WHAT YOU'VE BEEN SOLD
Comfort food, confiscated and marked up.
Comfort food got confiscated by lifestyle editors and handed back to you as 'elevated nostalgia': the soup of your childhood, reinterpreted, deconstructed, plated with a foam and a microherb, and sold at nineteen pounds a bowl in a room with exposed filament bulbs. Soup, it turns out, never needed elevating. It needed an evening, a warm room and someone at the stove. The herb that makes it taste like home, meanwhile, never left the kitchen, and never once sent an invoice.
Soup didn't need elevating. It needed an evening and a warm room. Supplied.