The store-cupboard superstar

PILCHARDS. Cold and rudely fishy, tainted with the sullen tang of tin. Even the name sounds glum and parsimonious, an edible dirge, a drab piscine lament. It’s little wonder they ranked somewhere between liver and Spam on the school edible index of disgust, sitting despondent in their wan tomato sauce, dumped upon an arid slice of toast. More glorified cat food than teatime delight, tinned pilchards were something to endure, rather than enjoy, lumpen fodder for the terminally dull.

But pilchards, tinned or fresh, are simply sardines with) will agree.