard? And most importantly, how come cold cardboard tasted so good?

As treats go, this was the big one, bigger even than a Cadbury’s MiniRoll. This wasn’t a holiday or celebration treat like trifle. This was a treat for no obvious occasion. Its appearance had nothing to do with being good, having done well in a school test, having been kind and thoughtful. It was just a treat, served with as much pomp as if it were a roasted swan at a Tudor banquet. I think it was a subtle reminder to the assembled family and friends of how well my father’s business was doing. Whatever, there was no food that received such an ovation in our house. Quite an achievement for something I always thought tasted like a frozen carpet. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

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