by Jenny Critchlow (Tue Dec 15, 2009)
Once, second hand clothes from the charity shop were just that -
second hand clothes. They smelled of moth balls and that curious room scent
that only comes with donated clothes. Until of course the fashionistas found a
way to make them well, fashionable by labelling them vintage. Ah ha, suddenly we are able to rummage at will in any
bargain bin, emerge triumphant with some piece of tatty material and wear it
with pride (and a lot of perfume), because you see dahling it's vintage.
Obviously, vintage applies only to non perishables. It works well for
cars, clothes, ornaments - even your parents if you can get a layer of varnish
to stick. But for such things as food and drink the word conjures up blue flashing
lights, bacterial overload and possible social rejection. I mean if you went to
your friends' house for dinner and they announced gaily ‘Ooh we do have a treat
for you! Tonight it's vintage fish with a vintage spinach reduction and a
vintage egg fricassee' you'd be
forgiven for running for your very lives. Because that's exactly what you'd be
sacrificing if you succumbed to politeness and swallowed anything put in front
of you (except for cheese, which to be fair is vintage milk but we all seem to
be able to stomach that).
So we've had to come up with something new, something palatable,
something non life endangering to place food squarely where it's at. Cue the
rise of Retro. Yup, the chef's answer
to vintage charity shop finds is charity shop recipe books reprinted with a
fancy cover and the word ‘retro' shoved into the title. We've had revivals of
prawn cocktail, egg mayonnaise, coq au vin and beef Wellington. We've supped
champagne cocktails with our pinkies raised and decorated one wall of the kitchen
with some hideous but oh so fashionable retro wallpaper. We've even stooped to
asking our mothers for tips about food in
their day, and risked a thick ear for suggesting their day is over. Oh yes,
in the Millennium the 1960's is where we want to be (without the men in
drainpipes and ruffled shirts).
So imagine my delight, my wonder, the other day when passing a little
sweet shop to discover they are doing a line in retro sweets. Retro sweets? Really? This needed
further investigation.
I walked into the tiny shop and behold! A veritable smorgasbord of
sweets of yesteryear were crammed onto the shelves. Bars and jars and lollies
(oh my) winked and glittered before my eyes. I felt three feet tall again,
reaching for my granddad's hand, the faint whiff of tissue and peppermint
wafting from his coat pocket. I would strain and point, lifting my eyes to
exactly the sweets I wanted while he unscrewed jars with his large nicotine
stained fingers and poured me a quarter.
It took me an hour to move around this little sweet shop. An hour of
choosing the nuggets of times and tastes past, to take home in a little paper
bag clutched in my sweaty hand. An hour to become five again and to relish
every second. But crikey it was worth it.
Sitting on the bench outside the shop I sampled sweet after sweet.
Long forgotten brain synapses hauled themselves from dusty corners and early
retirement. They flashed and sputtered into existence once again as the zing of
a Wham! bar hit my tongue, they soothed and crooned as a Parma Violet let off
its sweet and sickly perfume. Refreshers refreshed my memory, Love Hearts gave
messages of encouragement, and Liquorice Fountains spurted sherbet into the
corners of my childhood.
It was groovy, heavy, peace and love all rolled into one. It was retro,
in the best possible terms of the word.
