After a few helpful beers, a friend and I got to talking about our perfect meal. For me, the more I’ve had to drink the more I gravitate towards slabs of slow cooked meat, in particular ribs. One of the truly great eating experiences is a full rack of Hurricanes’ beef ribs on Bondi Beach in Sydney. It’s not that they’re the best ribs I’ve ever had – they’re definitely good but they’re not the best. It’s not even that they come with beautiful buttered corn on the cobs (or is that corns on the cob?). It’s the whole experience of getting messy and tearing into them until you’re almost ready for a food coma, all the while staring at a beautiful beach on which afterwards you know you’ll sunbathe until you no longer feel like moving will kill you. At which point you’ll bravely decide that the sea looks inviting only to quickly realise you maybe need a bit more of a lie-down on the hot sand. The more beers I’ve had the more that sounds like heaven. However, my friend was resolute. In the particular lilting tones that only a drunk Irishman can possess, he waxed lyrical about proper British food; custard and spotted dick, pies and stews, fish and chips. But two dishes rose above all the rest – the humble scotch egg and the majestic Beef Wellington. So, fair’s fair, I said he should come round one day and I’d cook them for him and a couple of mates, and we’d wash it all down with a Lemon Tart.