“I FELT THAT PEOPLE IN LONDON WERE MISSING OUT ON THE STREET FOOD I GREW UP WITH BACK HOME”

Words: Shahnaz Ahsan

It was a desire to cook the familiar food of home that motivated Gaurav Gautam, chef and co-founder of Indian street food stand Horn OK Please, to start his business. Gaurav moved to the UK from India in 2001 to pursue a degree in advertising. But his gastronomic experience was a far cry from what he was used to in his home state of Gujarat, where street food is almost as integral a part of student life as studying.

Gaurav’s formative years had been spent feasting on popular street snacks of bhel puri, pani puri and samosa chaat. In contrast, the university town he moved to in Cornwall was home to one single ‘Indian’ restaurant, run by a Nepalese family. Even after relocating to London the following year, Gaurav was disappointed by the Indian cuisine on offer. “There were curry houses in northwest London,” he says, “but I felt that people were missing out on the street food I grew up with back home.” Driven by necessity, Gaurav started teaching himself to cook through trial and error, experimenting with the fermentation of different dosa batters. Eventually, his hobby ended up becoming his career.

Elizabeth Haigh, chef-owner of Mei Mei, Borough’s Singaporean street food stand, was similarly inspired by a desire to recreate the food of her childhood. Raised by a Singaporean mother and British father, Elizabeth spent her early years – and almost every summer thereafter – in Singapore. “It was a privilege to experience both cultures,” she reflects. Like Gaurav, she had been encouraged by her parents to pursue an academic path. She was four years into her architecture degree before a friend “drunkenly dared” her to enter MasterChef in 2011. Despite not going on to win, her successes on the programme gave her the encouragement she needed to switch paths.

“I pulled out of university and started at the very bottom of training to be a chef,” Elizabeth explains. She trained in classical French cooking for three years before going on to work at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Bray. In 2017, she won a Michelin star of her own at Pidgin in Hackney. But despite these early successes, she walked away from the high-end restaurant world to set up Mei Mei – a ‘kopitiam’, or coffee shop, serving street food dishes such as Hainanese chicken rice, char siu pork and nasi lemak. “People thought I was crazy to go from Michelin to street food,” Elizabeth laughs. “But there’s no difference to me – the same care goes into all the food I cook. I dreamed of cooking the food that I love.”

The food she loves most is the Singaporean food that was served at the family table six days a week, with Sunday reserved for a British roast dinner. “My mum taught me my palate,” explains Elizabeth. “She doesn’t cook anything by measurements, it’s all by eye.” There is a term to describe this intuitive approach to cooking: ‘agak agak’. As an aunt explained to Elizabeth, “it’s like your ancestors telling you how much of each ingredient to use.”

Gaurav similarly credits his parents, both of whom were talented cooks, although they were initially perplexed by his change in career. “My mum was a teacher and my dad a space scientist. Being from an Indian background, working in food was the last thing they wanted me to do!” But they soon got on board when they saw how satisfied and successful Gaurav was in his new field. “They’re proud. They know I’ve found my happy place.”

For Joel Ferrer, owner of Venezuelan eatery La Pepiá, family support is also of fundamental importance – so much so, that his company logo is a portrait of his grandmother’s smiling face. “I was raised by women, they taught me to cook,” Joel explains. His early years were spent in Caracas, Venezuela. When he moved to London almost a decade ago, he came with the idea of producing and selling his grandmother’s salsa. And, to go with it, arepas. These corn savoury doughnuts – a quintessential Venezuelan snack – have proved remarkably popular with visitors to Borough Market.

As well as bringing traditional arepas to a new audience, Joel has also embraced the opportunity to innovate. Sourcing many of his ingredients from the Market, Joel has come up with twists on the usual arepa fillings: from basil and tomato to olive oil and rosemary, even experimenting with sweet fillings such as guava jam. And of course, his signature dish: the pretty rainbow arepa – coloured with beetroot and spinach – which has become a bestseller. With a focus on dairy and gluten-free offerings, it is important to Joel that La Pepiá is inclusive and sustainable in every possible way. And like Gaurav and Elizabeth, it’s important to him that food creates the opportunity for connection.

“There are not many Venezuelans in London,” Joel says, “but they find us. And we have Colombians who have their own arepas but still come to us.” Even they have embraced his new European-inflected inventions. “It’s not what people are used to but once they get the concept they love it.” In fact, diaspora Venezuelans across Europe have been getting in touch with Joel, inspired to set up their own arepas eateries.

Gaurav shares Joel’s pride at the response of his compatriots. “I wanted to cook for other people, not just for me,” he says. “When Indians stop by the stall, even if they don’t buy anything, the look in their eyes as they recognise these familiar foods – it makes me really happy. It takes them back to their memories. It’s a reminder of home.”

The Jackfruit Chronicles: Memories and Recipes from a British-Bangladeshi Kitchen by Shahnaz Ahsan (HarperNorth) is available now

“COOKING OVER FIRE IS A WHOLE PROCESS. IT’S NOT LIKE SWITCHING ON AN OVEN – AND THAT’S WHAT MAKES IT SO EXCITING”

Interview: Mark Riddaway / Illustration: Megan St Clair / Portrait: Carol Sachs

As barbecue season kicks into gear, some of Borough Market’s experts have been sharing the secrets of their favourite fire-cooked dishes. Cynthia Shanmugalingam is the chef-owner of the Rambutan restaurant, where one of the most popular dishes cooked over coals is pork neck in a bright, peppery marinade.

Born and raised in England but with roots in Sri Lanka, Cynthia finds inspiration in the vibrant food culture of her ancestral home but views it through the unique lens of her British upbringing and global travels. At the heart of her Borough restaurant is a large charcoal grill. “There’s something magical about walking into a space where a fire is going,” she says, “and it’s fun for the chefs, who love learning how to deal with fire.”

The dish

Pork neck is a lovely, forgiving cut of meat to cook over charcoal. We marinate it in lots of Sri Lankan black pepper, which is the real star of the show – super-fragrant, almost floral. There’s also some cumin, some ginger and garlic and a little bit of kithul jaggery syrup to give it a touch of sweetness (although you could use maple syrup instead). We grill the pork then serve it with a pickled chilli sambal, which is basically green chillies, vinegar and sugar: hot and sharp, to cut through the pork.

The inspiration

Sri Lankans don’t actually have a big tradition of grilling. Fire cooking is fundamental to Sri Lankan cuisine, but they tend to build a fire and then cook curries in clay pots over the flames. Rambutan is not a super-traditional Sri Lankan restaurant, though. I was born in England, grew up here and travelled around a lot, all over the world, so this place is a mix of all my influences. I wanted to have a charcoal grill front and centre, but grilling Sri Lankan food requires a little bit of adaptation. We might, for example, take a traditional curry recipe and then recreate the flavours through a marinade or a dry rub. This pork dish was invented by one of our young chefs, Jack, who was inspired by black pepper beef, a classic Sri Lankan curry from the west of the country.

The ingredients

The pork in Sri Lanka is fantastic quality – there are all these small, dense pigs that run around all the time and are just so flavourful. Over here, we’re looking for that same depth of flavour, and that can only come from animals that have got space to roam and are fed and reared amazingly well. We use Middle White pork from Swaledale in Yorkshire. The taste of the meat is so deep, it’s almost gamey. The quality of the black pepper is also essential. It’s known as Malabar pepper, produced down the Malabar coast of southern India and into Sri Lanka. It’s so good that wars have been fought over it! ‘Black gold’, they used to call it. It’s really floral. Bright and fragrant. Almost citrussy.

The method

We grill the pork over the hottest part of the charcoal, so it doesn’t take long – a few minutes each side. We cook it to an internal temperature of 45C, then let it rest for about five minutes. It’s at its best when it’s still slightly blush inside, as long as the guests are okay with that.

The fuel

We use pure lumpwood charcoal with no chemicals. It gets good and hot and retains its heat very well. I feel that if there’s anything chemical in the charcoal, you can really taste it, so we only use the best quality charcoal we can get our hands on.

The appeal

Fire is magical, fire is mesmerising. Cooking over fire is a whole process – it’s not like switching on an oven – and I think that’s partly what makes it so exciting. In Sri Lanka, most cooking is done over wood, so you have to build the fire first – the big sticks, the little ones, the paper – and that makes it so involving. It also imparts the amazing aromas and flavours of the smoke. In Sri Lanka, try as the government might to bring in gas or electricity, the women – and it is largely women who do the cooking – still want to cook over wood. They just feel there’s nothing quite like those incredible smoky flavours.

The pro tip

People should grill more vegetables! We put lots of veg on our grill – the sugars caramelise, and they take on such an amazing quality. Aubergine, corn, broccoli, anything. Often, if you go to someone’s house for a barbecue, it’ll be the meat that gets the focus, but vegetables can be just as delicious.

“THERE’S SOMETHING PRIMAL AND COMFORTING ABOUT FIRE. I WOULD RATHER LIGHT A FIRE THAN PUT A RADIATOR ON”

Interview: Mark Riddaway / Illustration: Megan St Clair / Portrait: Anton Rodriguez

As barbecue season kicks into gear, some of Borough Market’s experts have been sharing the secrets of their favourite fire-cooked dishes. David Carter is the restaurateur behind Borough’s OMA and AGORA. At OMA, one of the many skillfully executed, Greek-inspired small plates on offer is a squid skewer dressed in a simple olive oil marinade.

In common with his other London restaurants, OMA and AGORA both have a significant fire-cooking slant to their menus. It’s only natural. David was born and raised in Barbados, where cooking over wood or charcoal is central to the island’s cuisine, social scene, family life – everything, really. “Every day is 27, 28 degrees, so it’s just part of the culture,” he says. “What could be nicer?”

The dish

This is a very simple dish. We cut off the head and wings of the squid and just use the body. We score it quite heavily, which means that when we grill it we get this amazing texture – squid can be quite chewy if you’re not careful. We brush it with olive oil that we’ve infused with confit garlic, za’atar and lemon juice. The confit garlic is almost a bit pasty in texture, in a good way, and that really adds to the feel of the dish. We then grill it over charcoal and serve it straight away.

The inspiration

This dish was inspired by a restaurant in Athens called Travolta. OMA and AGORA are both rooted in Greece, but in a broad way. Not all the flavours are Greek – like the za’atar we use here. We did a lot of travelling when we were working on the concept, including to Tel Aviv, and that’s where the idea of adding za’atar came from. We can get squid through most of the year, but I think this really lends itself to being a summer dish – it has that lightness. I’d maybe have it with something tomato-based, with high acidity. A Greek salad, maybe. Light, vibrant dishes and zippy wines.

The ingredients

With so few ingredients, there’s nowhere to hide. Everything has to be good. The squid comes from the southwest of the country. It’s an amazing product. Most of the fish and seafood we use comes from Cornwall, from Brixham market. It’s caught and landed one day, it comes to us overnight, and the next day it’s in our kitchen. One of the great things about being such a busy restaurant is that whatever comes in goes pretty fast – it arrives and we cook it. The olive oil comes from a regenerative farm in Crete, run by two brothers. They’re actually British – one of them married a local girl. They moved out there to Zakros and started this incredible olive oil project. We’re now using it across all our sites.

The method

The trick is to have the grill hot, but not too hot. You don’t want to blacken the squid; you want it to be a deep dark brown. It takes about 6 minutes, so not long. With squid, or with almost any fish, you want to pull it off the grill when it’s a little under. Because of the residual heat, it’s still cooking when it gets to the table. If you overcook it, it becomes chewy and rubbery, which is horrible.

The fuel

We use very pure charcoal. With grilling, it’s about the fuel, but it’s also about the interplay with the fat – that’s what creates the flavour. When the oil from the squid drips onto the coals it creates smoke, which then permeates the food above. That’s what grilling is all about – when fat renders onto hot coals, and the coals get a bit angry, and all that flavour is released into the air. You can’t get those flavours on a stove.

The appeal

I grew up in Barbados. I grew up outdoors. There, every day is a barbecue – it’s just part of the culture, so cooking over fire is what I’m most comfortable with, for sure. There are so many variables, with the fuel and the heat, and that’s what makes it interesting. It’s such a versatile and simple way of cooking – all you need is some charcoal on a beach and you have a barbecue. There’s something primitive and primal about it, something comforting, warming. I’ve got a fireplace at home, and when it’s freezing outside I would rather light a fire than put a radiator on.

The pro tip

Have fun with it. Some people take barbecuing far too seriously. It should be social and fun, and if you don’t cook something perfectly, who cares? Also, be patient. When you light it, let it burn out properly. When it’s flaming, that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily lit – with bad charcoal, it’s the chemicals that are burning, and if you cook too early your food will just taste of lighter fuel. Let it come to temperature, let it do its thing. Wait until it’s glowing red or white, and don’t be frightened to move it around. If it’s too hot, disperse it; if it’s not hot enough, bring it together. Play with it. The fire is your friend!

“YOU GET LOVELY CARAMELISATION IN THE PAN, BUT WITH ALL THAT EXTRA FLAVOUR THAT YOU COULD NEVER GET ON A HOB”

Interview: Mark Riddaway / Illustration: Megan St Clair

As barbecue season kicks into gear, some of Borough Market’s experts have been sharing the secrets of their favourite fire-cooked dishes. Nick Willoughby is the founder of The Black Pig, which sells its world-famous sandwiches in the Borough Market Kitchen. For these, slow-roasted pork is finished in the heat and smoke of a kamado barbecue before being piled generously into pillowy toasted ciabattas.

Nick, a fire-cooking obsessive, talked to us about the dish he most enjoys creating in his own back garden. “I’m passionate about Cajun and Creole cooking,” he says, “and my favourite dish to cook on the barbecue is a jambalaya.”

The dish

I sear all the main elements on the grill first – the andouille sausage (the American version, not the classic French one), the chicken, the shrimp – not to cook them all the way through, but to give them some real colour and flavour from the coals. In a paella pan on the barbecue, I cook down the Cajun ‘holy trinity’ of celery, green pepper and onion with some tomato paste, Cajun seasoning and Old Bay spice blend, then throw in long grain rice and chicken stock. Once that’s bubbling away, I add in the seared meat and seafood. For this to work, you need a barbecue with a lid that can close. Chuck in a few woodchips to create a bit more smoke, then leave it to cook through slowly. It smells amazing, tastes amazing, and you get these lovely gnarly caramelised bits around the sides. Stick it in the middle of the table and let everyone help themselves.

The inspiration

I used to live in the United States. I was an aspiring golf pro at the time, so I did a lot of travelling. I fell in love with New Orleans – I’ve been there many, many times. I love that it’s this melting pot of people and cultures. You’ve got that French influence, but also Spanish and Caribbean. That’s reflected in the food: you’ve got these amazing recipes that use traditional French cooking techniques but are packed full of spice and flavour.

The ingredients

The quality of ingredients is essential. I like to know that my food has been produced in the right way, with care and attention, which also results in better flavour. At The Black Pig, we use free-range Blythburgh pork – when you slow-cook it, it retains its structure and flavour, whereas mass-produced pork goes to mush and tastes of almost nothing. When I’m at home, it’s the same principle. If I’m going to use prawns in my jambalaya, I want prawns that taste like they’ve come from the sea. I want chicken with real depth. Borough is where I come to do my shopping – and I’m not just saying that because I’m a trader. I love coming early in the morning at the weekend. I bring the kids down. We go to the fish stands and to Spice Mountain, which is just amazing. If I’m trying to cook something interesting, it has everything I need.

The method

People in Britain rarely use pans on a barbecue, but it’s such a great thing to do. It really struck me when I went on holiday to Carriacou, a little island off Grenada. We were at this beach barbecue where there was a guy cooking fish with a simple tomato and red pepper sauce. He had the sauce on a pan on the barbecue, and because of the smoke that was slowly seeping in, the flavour packed into it was unbelievable. You can draw so much heat from a barbecue, so you can get that lovely caramelisation in the pan, but with all that extra flavour that you could never get on a hob.

The fuel

Fuel is really important. If I’m cooking on my own and I’ve got lots of time, I love cooking with logs, but next best thing is lumpwood charcoal. It’s basically big old chunks of burnt wood, whereas the stuff you get from a petrol station is like dust in a bag. A few woodchips in with the coals can be good too. At The Black Pig we throw in some apple woodchips, and that gives our pork a blast of extra smoke when we finish it on the barbecue.

The appeal

I barbecue at home throughout the year, probably two or three times a week. I love the flavour that comes off the barbecue, and I love how involved it is. I hate baking, I can’t deal with fixed parameters, but with a barbecue you’re really connected to what you’re doing. It creates atmosphere, it draws everyone outside, it’s social. I’m not much of a person for plated dishes – I like doing food for the table for people to share, creating that environment where everyone’s sitting together, chatting. Also, I love getting my kids involved in food, and they’re instantly drawn to the barbecue, which is brilliant.

The pro tip

Control the temperature. A lot of people get their barbecue super-hot and just use it to blister sausages, but it can be so much more versatile than that. You can slow cook, you can pan cook. Just think about what it is you’re cooking and set the heat accordingly. If you’re cooking a steak indoors, you’ll get the frying pan really hot. Do the same outdoors: load up your barbecue, get it blisteringly hot and really give the steak some serious colour. But if you’re roasting a chicken in your oven, you don’t do it at 300C, so for chicken just put a few coals in and get it to about 160C.

“A SALAD SHOULD BE A BALANCED MIX OF TEXTURES WITH A VARIETY OF FRAGRANT, SWEET, SHARP AND SALTY FLAVOURS”

Words: Ed Smith

Summertime means salads – the freshness, variety and style of produce prompts them, while the weather necessitates less time near a hot stove and more time eating crunchy, fragrant, and invigorating foods.

What makes a good salad, though?

To answer that, we should probably first define what a salad actually is. What links a bowl full of lettuce leaves with a platter of tomatoes, a Greek-style mix of cucumbers and feta, or some burnt corn kernels, combined with jalapeños, coriander and lime?

Alexa, define ‘salad’

Obviously, as it’s 2025, I checked with ChatGPT as to what the aggregation of human knowledge considers ‘salad’ to be. Happily, it wasn’t actually that helpful – almost as if something that’s never eaten food isn’t as discerning as a sentient being (yet)!

Distilling the points the app dredged up, though, plus dictionary definitions and (gasp) my own thoughts, might I propose something along the following lines:

A salad is:

(a) a collection of raw edible leaves; or

(b) a dish of vegetables and / or fruits, which may be raw or cooked, but are typically served cold

bound by a dressing, and often combined with a variety of other embellishments and toppings, including (but not limited to) seeds, nuts, grains, cheeses, cooked or cured meats.

Quite broad, then. But a decent place to begin.

Whether it’s leaves-based or an assembly of other things, to my mind and mouth a good salad should be a balanced mix of textures. There should be a variety of fragrant, sweet, sharp and salty flavours. And the dressing should gloss and lift the ingredients, unifying not overwhelming them.  

The other – and perhaps easier – way to ensure a salad is good is to use great ingredients! Shopping at a place like Borough Market makes this part easy. In reality, you’re only restricted by the limits of your imagination, but consider these building blocks.

The leaves

As mentioned, not every salad needs to be a leafy one. But if it’s this type of salad that you’re after, think about the following:

— Look beyond iceberg lettuce and supermarket bagged salad

While iceberg lettuce is excellent as a wedge-style salad, drenched in a ranch or blue cheese dressing, we can do better. Walk around the various Borough Market grocers and you’ll find a wide variety of whole lettuces, including butterhead, romaine and frilly, multicoloured heads of lettuce that few know the name of. Buy a couple of different lettuces and keep them refrigerated in their brown paper bags. They’ll last longer than those gassed bags from the supermarket, which somehow wilt and pong as soon as they’ve been opened.

— Seek vibrant flavours, not just carriers of dressing

More specifically, treat your mix of leaves as vital and variable ingredients, each with its own defined flavours. It’s good to have a neutral base, but at the Market you’ll also find the punchiest rocket, watercress, radicchio and other bitter chicories. If you’re lucky and it’s the right time of year, you might chance upon sorrel and mustard leaves, their distinctive citrus and, err, mustardy qualities capable of lifting a salad like no others. 13 Acre Orchard often has really vibrant leaves in its refrigerated section. Because they are flavoursome, a little goes a long way.

— Use fresh herbs

If those things don’t take your fancy, or you’ve not spotted anything beyond the normal leaves, grab some fresh herbs and treat them like salad leaves. One of the advantages of buying herbs from the Market instead of a supermarket is that they come in huge bunches and represent great value. Using things like mint, parsley and dill with abandon will make your salad sing. Grocers like Hickson & Daughter and Turnips are great for these.

The other vegetables and fruits

— Understand that everything salads (verb)

Per the broad definition at the top, most vegetables (and quite few fruits) can be turned into a salad. There are the obvious and traditional things, such as cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers and radishes. But think slightly towards the edge of the box for things such as corn on the cob, asparagus, fresh peas and green beans, which you may (or may not) prefer to blanch and shock. Harder items like celery, courgettes, fennel and kohlrabi, and fruits like apples, pears and persimmons, are best sliced thinly with a mandolin. Root vegetables such as potatoes and squash can be boiled or roasted, then cooled. Really the best thing to do is stand in the middle of one of the greengrocers, look at what’s in abundance, and take it from there.

— But keep it focused

That said, don’t just throw everything in. It’s good to think either in ones (a straight up tomato or roast pepper or beetroot salad, punctuated by one or two embellishments – see below) or in threes, with each of the core salad ingredients offering a different flavour – perhaps one is relatively neutral, another feisty, and the other sweet. Kohlrabi, radish and apple, for example. Or cucumber, red pepper and tomato. Or avocado, green pepper and sweetcorn.

The interesting bits

This is where doing your salad shopping at Borough Market becomes really smart. Where artisans have already imparted layers of flavour into particular ingredients, this immediately adds their quality to whatever you’re preparing. You can and should explore and let your creativity go wild, but some of my favourite salad embellishments include:

— Jarred and deli-style bits

Not every salad, but quite a lot of them (particularly non-leafy varieties), benefits from the contents of jars or deli tubs. Marinated olives, capers, salted anchovies, sundried tomatoes, pickled peppers, artichoke hearts in oil, and other antipasti are all ideal. There are loads of places to pick up really good versions, including Oliveology, Borough Olives, De Calabria, Gastronomica, Brindisa and Northfield Farm.

— Cured meats or sharp cheeses

There’s no better place in London to shop for quality, artisan cheeses and cured meats. And using those things in a salad is an excellent way of making your purchase go a long way – little nuggets of sharp, punchy flavour and pleasing textures, interspersed among leaves or crunchy vegetables. There are over 25 dairy and cured meat traders at The Market – take your pick!

— Something crunchy

Really good nuts, such as hazelnut, walnuts, cobnuts, pistachios from the likes of Food & Forest, Oliveology and Brindisa, will provide a notable and moreish savoury crunch. Alternatively cut or blitz your two-day old end of sourdough, focaccia or rye bread, slick with olive oil and fry or bake into croutons. 

The dressing

Return to my definition at the top and you’ll note that the crucial element in a salad is the dressing: it is this that binds the various elements, and in so doing turns a collection of unrelated ingredients into a salad.

A dressing might simply be a squeeze of lemon or splash of vinegar, it could be one of those acidic items whisked into an emulsion with olive oil, or it could involve multiple other flavourings – mustard, maple, honey, herbs, yoghurt or buttermilk. Again, the world is your oyster. And again, if you’re shopping for dressing ingredients at Borough Market, then you’re off to a good start. There are too many options and dressing styles to detail here, but there are a few points worth noting.

— Olive oil is not neutral

Some olive oild are grassy, some are peppery, some are really, really feisty. It’s ideal to have a few options in your cupboard. Try before you buy at traders such as The Olive Oil Co.

— Quality vinegars are game-changing

There are masses of fantastic balsamic vinegars to try at the Market. But I also recommend adding a quality sherry vinegar and moscatel vinegar to your arsenal. And spend time at Fitz Fine Foods, who have a variety of really interesting fruit-infused vinegars and flavoursome mustards.

— Honey goes a long way

I like dressings that are not just sharp, but also a little bit sweet. A good honey is one of the nicest ways to round off a dressing. Once again, there’s loads to choose from at Borough Market, including at From Field and Flower.

That’s it. Once you look beyond the meagre and dispiriting bags of supermarket salad and instead build bowls and platters of Market-bought ingredients, you’ll never look back. 

“AS A CHILD, MARKETS MEANT SQUISHED TOMATOES ON THE PAVEMENT, RANK SMELLS AND STULTIFYING BOREDOM”

Words: Jimi Famurewa / Images: Tom Miles, Orlando Gili

As a restaurant critic and inveterate food obsessive, there are few places I love more than a produce market. The vibrant, heaped displays of vegetables, fruit and glinting fresh seafood; the constant thrum of bodies and laden, twist-tied paper bags being passed from one hand to another. The lively traders calling out through the commingled waft of fresh herbs, ripe cheeses, and fried onions drifting from a street food stall. These days, whether it’s the bountiful, organic sprawl of Borough Market or a local gathering of a few fruit and veg carts, a market will always make me smile.

But when I was growing up, things couldn’t have been more different. Market day meant my mum hauling me to Woolwich or Deptford on a Saturday – an interminable fetch-quest of grocers, butchers and bakers, when all I wanted was to be planted on the sofa watching cartoons. The market to me was squished, overripe tomatoes on the pavement, unfamiliar, rank smells and stultifying boredom as adults haggled and nattered for what felt like an eternity. None of this was especially out of character for me. As I have detailed in my new book, Picky – a memoir about eating, identity and how I went from fussy, junk-addled kid to adventurous, professional gourmand – my childhood was one where the messy realities of fresh food tended to inspire fearful squeamishness rather than excited curiosity.

My allergy to open-air costermongers was very much par for the course, then. But you would expect someone who earns their living as a food producer and market trader to have experienced a markedly different trajectory. So it’s a surprise, to say the least, for me to learn that even some of Borough Market’s most respected traders once regarded markets with a similar youthful trepidation. “I grew up in Kingston, Jamaica and early on Saturday morning my grandmother would take me to a place called Coronation market,” says Dawn Smith, founder of Pimento Hill, a beloved purveyor of vibrant Caribbean sauces, seasonings and preserves at Borough since 2010. “It was fresh food and fresh gossip, and I hated everything about it. The handcarts, the people shouting, the smells and the noise.”

Though Coronation’s grisly assault on the senses was especially challenging for Dawn (“When they’d bring that bit of meat for my grandmother and just wrap it in paper, I’d say to myself: ‘I am so not eating that’”), it was also the social exchange and whisper network of the adult world that she struggled with. “My grandma would be catching up with gossip and, as a child, I just had to stand there and keep my mouth shut,” she says. “I couldn’t even pretend to be interested in the conversation, because I’d be told: ‘Why are you listening? Nobody’s speaking to you.’”

This bewilderment at the grown-up interplay of markets was also felt by Stephen Hook – Sussex-raised farmer and owner of trailblazing unpasteurised dairy business Hook & Son – when he first experienced markets with his father. “These were livestock markets and so I’d be seeing all these characters,” he says. “They’d be bidding in their own particular ways, with a wink, or a tap of the nose or whatever.” By the time Stephen started selling raw milk direct to consumers – first at a farmers’ market in Hailsham and then at Soho’s short-lived Foodlover’s market – he found he was still acclimatising to the, um, colourful nature of market life. “I think we had a massage parlour just behind us when we were in Soho and a lady who worked in there would come out to buy milk from us,” he says, with a chuckle. “Then there were actors and actresses in theatreland coming out to buy our stuff. It was a totally new experience.”

Any sense of overwhelm was soon replaced by a realisation that markets afforded opportunities for connection and custom. And, given that much of Stephen’s business involves evangelising the benefits of the raw milk products derived from his herds of free-roaming cows – namely, dairy that retains all its unhomogenised flavour, character and beneficial microflora – it suited him to directly share his gospel (not to mention abundant taster sips) with all manner of people. “Compared with being a bit braindead at a supermarket till, a farmer’s market is such a high-quality buying experience,” he says. “I love talking about farming and what I do. And so we really thrived in that environment.”

For Dawn, much of the joy of her early experiences at Borough resided in the realisation that this was a very different market to the ones her grandmother had hauled her to. “Oh, it was totally different to Coronation,” she hoots. Significantly, that difference occasioned a sense of discovery and interaction with foods that this young Jamaican woman – who would once insist on having all the peas picked out of her Sunday rice and peas – had never previously encountered. “One awakening for me was truffles,” she explains. “I’ve seen people walk by and say: ‘What’s that horrible smell?’ But, for me, I love a fresh truffle shaved on pasta; I love learning about different cheeses. Being here has been a learning experience.”

This transformative exposure to new, previously unknown culinary pleasures feels familiar to me. By the time I was in my early 20s – increasingly obsessed with kitchen experimentation and TV chefs like Jamie Oliver – my relationship with markets had shifted alongside my general relationship with food. Age brought agency. And so, relieved of the psychological baggage of those childhood expeditions with my mother, I was able to see different markets in a fresh, alluring light. Plantains and warm loaves of Percy Ingle bread from Deptford; golden, delicate girolle mushrooms from stalls in Brockley; the hurriedly devoured prize of a Brindisa chorizo roll at Borough itself. The more I fell down the rabbit hole of gastronomic obsession, the more I appreciated the collision of cultures and the sense of community that gives a good market its crackling energy.

Dawn has felt this too – whether it’s going for a recuperative, end-of-the-day drink with fellow traders, or customers letting her know that Pimento Hill’s chilli jams and curds are particularly good muddled into certain cocktails. Stephen, meanwhile, notes that Borough Market’s multiculturalism has shaped and defined a business that now produces everything from raw ghee to raw buttermilk. “The beauty of a market in London is that there are so many cultures, so many different people,” he says. “Somebody from Poland or South Africa or India buys our milk and I’ll ask them why they’re buying it. Sometimes it’s to sour it or turn it into yoghurt. We get all these little gems that show us how important all this is. Not just as food but in terms of a belief and a culture.”

Places like Borough Market, then, track how neighbourhoods and communities evolve, interact and exchange ideas. But, perhaps more than that, they mark how we grow as people and eaters. “I do get very reflective,” says Dawn. “Because I think, oh my god, if my grandmother could see me working at a market now, her jaw would drop to the floor.”

Picky by Jimi Famurewa (Hodder & Stoughton, £20) is available now

“WE LOVE BEING ABLE TO SUPPORT FELLOW TRADERS – IT’S ABOUT THE MARKET COMMUNITY AND GIVING BACK TO EACH OTHER”

Words: Tomé Morrissy-Swan

For any chef, the route to a great dish starts with the produce. Sourcing the finest marbled beef, the ripest summer tomatoes or crispest winter radicchio is as important as how the ingredient is treated once it reaches the kitchen. Cooks painstakingly cultivate relationships with suppliers, hoping for access to the best fish landed that very day, or the first choice of a batch of an artisan cheese.

Those working in Borough Market’s many outlets are therefore blessed with instant access to some of the country’s finest food suppliers right on their doorstep. For Cathal O’Malley, founder of Oroshi, a Japanese street food stand in the Borough Market Kitchen specialising in robatayaki skewers and bento boxes, “it’s like having the best supermarket in the world” within seconds of his site.

At Oroshi, customers tuck into the likes of venison or mackerel ramen, beef tongue skewers and pork belly bento boxes, which Cathal has been serving at Borough for over five years. Previously head chef at The 10 Cases, a wine bar in Covent Garden, he shifted from his background in French food to Japanese while working at Dinings SW3, a renowned restaurant in Chelsea. At Oroshi, he is taking that knowledge and applying it to the robata grill, providing a restaurant experience within a street food setting.  

“One part of the brief was that food should be seasonal where possible, and you should use traders in the market,” Cathal explains of his arrival at Borough. That led him to seek some of the market’s top traders. For seafood, that’s Shellseekers Fish & Game. “I go and choose my own fish in the morning. If I’m using mackerel, I’ll go over and check the quality, the same with salmon.” Cultivating close relationships means some suppliers will keep ingredients back for him, he continues.

At Stark’s Fruiterers, Cathal sources asparagus and pumpkin. “If you go to a good greengrocer, you’re going to get more ideas about what’s going to be good and go well together. Being in the market and able to do that with what’s in season, the flavours tend to be better. The people in the market can tell you what’s good, what’s coming in next week, they have the knowledge.”

Over at Greedy Goat, Josie Wells makes a very different product yet is equally committed to the market’s bounty. Josie produces award-winning ice cream with milk from goats reared by Richard Haskett at Homestead Farm in Dorset. Made on the farm with milk collected that very morning, before being transported to southeast London, Greedy Goat’s ice creams have become a hit with visitors to Borough, with classics like vanilla and honeycomb, or inventions like cherry bakewell or banana chocolate and caramel, a take on banoffee pie, selling like hotcakes.

“I always wanted it to be seasonal, following the seasons, the weather,” Josie explains. “I always wanted to buy British. We’re lucky we’re in Dorset, with an abundance of fruit farms, and there’s so much in the hedgerows around us that we use a lot of our own stuff on the farm.”

But Josie’s foraging extends beyond the hedgerows to the urban environs of Borough Market. That might be permanent ingredients, like pistachios and hazelnuts from Food & Forest, but frequently takes the form of collaborations, which Josie describes as “so fun”. Last year, for example, she created a hot cross bun ice cream around Easter, using unsold buns from Comptoir Bakery. “Not only was it delicious, it sold out in three days. What’s fantastic is that it’s circular, minimising food waste.”

For its part, Comptoir Bakery, which bakes all its bread on nearby Maltby Street, sources coffee from Monmouth Coffee Company, pork and beef mince from Northfield Farm and seasonal fruits from Stark’s. “We love being able to support fellow traders – it’s all about the market community and giving back to each other,” says general manager Holly Wells, who happens to be Josie’s sister. “We talk directly to the supplier, finding ways to help each other. We have very good relationships with our fellow traders, which is good for business and something we place a high value on.”

Back at Greedy Goat, Josie creates seasonal fruit flavours, making the most of any gluts. When 13 Acre Orchard had an abundance of English plums, she turned them into sticky plum and ginger ice cream. “They couldn’t sell the plums quickly enough. I was able to cook them down, freeze it, then add it to the ice cream when I was ready. Working with traders is all about being creative but also the opportunity to reduce waste, which has been super cool.”

As for the traders, “they love it,” says Josie. “The wonderful thing about Borough Market is it’s such a community; everyone loves being able to help and be part of each other’s growth. They’re also excited to see how the collaborations turn out.”

Cathal agrees: “There’s a community vibe, very much so. In the market you’ve got so many traders from all over, bringing their skills and attitude, and they are very helpful to each other.”

Earlier this month Josie put on a marmalade on toast ice cream special using brown bread and blood oranges from The Flour Station and Stark’s. It quickly sold out. “Ice cream has endless possibilities about what you can make. Any flavour can be made into ice cream – and that’s the wonderful thing about Borough Market: there’s so much to choose from.”

“WE FORGET QUITE HOW SWEET AND ZINGY ENGLISH BERRIES TASTE WHEN THEY’VE HAD TIME TO RIPEN IN THE SUMMER SUNSHINE”

Words: Thea Everett

The arrival of British berries is as important a symbol of the start of summer as the solstice or the first night of Glastonbury. When Kentish strawberries and cherries arrive on market stalls, you know that the season of lager tops, international football and park picnics is upon us.

But I’ve noticed a bit of favouritism going on when it comes to seasonal fruits. When forced rhubarb (okay, a vegetable technically) and blood oranges appear in January and February, the world goes mad. Instagram turns candy pink for two months, as do the display cabinets and dessert menus of bakeries and restaurants. The same is true when it comes to Indian mangoes in April and May. Boxes of these fruits become prized possessions and mango recipes are all over social media.

So why not the same passion when it comes to British-grown summer berries and cherries? Just because they’re familiar to us, and they’ve always been there, doesn’t mean they don’t warrant a party of their own. The problem, I suppose, is that summer’s wealth of produce – from watermelons and peaches to tomatoes and peppers – can mean that exciting ingredients get lost in the crowd. We’re also so used to the insipid year-round strawberries sold in the supermarket that we forget quite how sweet and zingy they taste when they’re locally grown and have had time to ripen in the summer sunshine.

The truth is that a fantastically juicy, pillar-box-red strawberry is as special as a fruit can get. And a deep crimson cherry grown in Kent is just as satisfying a treat. They’re gorgeous to behold and a delight to eat and it’s high time we championed these seasonal British fruits.

The virtues of the British berry season are many: they’re grown locally, without the attendant air miles, so when you buy a punnet, you can be sure your fruit will be the freshest possible. Summer is when berries and cherries are at their most plentiful and the peak of their flavour, so it pays to eat them now. Their abundance also means they’re ripe for preserving in jams, syrups, chutneys and drinks.

Though the simple strawberry needs nothing more than a dousing of double or single cream, there are so many ways to make the most of this beautiful British fruit. Eton mess or trifle are all well and good, but my chocolate cream and strawberry pie is undeniably more exciting, and far simpler to make than it looks. Made with a two-step ganache and no-bake biscuit crust, it’s the ideal heatwave dessert that takes the classic combinations of strawberries and cream and strawberries and chocolate and turns them into an almighty centrepiece. Think the impressiveness of chocolate cream pie or banoffee pie, but less of the work.

As for cherries, other countries tend to be good at celebrating their magnificence: the American cherry pie, the German black forest gateau and the French clafoutis. But sadly when it comes to British recipes featuring cherries the glacé variety seems to reign supreme. When cherries as good as those you’ll find at Borough’s greengrocers are grown on our shores, it seems a crime not to give them time and devotion in the kitchen. So I urge you to make cherries a main event this summer. I hope my cherry and ricotta galette might convince you: nutty rye pastry is topped with lemon-scented ricotta and fresh cherries macerated with sugar which bake into a gorgeous purple pie. Pitting (try using a chopstick!) and then layering up the sliced cherries for the topping is a very therapeutic way to spend an afternoon, let me tell you.

Cherries are also brilliant in savoury cooking. Like apples and peaches, they pair so well with pork. In my recipe for pork chops with cherry sauce, I’ve turned them into a lovely sauce with that other summer staple: rosé wine. It’s an easy weeknight winner that makes your simple chop feel restaurant-worthy, offering a deeply sweet accompaniment that complements the meat’s saltiness perfectly. The sauce would also be lovely alongside roast duck, venison or pork shoulder should you want a summertime twist for your traditional Sunday roast.

And then there are drinks. Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood got it right in their 1967 hit Summer Wine, which conjured up the beauty of these fruits in all their hazy summery glory: “Strawberries, cherries and an angel’s kiss in spring / My summer wine is really made from all these things” – as good a reminder as any that introducing summer fruits to your next cocktail or glass of fizz is never a bad idea.

So think pink and see red this summer! Stain your fingers fuchsia and reap the rewards of buying local and seasonal when it counts.

“A COOKED BREAKFAST MANAGES TO TRANSCEND SOCIAL CLASS IN A WAY THAT FEW OTHER ENGLISH FOODS EVER WILL”

It’s hard to trust a single word written by Kenelm Digby, one of the more colourful characters in the history of food writing. Lying was, it was said, “his infirmity”. Did he really fake his own death to avoid sleeping with the King of France’s mum? Did he really kill a man on a Paris street? Did the ‘powder of sympathy’ gifted to him by a mysterious monk really heal wounds from a distance? Questionable at best. One of Digby’s claims is, however, irrefutable. “Two poched eggs with a few fine dry-fryed collops of pure bacon are not bad for break-fast,” he wrote in a recipe collection published in 1669. And very few among us have since found cause to argue.

Eggs and bacon are the twin pillars of the full English breakfast – a world-famous dish that manages to be both universally familiar and impossible to define without sparking a row (let’s go with the 1964 US Supreme Court test for obscenity: “I know it when I see it”). The inhabitants of these islands have been breeding pigs and chickens, curing bacon, stuffing sausages and turning blood into black pudding since long before ‘England’ was even a thing, so our affinity for salty, fatty pork mopped through a slick of golden yolk has deep roots. But the idea of consuming them first thing in the morning is fairly new. When it came to matters of breakfast, Kenelm Digby was ahead of his time.

In medieval England, the national breakfast was nothing like the bulky fry-up of our collective imagination. For most people, the first meal of the day (usually eaten late in the morning after several hours out in the fields) consisted of bread, porridge or gruel, washed down with weak ale: cheap fuel for grinding labour. As towns and cities grew, creating jobs that dragged workers away from the home, breakfast shifted back to the start of the day. Still, though, the bacon-and-eggs era was a distance away. For example, the breakfasts recorded in Samuel Pepys’s diaries in the 1660s consisted mainly of random leftovers, plus an array of foods ranging from mince pies to radishes, with just a single mention of eggs. It wasn’t until the 18^th and 19^th centuries that a more expansive, protein-heavy take on breakfast began to take shape – and for all the apparent earthiness of a full English, it did so in the vast kitchens of the moneyed elite. Like brown sauce from a crusty bottle, it glooped down very slowly from there.

For most of our history, only the rich have had the means to enjoy meat and eggs on a regular basis. As the industrial revolution and Britain’s growing empire made the rich richer and more numerous, spectacular multi-dish breakfasts became an important signifier of status. In Imperial England, if you didn’t have dozens of plates, a dedicated ‘breakfast room’ to serve them in and a battery of servants rising at 4am to prepare them from scratch, who even were you?

Eggs and bacon are present in just about every description of these sprawling country house breakfasts, as are many other elements of the modern full English: sausages, mushrooms and lots of buttered toast, each golden slice crisped to perfection on the end of a toasting fork. But alongside them, and afforded equal importance, are a bewildering list of other dishes. Always several fish – mackerel, whiting, herring. Probably some sheep’s kidneys, veal pies and collared pig’s face. An entire table of cold joints: ham, tongue, beef, poultry. In Georgiana Hill’s The Breakfast Book (1865), the long list of “things most commonly served” includes bloaters, brain cakes, devilled bones, caviar and curries.

What’s notable about many of these dishes is their contrast to the fussy Gallic refinement of an aristocrat’s evening fare. These were solid, substantial foods; an expression of Victorian English virtues: plain, robust, not in any way feminine or French – the culinary equivalent of a cold bath, a violent ball sport or an early morning hunt; the kind of food that a true man of the empire needed in his stomach, ready for a hard day of exploiting the poor.

Cajoled by the likes of Mrs Beeton’s kajillion-selling Book of Household Management, Britain’s growing middle class aspired to the ways of the country house set – and that meant breaking the fast with something grander than bread or porridge. But if you didn’t have a vast kitchen, a dedicated breakfast room and a battery of servants, and if the man of the house had to be at work for 9am, you might have to edit things down a bit. Bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms and toast (especially after the invention of the toaster in the early 1900s) all had the benefit of being easy to cook on a small domestic stove but still suggestive of a certain status. Gradually, the fried breakfast in its more limited form began to establish a presence everywhere from grand hotels and public-school refectories to factory canteens and cheap boarding houses. Lodging in a grotty Wigan terrace in 1936, George Orwell was fed “two rashers of bacon and a pale fried egg, and bread-and-butter which had often been cut overnight and always had thumbmarks on it”. Mrs Beeton would have shuddered.

Snobbish cookery writers, aghast at corners being cut, wailed at the shunning of sweetbreads, cod’s roe and fricasseed fowl. As Colonel Arthur Kenney Herbert wrote in the introduction to Fifty Breakfasts (1894): “The ding-dong monotony of ‘bacon and eggs’ alternated with ‘eggs and bacon’ of many English breakfast tables is wholly inexcusable.” That monotony was finally broken by the Second World War, but not in a good way, as strict rationing of bacon and eggs condemned us once again to be a nation of porridge eaters. As Ambrose Heath reported in Good Breakfasts (1940): “The lack of bacon has disturbed our native breakfast dish and brought doubt and distress into many an early morning kitchen.” Forget the Blitz – this was the true national crisis.

The end of rationing in the 1950s after more than a decade of restrictions coincided with significant social change. The rapid industrialisation of food production, plus a marked narrowing of wealth inequality (since dramatically reversed), meant that cooking the odd lavish fry-up at home, or even eating out for breakfast, became a plausible option for just about everyone. Market cafes, transport caffs, 24-hour diners and other ‘greasy spoon’ establishments (an expression that, like the squeezy bottles of ketchup on their nailed-down tables, was – sad to report – an American import) sprang up in every town, offering strong tea, fast service and gut-busting breakfasts. The challenge of the full English is that so many components need to come together at once. At home, bacon, egg and toast might bring you close to capacity. But eating out, you could go the full hog, quite literally.

In these cafes, elements that had no precedent within the breakfast feasts of the Victorian elite began to find their place on the plate. Fried potatoes, fried bread and bubble and squeak added breadth and ballast while also using up the previous day’s leftovers. Baked beans also forced themselves into the reckoning. Heinz beans, imported from America, had initially been sold at Fortnum & Mason in 1901 as a luxury food, but after the first British-made beans rolled off the new Heinz production line in Harlesden in 1928, had embedded themselves as a cheap, convenient staple of working class kitchens and a popular addition to the fry-up, adding lubrication and much-needed fibre to the piles of fatty meat.

One of the ironies inherent to the unstoppable march of the English breakfast was that, particularly in big cities, the greasy spoons that drove its booming popularity were often owned and run by people whose cultural heritage lay far beyond England – primarily Italians, Cypriots and Turks, but also many Bangladeshis and Chinese. Maria’s Market Cafe at Borough Market, one of the true survivors of the golden age of the caff, was one of the many London establishments with Italian roots. After moving to the capital in the early 1960s, the Moruzzi family opened the Borough Cafe on Park Street. The market back then was a vast fruit and veg wholesale operation staffed by hundreds of burly porters, and many of the cafe’s regulars would be coming off a night shift, proving that a full English doesn’t have to be the first meal of the working day – it can also be the last. Under the management of Maria Moruzzi, the cafe that now bears her name moved to the heart of the revitalised retail market in 2012. Maria retired in 2021 with more than 50 years of service under her apron, but the Moruzzi legacy lives on in a classic full English breakfast still redolent of Borough Market’s past.

With a clientele that ranges from City executives to delivery drivers, Maria’s embodies the ability of a cooked breakfast to transcend social class in a way that few other English foods ever will. Depending on the setting, a full English can express the country-house grandeur that birthed it or the post-war populism that made it universal. You can buy one for £56 at The Ritz or a fraction of that at Maria’s (with no compromise on quality). You can argue about black pudding or baked beans or whatever bugbear you happen to hold. But whatever your choices, you’ll grasp one of the truths that bind this nation tight: that two eggs with a few fine dry-fried rashers of bacon (plus three or four other elements) are not bad for breakfast.

Borough Market: Edible Histories by Mark Riddaway (Hodder & Stoughton) is available now from The Borough Market Store, in bookshops and online.

“THERE ARE FEW THINGS MORE CHEERING THAN THE CONTENTS OF A PICNIC HAMPER SPREAD OUT OVER A BLANKET”

Words: Gurdeep Loyal / Images: Stuart Ovenden

Eating alfresco in the summer months is one of life’s true joys. There are few things more cheering than the contents of a picnic hamper spread out over a blanket on a sunny patch of grass somewhere in the city. While you can’t always count on the weather, picking up provisions from Borough Market guarantees that your outdoor feast will be a riot of summery flavours, craftmanship and epicurean storytelling. Here’s my failsafe five-step formula for the perfect picnic – even if you end up devouring it under an umbrella!

The rippled loaded dip

Every good picnic needs a dip. Hummus, taramasalata and tzatziki are eternal classics, and whipped feta is all the rage this year. But for something fresher and brighter, try a dip with a base of blitzed summer vegetables and toasted seeds. My vegan recipe for pea, artichoke & pumpkin seed dip with a preserved lemon ripple is just the ticket.

13 Acre Orchard’s Italian globe artichokes are ideal for this, with their bright ombre purple-green leaves and thick stalks – be sure to boil them in plenty of well-salted water to bring out their delicate earthy flavour. Borough’s greengrocers are also great for seasonal crudities: purple carrots, nobbled ridge cucumbers, bright yellow Italian peppers, purple chicory, red radishes. You’ll also find a cornucopia of fresh herbs to blend into the dip – dill and mint will evoke the Middle East, fresh basil and oregano the Mediterranean, or tarragon and chives the English summer garden. For something more unusual, you could even try red-veined sorrel or aniseedy chervil.

In my recipe, a hit of flavour comes from preserved lemon from Arabica and From Field and Flower’s raw Devon flower honey, rippled through the vegetal pastel green dip. Alternatively, head to Raya for chilli sauces, oils and pastes, Borough Olives for fiery red harissa or Moroccan chermoula, or The Olive Oil Co for a tangy fruit vinegar.

Pea, artichoke & pumpkin seed dip

See recipe

The flavour-amplified sandwich

A dainty crustless finger sandwich with good butter and wafer-thin cucumbers certainly has its place – but a joyful summer picnic is not it. Alfresco dining demands a deep-filled sandwich grabbed with both hands. Perfect for this task is my sourdough muffaletta – a whole-loaf sandwich with roots in New Orleans.

To start, you need a good sturdy loaf. Olivier’s Bakery’s pain de campagne is wonderful – a crusty sourdough made with a mix of white and rye flour. Their earthy London City Rye would also be great, with its earthy interior and delicious dark crust, as would Artisan Foods’ seedy white sourdough with linseeds, sesame and sunflower seeds.

Italian deli meats are essential, for which The Parma Ham & Mozzarella Stand is a great place to start – try their smoky-savoury speck or rich, nutty prosciutto di Parma. A flavoured salami or mortadella also makes a great addition, and for me it has to be salami finocchiona, enriched with fragrant fennel seeds. For Italian cheeses head to Gastronomica Market. You want a mix of something creamy and grassy like a mozzarella di bufala, and something sharp or smoky like a Puglian smoked scamorza.

Also essential are some tangy-briny condiments. De Calabria’s sundried tomatoes in oil are a classic. Borough Olives’ green pitted olives with parsley, tarragon, garlic and lemon juice are fantastically vibrant, while their plump cornichons are tangy with vinegar and mustard seeds, and their green pesto is unbeatable – another burst of flavour. A final addition is a layer of roasted red peppers –  Brindisa’s cans of piquillo pepper strips offer a potent sweetness.

Sourdough muffaletta

See recipe

The show-stopping savoury bake

Whether perched on the dainty cake stand or plonked onto some brown parchment in the middle of a rug, a quiche or savoury tart is essential. Classic deep-filled quiche Lorraine with gruyère and bacon is having something of a comeback. Or try a pork and stilton pie from Mrs King’s Pork Pies – water-crust pastry filled with outdoor-bred pork shoulder, cheese and white pepper.

But for a taste of something a little more continental, look to France – a nation that nails the savoury picnic bake every time. There’s the classic Niçois pissaladière – an onion tart crossed with anchovies and olives; the Marseille-style pizza, topped with heirloom tomatoes, soft goat’s cheese and an abundance of herbs; or the flamiche from Picardy – a pizza-quiche hybrid with slow-cooked leeks, cheese, creme fraiche and eggs. My recipe for a tomato & anchovy pissaladière flamiche combines the best elements of all three and shows off some exceptional Borough produce.

One of its main ingredients is slow-cooked onions, for which Le Marché du Quartier has just the thing – their hanging tower of new-harvest French onions, including Roscoff pink onions, red onions and shallots. A combination of strong cheeses is also essential and Jumi Cheese’s gruyère or Grandfather Schloss are particularly delicious. Add to this a sharp parmesan, like the 24-month Tortiano parmesan available in generous chunks at Borough Cheese Company. You’ll be combining the cheeses with eggs (try the Chapel Farm eggs from Wyndham House Poultry) and creme fraiche, for which Hook & Son is the place to head. To top your tart, you’ll want good flavourful tomatoes and an abundance of anchovies, both of which are in plentiful supply.

Tomato & anchovy pissaladière flamiche

See recipe

The four c’s: cheese, chutney, charcuterie & crisps!

For cheeses, you don’t need to go overboard – two or three is perfect. Try a fresh semi-soft cheese like the nettle-coated May Hill Green from Heritage Cheese, a strong hard cheese like Pitchfork Cheddar from Trethowan Brothers, and then a blue like the heavenly 1924 by Fromagerie Laqueuille, available at Mons Cheesemongers. Chutneys from Pimento Hill always pair brilliantly with cheese – scotch bonnet chilli jam, hot banana chutney or tangerine marmalade, which is exceptional with a blue. I would throw in some of Brindisa’s jamón Ibérico, smoky pimenton-infused Ibérico chorizo, or rich salchichon de Vic, which has a deep flavour enlivened with whole black peppercorns. Brindisa is also the place to go for good crisps.

The sparkling summer tipple

The best picnic should leave you feeling fizzy with summery sunshine, which often also means leaving full of fizz – for which Cartwright Brothers Vintners is a good place to go. Their Beato Bartolomeo Breganze prosecco, a classic summer tipple, is also delicious in a summer spritz. As an alternative to champagne, try the English Davenport Limney Estate Brut, and for a sparkling rosé, the Rosa di Sera Vino Spumante is perfect for quaffing in a park.