Illustration by Roberta Murray. All Rights Reserved 2026 / Bridgeman Images Were you under any misapprehension that the life of a food critic is easy – all salted butter, white tablecloths, fish sandwiches in Istanbul and considered opinions about oxidised white wine – then let me fail to correct the record. It is Sunday, one of the hottest English days on record, and I am at an ice cream party. Suffering is relative, I know, but I cannot in good faith claim that any of it goes on at an ice cream party. Dairy Eden, lactic Arcadia, the Elysian Fields of saturated fat. “But Silver Spoon! What is an ice cream party?” Come on, Einsteins – what do you think? Go on, take your time. We piled in to a tiny flat overlooking the canal by Camden, opened a bottle of Crémant (suffering: relative) and st