What Lenten fasting has in common with Tough Mudder

Ash Wednesday is upon us, and it is once again time to meditate on the unusually self-aware admission of Sir Andrew Aguecheek in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night: ‘I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.’

It has until now been an exceptionally good season for beef. Grass-fed steak cut from organic Belgian Blues has featured – perhaps the best steak this writer has experienced, except for once in a restaurant with a yellow-painted cinderblock exterior somewhere off the shoulder of a Burgundian route départementale. Paper-thin sheets of Wagyu rolled into ridiculously expensive appetisers have not been lacking. Beef wellington encased in exquisitely gilded pastry and homemade liver pâté has been as glorious as a new Waterloo. Both prime rib and shepherd’s pie have graced the board, and more than once have the delightful aromas of steak and kidney pie wafted through the kitchen. But now, no more beef, or at least significantly less beef.