Last night I watched an episode of Jamie’s school dinners, or whatever it’s called on Dutch TV. It must be the second or third time I’ve seen the series now since it was first aired in Britain, and it still makes me cry and then rejoice every time I watch it. Children who don’t know what an onion looks like, parents who think that you can’t possibly eat basil because it’s a leaf, school-canteen ‘chefs’ who have never done more than microwave a piece of plastic or deep fry a bag of chips… it breaks my heart. I know, I know, the Amsterdam foodie doesn’t do sentimental very well, and she certainly doesn’t do unconditional praise.
But I find Jamie Oliver such an inspiration to the wrong-headed British attitude towards food that I am prepared to call him my hero, to defend him like David Seaman defends (defended?) England’s goalposts, to revise my whole notion of what is worthy to accomplish in life. Jamie, I salute you. The man dressed up as a corn-on-the-cob for chrissake! He watched children vomit his dinner back onto their plate, he pulverised chicken skin and bones to demonstrate how a chicken nugget is made, he invented a song with the words ‘munch munch munchin’ away’ in the chorus… and still people disparage him. Closed-minded mothers press packets of crisps and chocolates through the railings of school playgrounds. I ask you.
What’s more, the increase in budget that Jamie’s dinners require must surely be offset by the improved health of the children involved. Following the introduction of his food in one school in London, none of the asthma inhalers that were previously required by children on a daily basis had even left the cupboard. That’s not to mention the longer-term impact of those same children not needing to be hospitalised as young adults with heart failure.