In praise of hospital food

I’ve been in hospital, bed-bound, for six weeks; because I can write it’s not so bad, but between deadlines time passes slowly, so landmarks in the day come to mean a lot. Most of all, I look forward to my husband visiting at 3 p.m.; secondly, the meds trolley trundling towards me like a dear old open-handed friend at 9 a.m. – but a close third must be the bell which announces the arrival of meals: breakfast at 7 a.m., lunch at 12 p.m., dinner at 5 p.m. In the first bay I stayed in, I always made my ward-mates laugh by squealing with genuine glee when I heard it.

Some of it must be novelty; well into my Mounjaro journey at home, I would have black coffee for breakfast, fruit for lunch, then out to a restaurant in the evening for whatever I fancied washed down by a bucket of booze. Now vanity has been put on the back-burner – I’ve gone feral during my stay – and I figure that the calories I’m saving on alcohol might as well go towards building my strength. The puddings – generally old-fashioned nursery fare with dollops of custard – are gorgeous, but I gave them up after a fortnight, lest I no longer fit into the hoist. So it’s toast, unsweetened cereal and fruit in the morning; elevenses with biscuits of choice – the sultry bourbon, the volatile ginger nut or the straight-talking shortcake. A cheese-topped vegetarian meal with real vegetables on the side for lunch; heavenly fish pie of some kind (salmon, haddock) in the evening.

Spontaneous food gifts are lovely (my wonderful West End Wendy friend turned up with a packet of thinly sliced smoked salmon and one perfect unwaxed lemon which made my imminent fish pie even more mind-blowing), and I’m always happy to see fruit (Anne Hegerty of The Chase sent me a gorgeous basket, including pomegranates). But I’m not keen on messages from mates who, having found out that there’s a Marks & Spencer on the premises, act as though this vilely smug emporium is all that stands between me and malnutrition. I figure that, given the current corridor care, I’m lucky to be on the ward, being served my meals in bed for weeks on end.

Others aren’t so lucky. My friend Leyla Sanai, a writer for this magazine and ex-doctor, has stayed hundreds of times in hospital in Scotland. Though she says they do soup and baked potatoes and puddings well, it’s a thumbs down to the rest: ‘I was in recently for six weeks, I don’t eat butter or margarine, so I couldn’t eat the sandwich at lunchtime. For supper, there were always one or two red meat options; I don’t eat red meat, cheese or eggs. While I was in this last time for four days, I had no protein whatsoever; every single ready meal should contain protein. Otherwise it is doing a complete disservice to the patients; patients will not heal. Protein is absolutely essential for wound healing; patients who have had surgery or who are very ill are catabolic, which means that they are actually burning protein, and they need much more than usual. It is ironic then that they end up getting none.’

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There was an unintentionally hilarious – aren’t they all – piece in the Guardian last year which asked the question: ‘Why can’t British hospitals serve better food?’ That’s right – Brexit! No, I jest, but it was that kind of piece, in which the bourgeois mother of a sick child (happily recovered now) can write with a presumably straight face of hospital catering put together by low-paid, hard-working people: ‘While I know someone spent time preparing it, it was hardly made with love.’ Preposterously, the piece ends with hospital grub being blamed for a child’s natural liking for sweets: ‘I often feel we are undoing some of the messages she received about eating in hospital. Perhaps she is no different from other five-year-olds in thinking that her hunger can be satisfied with Haribo sweets, or that chips and crisps followed by ice cream is a balanced meal, yet I can’t help but feel that her treatment has gone some way to distort her perception of what constitutes healthy food.’ I don’t know about you, but ‘O, the horrid coarseness of the English working-class tastebuds have ruined my little darling’s appreciation of fine food forever’ is the sub-text I got here.

I like the mucking-in thing that comes with chowing down on hospital grub, people of all and no incomes united in shovelling down the scran. Of course, if you have special dietary needs, this is a problem, but I, as someone who eats neither meat nor fowl, always find something I fancy. It’s reassured me about my lack of pretension. Surely every person who comes from humble beginnings and makes a lot of money starts going to outrageously expensive restaurants? At some point in our lives, we must ask ourselves honestly: ‘Am I now a stupid, stuck-up snob?’ The past six weeks of tucking in with gusto have proved to me pleasingly that, despite three decades of high living, I have nothing of the-princess-and-the-pea about me; I can happily eat what everybody else does, and ruddy well relish it. I’ve had a few lunch companions – inevitably those whose hands are not well acquainted with their wallets – who seem to think that complaining to the waiting staff about their food makes them look sophisticated; there’s a lot to be said for simply eating what you’re given.

But still my friends look at me askance and think I’m putting it on, intent to appear as though I’m still fully in possession of my common people heritage. They’re wrong. I’ve always liked aeroplane food, and recall enjoying school dinners. I think I might have a really coarse palate, which would make sense, as I’m quite insensitive in all other areas of life too. However, when I asked around the ward, the other patients concurred with me – so maybe, Brighton being a foodie hot spot, I’ve just got lucky. Hark, I hear the dinner bell – must go.