I think the only ethnic food we had growing up in the eighties was Chinese (and people there, even in these marginally enlightened times, will still go to the 'Chinkies') but it wasn't allowed in our house on account it was suspiciously foreign. My parents still won't eat pasta or rice, it's potatoes or potatoes. That said, my mother mostly stopped eating in the early 90s and now survives on cigarettes and the very occasional cheese cob (as they call a roll thereabouts). My father obsessively avoids garlic and is still going on about the time he inadvertently ate some rocket (about fifteen years ago). The way they cook steak is criminal – for a minimum of 30 minutes in the pan. Everything is overcooked to death. Then when they've plated it, they put it back in the oven to 'make sure it's hot' and give it another 30 minutes cooking.
My breakout food was really Pot Noodles and Beanfeast when I arrived at university. Then, of course, the student staples of kebab and extra chilli sauce and, best of all, fish and chips and curry sauce at 3am on a Saturday morning from the chippy in Chinatown. I really don't think I sat down in an actual restaurant until I was into my early twenties.
I'm a bit more culinary cultured these days but I confess, having eaten at a fair number of Michelin starred and similar places, but I'm happiest with a crisp sandwich.
