it could become. I like to think about what pleasure it could give me. I particularly like high-end butcher’s shops, as if the pleasure I can achieve can in some way be correlated on a graph against the cost of the produce on offer. I like all this, while also knowing it is wrong and deluded, that the quality of the meal will actually depend on my ability to cook those ingredients sympathetically. I listened to a butcher weigh off a piece of beef and quote the price. My eyes widened. I have spent big money on my dinner before, paid unconscionable sums for bits of dead animal, but this was in a new category.
Then my gaze fell upon a small chicken, slapped with the label ‘organic free range’, from Otter Farm. Yours for £12 a kilo. Later I would check the going rate for whole fresh chicken in the supermarkets that week – from £2.04 a kilo to as much as £6 a kilo for a free-range organic bird – but even without checking I knew that this wasn’t just expensive; that this chicken laughed in the face of expensive. It had migrated to a new and unique category located somewhere between nose-bleeding and paralysing.
In its favour these were small birds of little more than a kilo, and so, individually, a whole chicken was likely to come in at less than £20. I had paid £18 for a bird once before, a free-range organic number from Borough Market in south London, a place so expensive I never went there carrying plastic, only cash so as to put a limit on what I could spend. This would, in turn, enable me to carry on buying shoes for my children. Buying the £18 chicken had made me feel dirty and wrong, albeit in a good way; but the point is that these Lidgate’s birds were within my tolerances for excess.
That’s when I saw it, on a glass shelf, creamy-coloured arse to the shop, as though its skin tones had been picked out of a Farrow & Ball catalogue. This free-range, non-organic chicken was big. Very big. I asked the butcher to put it on the scales. It weighed just over 3.2kg. At £9.90 a kilo. ‘That will be £31.78,’ he said, his straw boater rested at a jaunty angle. I let out a hiss of breath, like the air leaking from a punctured bicycle tyre. Did I want it? the nice chap asked me.
Did I want it? Yes. Yes, I did want it. Who wouldn’t? A chicken costing more than £31? What would that be like? Surely it had to be the ultimate chicken, the king (or, more precisely, the queen) of birds? Surely if I paid – I did the sums quickly – over 75 per cent more for a chicken than I had ever paid before I would accrue an equivalent amount more pleasure from the experience than I ever had before? At the very least wasn’t it my responsibility to find out? Wasn’t that what I did these days? As I left the shop, I noticed a sign in the window signed by David Lidgate, the current family member to be custodian of the business, to the effect that all their chickens were bred and supplied by small farms. ‘We pay our farmers a fair price.’ It felt like he was getting his apology in first.
Before leaving I asked the butcher where this particular chicken had come from. ‘It’s an Elmwood chicken, I think,’ he said. Back home I Googled the words ‘Elmwood’ and ‘chicken’. It turned out to be an odd thing to have said. Elmwood isn’t really a place, or at least it isn’t a place any more. It’s an idea. While there is an Elmwood Farm somewhere in East Anglia, today the word is a registered marketing label, used by the Co-op – and only the Co-op – to describe a higher-quality, more expensive bird than the bog-standard, fast-grown cheap chickens they sell. The higher welfare standards started at the original Elmwood Farm have now been pressed into service at farms across Britain. The label is now applied to all birds grown under those standards.
This is a familiar ploy by the big food retailers. Marks & Spencer has its Oakham chicken, which some might assume comes from the environs of the town in Rutland of the same name. It doesn’t. It’s just a brand name for chickens grown at farms all over the country, none of which is called Oakham. Tesco has a range of chickens called Willow Farm, which are reared on a few dozen farms across the south-west of England and Northern Ireland, none of which is called Willow Farm. The labels may portray bucolic scenes of olde farming life. They may be sold with images of carefully drawn ears of corn, but they are still birds raised on an industrial scale.
Whatever my £31 chicken was, it had nothing to do with Elmwood. I phoned Lidgate’s and asked again if they could say where it was from. ‘It’s from Willow Field in Norfolk,’ I was told by another butcher. Right. That’s more like it. Willow Field actually sounds like a real place. It had the word ‘field’ in the name. That made it sound just like a farm. Back I went to Google, but found nothing online about a chicken farm in Norfolk called Willow Field, save for a planning application to the local council for the placement of a mobile home. Conceivably the mobile home was for luxury chickens to live in, but I thought it unlikely.
I was becoming obsessed with this chicken. I had begun to fantasize about its life. Maybe its coop was completely pimped: ermine trim, leather seats, a sound system with serious bass, and a drinks cabinet heavy with vintage Crystal. At this price surely it had to be the most pampered chicken ever? Maybe they fed it on the ground-up bones of delicate songbirds? Perhaps it was watered with Evian? How else could the price be justified?
To bring things back into focus I called Lidgate’s yet again. This time I spoke to David Lidgate’s son, Danny. He could not explain the misinformation I had been given but he could categorically confirm that it had come from a farm in Suffolk which didn’t want any publicity because they couldn’t produce any more birds and didn’t want any more trade. But he could tell me that they were slow-grown, hand-plucked, and hung for seven days before being dispatched. I wanted to ask him about the ermine-trimmed coop, but couldn’t quite summon the will.
One afternoon I went onto Twitter and asked people there to tell me the most they’d ever spent on a whole chicken. There were a few who had never gone beyond a tenner. Quite a number of people had spent sums in the mid-teens. A small number had gone over the £20 mark. Curiously, people had very specific memories. ‘Eighteen pounds for a rooster in Montpellier. Nineteen ninety-one. It was worth every penny,’ said one person. ‘On one memorable occasion enough to feel obliged to give it a name,’ said another, without revealing what the sum might be. ‘Eighteen pounds,’ said a third. ‘Big bugger. Think they might have killed it for scaring the cows.’ One tweeter talked proudly of the two chickens they had picked up for a fiver in a supermarket deal; another said they had never spent more than £8 and wouldn’t dream of doing so. As these things do, the singular question about the price of a chicken had quickly become a debate about welfare standards, food poverty, excess and the morality thereof. And every now and then someone chipped in with a tweet announcing the enormous sum they had once spent on a chicken as if it were a mark of commitment.
I nodded sagely. As I had suspected, this was a game I was going to win. I gave them the big reveal, told them about Lidgate’s and the £31 chicken. There was an electronic gasp of horror. Thirty-one pounds? Too much. Absurd. Ludicrous. Bizarre.
Just wrong.
‘I once saw a woman run out of Lidgate’s in tears over the price of a chicken,’ one person said. I answered that I could well imagine such a thing.
My warped, obsessive, competitive streak now took me on a tour of London’s classiest butchers, desperate to prove that I had spent the most it was possible to spend on a chicken. For some reason it mattered that the bird which now sat in my freezer awaiting its moment, the bird which had become such a talking point on Twitter, should be able to hold onto its title. I saw birds that were local and free-range and hand-reared and hand-plucked and hung with their guts in. I went to Harrods, where the food hall throngs with tourists who have no intention of buying anything other than tins of branded tea, and looked at shrink-wrapped birds from unpronounceable places in France. I did kilo-to-pound-weight calculations in my head, asked bored butchers to weigh chickens for me and pronounce on the price, and moved on, each time satisfied I was still ahead.
And then I went to the meat counter at Selfridges’ food hall, which is run by a highly respected butcher called Jack O’Shea. There I met the £51 chicken. It was a Poulet de Bresse, a particular breed which was granted Appellation d’origine contrôlée, or AOC, status in 1957, protecting it as a name for a particular type of bird, prized for its gamey flavour and rich fat. A nice chap behind the counter called Les, who wasn’t wearing a straw boater, told me they were special ‘because of their diet. They’re treated like royalty,