Food for thought on t'cobbles

Weatherfield welcomes yet another eatery to its hallowed streets then in the form of Speed Daal. A chance for the locals to push bits of food around on a plate in a different venue. There it is, with its comfy sofas, Indian tapas and sparky waitress. Forget Zeedan, the one-man war, for at this stage, we know he's only short-term. Speed Daal is tucked out of the way, on that odd bit of 'new' street, sporting advertising hoardings  . . . err, familiar  shops and a garden. We ask ourselves, with a gob full of naan bread, would anyone choose to dine out in Weatherfield?

Food has always been a bit of a focal point on Corrie and not for the right reasons. I'm old now, as old as an old woman's hairnet, but as a child my gaze would fall upon the pies that Annie Walker flogged in the Rovers. Pale, lardy and unloved . . . but enough of Fred Gee. No those pies were mesmerising and not in a good way. If it wasn't pie, it was dear old Betty's hot pot. Now I have to admit that I've seen one of these creations close up. On a visit to the Rovers, the set was dressed and several tables were playing host to the aforementioned hotpot. Imagine dear reader, a dish of glistening fat with a few rounds of carrots slung on top. Ta-dah! Tuck in and enjoy.

The seventies and eighties were a golden age for Corrie food. Golden in as much as most of it had been deep fried. Hilda was forever scuttling into number 13 with a chippy tea, ditto Jack and Vera. What with that, the ale and the fags, all of them were lucky to make it to forty. The most heinous meal though, and one which caused my Mum to gasp in horror, came courtesy of Rio Rita. La Fairclough was never much of a domestic goddess. Show her a tin opener and she'd probably start singing into it. No, dear old Reet served Len a dry dinner - pork chop, dollop of mash, something green - and no gravy! Obviously too busy welding sequins to a frock to be bothered with the effort of gravy granules.

By the late eighties though, Rita had a new kitchen friend - the salad bowl. Whatever the season, Rita could be seen sashaying from the kitchen bearing iceberg lettuce, clumsily hacked cucumber and a couple of tomatoes. You could almost see Jenny's face slump at the prospect of the salad tongues making yet another appearance. Emily also favoured the rabbit food, wheeling it out again and again. Presumably this is what forced Curly to opt for life living over t'brush with the lovely Shirley. He would have been better opting for Ivy, a woman who didn't think twice about popping home during her lunch break and settling down to a family-sized meat pie. Pastry on her top lip, gravy down her tabard - the woman had no shame. Luckily, everyone's favourite would-be murderer Don - sorry, you have to shout the name in Ivy's style - DON, was soon on hand making bolognese for her. Sadly, we didn't see his signature dish, only Don walking to the table with another sodding salad bowl.

The years hopelessly rolled by, no one investing in a Mary Berry cook book or a pressure cooker. Sally spent the late 1990s dishing out alpha-bites to 'the girls', Deirdre was hollowing out marrows and Gail was slopping up fried everything at the cafe. There was a chance to visit Leanne's sleazy Italian eatery, Valandros, tuck into deep-fried turkey with Cilla Battersby, stuff yourself with the produce of weird baker Diggory Compton (remember him?) or have Fred Elliot manhandling a nice bit of rump in front of you.

Where are we now then? Well, Betty would be overjoyed to see the slimy old hotpot still being pressed into service. Roy's doing well with his world of lard, the Bistro is on hand for the odd steak and nibbly bits, Dev's serving up a heart attack in several venues but as for the meals dished out in the Corrie homes? We should expect little given that most of the residents don't have enough kitchen acumen to make a coffee, preferring to hobble over the cobbles to Roy's for an empty styrofoam cup. "There's nothing in it!" I yell at the screen. The cups and cupboards are bare in Coronation Street. Much like the stomachs of the folk who live there.

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