What is acceptable food to go?

On eating while walking over the years, and my latest breakthrough

Eating is very important for me. Food also, but eating, the act of it, takes up a lot of mental space in my head and physical space in my life. Most days my eating is regimented. I eat 3 square meals, sitting down, with cutlery, a perfect balance of protein, fibre (carbs) and fat. Taste, texture, and micronutrients are all factored in.

Also factored in, my emotional needs on that day. If I need a hug, it’s a bowl kind of day (porridge, yoghurt parfait, rainbow salad bowl). If I am feeling nostalgic, it’s a Greek recipe (meatball soup (giouvarlakia), lentil soup, roast chicken and potatoes. If I am feeling anxious I go for safety, soft-boiled eggs (3) and sourdough toast soldiers, to dip.

I used to be shocked by people eating on the go. Meal deals standing up on the tube, kebabs squatting on the pavement, baked goods scoffed during rush hour. Food eaten on the go is the sex worker equivalent of food, consumed without even being looked at, with guilt as the consumer fully knows- this is not how eating was meant to be.

But then something changed. I started exercising. A lot. Daily, sometimes more, often before work. I had to find a way to eat. I had already taken control of the chaotic eating patterns of my university years by eating 3 square meals a day, but now I needed to find a way to eat before/after training and to take part in London’s after-work pub culture without looking like a lightweight. So I started eating while walking.

In my life, there is a lot of walking. I live in Waterloo and walk to the gym (30 minutes) and work (45 minutes) and when I go out (Soho 30 minutes, Westminster 20 minutes, Shoreditch 50 minutes, Brixton 1 hour, Hackney 1 hour and 45 minutes). There is also a lot of eating, to fuel all that walking and exercise.

At first, it was socially acceptable food. Packed lunches and snacks of carrots and humous. That phase did not last. I am simply not concerned enough by what people think of me to stick to socially acceptable ‘on-the-go meals’. The 90s cosmo-approved snack of carrot buttons soon gave way to a whole packed cooked breakfast to eat outside my gym after my 7 am HITT class. I would pack hard-boiled eggs, slices of sourdough and a tub of avocado smashed with chopped tomatoes, lime, olive oil, cilantro and mixed seeds. I wish I were exaggerating. The photo below is from 2017, a breakfast I plated and ate at work:

I would usually add extra tomato for the fibre- as if I have ever been in danger of not consuming enough fibre…

These are all plated because as much as I love taking photos of my food, when I am eating on the go it’s hard to hold both food and phone in my hands, and wouldn’t want lime juice/egg yolk on my iPhone.

My eating habits were extremely elaborate back then, and on the high of my first few pay-rises I was a wholefoods/farmer’s market connoisseur. I also loved keeping myself busy by throwing dinner parties during weekdays, getting a rush from the stress of finishing work on time, grocery shopping and cooking a feast all by 8 pm. Then the pandemic hit. I took stock of my life. I couldn’t keep mixing guacamole at 5:30 am. In fact, I could no longer train before work, even though work was now from home. It was time to edit my meals on the go.

I started buying my on-the-go meals. The problem is that I don’t eat sandwiches. I mean, I eat the steak sandwiches my mom makes (she will put a 300gr deboned rib eye in half a baguette and hand it over to children- marry a Greek and you will eat well) but the triangles of sadness that make up the majority of Britain’s lunches leave me famished.

Foam and colouring won’t cut it for a woman who was raised with half a cow in her lunch box.

Instead, I started mixing proteins and fibre in a form that I can hold and walk at the same time. Cottage cheese and/or yoghurt/skyr and fruit.

In many ways, this is the perfect combination. There is protein, fat, fibre, vitamins, nourishment and joy. There is a comforting creamy consistency and crunchy, stimulating texture. There is colour. There is practicality. No matter the neighbourhood you can trust that any corner of London will have a combination that satisfies. If you just finished training, there is your protein feed. If you are on your way to drinks, there is your fat and fibre, ready to mop up the alcohol and provide steady energy for whatever the night brings.

It’s a tested meal and one I return to weekly. But here’s the thing. Sometimes it doesn’t hit the spot. Sometimes I am feeling famished and something cold won’t cut it. Also sometimes I crave animal protein. I don’t know how else to put it but some days, when I am training hard and living busy, I feel an incessant need that only meat will cover. I can’t buy chicken nuggets from McDonalds’ or wings from KFC, I simply don’t feel nourished eating highly processed food (more on food snobbery in another post) and after training my body feels like a temple and I am a servant to its commands. Don’t get me started about the tiny portions of meat served in children’s party paper cups in Leon and Pret.

A month ago I gave in to what I long knew was the solution. I bought a ready-to-eat pack of 6 rotisserie chicken drumsticks, to eat on my way home from a boozy Christmas party.

I felt fear as I picked them up - would I dare eat them on the go- but as soon as Apple Pay clinked on the check out I felt free. I took a step outside, removed my gloves and stretched my freezing fingers in greedy expectation. I pilled back the seal, grabbed a piece, and continued on my way. Halfway through my single serving tray, the wind got too much and I sought shelter to finish my feast. I found the sort of alley police warn single women to stir clear from at night and continued eating. A guy walked by, took a glance at me, did a U-turn and addressed me, ‘hey you look so funny, just eating your food like that’. He mimed my eating motions gracelessly. Ok, thanks, I said, and he was on his way.

I am not a psychopath, I did feel vulnerable, as I often do when eating food in public that’s not easily and cleanly picked up and scoffed like granola bars, toasties, an elegant piece of fruit (apple: yes, watermelon slice: no, easy peel clementine: yes, massive grapefruit pilled with my teeth and bit into till astrigent juice covers my chin making me look like an eager lover: no). Particularly when you are a woman, and one that dresses in a feminine but take-me-seriously-or-else way people stare at you bluntly when you are eating in public. I can see why my eating a chicken drumstick is ‘funny’. But the thing is I love food and I love eating. I love it more than I am afraid of feeling vulnerable while practising that love in unconventional ways in public. Does it make me less hot to eat chicken drumsticks in dark alleyways? I’d argue it makes me hotter. What else am I willing to do if I am willing to push my comfort zone for a benign and casual meal. In the face of pleasure, I defy society’s expectations.

I wrapped up my meal and went looking for the nearest bin, bird’s bones rattling in the tray. My back was straight, lats and shoulder blades freshly pumped from their protein hit, my head was held high, still buzzing from the self-imposed test I just passed. What else am I not afraid to do, I licked my oily cuticles and popped a mint. The world is my oyster and I am not afraid to slurp.