Grocery shopping with a chef is an olympic sport

One of the great joys of dating a chef is hosting our friends and family for dinner. One of the great challenges is going to the supermarket beforehand.

There is nothing he likes more than sitting on the sofa surrounded by his cookbooks, carefully constructing a menu for that evening’s dinner. It doesn’t matter if it’s for one friend or ten – the same level of research and diligence applies. Between us we discuss options, bouncing ideas around light-heartedly. Out of politeness, he asks for my opinion. I remain vague, aware that this exercise is futile. Once we (he) decide on a menu, a list is penned and we head to the supermarket.

This is where the gymnastics begin. I understand that true inspiration can strike in random, often sudden ways, but none more shocking or violent than that of a chef let loose in a supermarket. As soon as the doors slide open he is a cat out of the bag – inspiration jumping out left, right and centre. He is Simone Aisles. The floor is his. And he certainly won’t be kept ‘on list’.

Recently we set out to buy things for a barbecue – straightforward I thought. But then he saw a pineapple and the winds of creativity shook him all the way down to Mexico for taco night. Backflip one. By the time we got to the limes, he paused, closed his eyes, exhaled: ‘But we could do Thai’. Backflip two. When we hit the checkout, we had enough ingredients to keep a modest Sichuanese restaurant afloat. Backflip three. In the hour we’d spent in the supermarket, we’d crossed eight aisles and three continents. The list didn’t make it past aisle two.

My general opinion is that he can do his own thing when he’s cooking, but when it’s my turn, I’m standing my ground: we came here for spaghetti, I’m not accepting requests for fish pie at this juncture. But others aren’t so steadfast. My sister’s boyfriend fell into this trap the other day when the two of them were sent out to buy ice – just ice – from the corner shop. The poor man realised he’d been led astray when he found himself standing at the counter with two kegs and a packet of yum-yums.

True, there might not be any medals for his supermarket routine just yet, but sitting around our table with friends eating happily and praising his cooking is a joy to behold. For me, that is gold.