The ultimate store cupboard essentials, according to Telegraph readers
Take Twiglets, for example. A recent recipe tweak to reduce their salt content has left fans mourning the loss of the snack's signature tang. If it wasn't bad enough that Quality Street ditched its sparkly plastic wrappers and introduced paper tubs, the final nail in the coffin for many has been the decision to change the size and shape of the Purple One and Orange Crunch.
Heinz has quietly discontinued its popular Tomato and Lentil Ragù sauce, while Cadbury has been called out for shrinkflation. In January, eagle-eyed shoppers noticed that multipacks of Twirls now contain only three bars instead of four, yet the price remains unchanged. Meanwhile, Nestlé was forced to abandon its new Nesquik milkshake formula after receiving backlash from loyal customers, who likened the new taste to 'vile sludge'.
Thankfully, chef and food writer Xanthe Clay has been putting everyday supermarket staples to the test for the past few years, holding brands to account. Each week, she blind tastes a specific household essential to unearth the best value for money.
While some of you agree with Xanthe's verdicts, many of you have firm favourites of your own. So we've rounded up your most-loved products, the ones you believe are still worth every penny.
From nostalgic favourites to unexpected gems, here's your definitive list of essential must-haves on (nearly) all of your shopping lists.
Your store cupboard staples: At a glance
Earl Grey
Your favourite: Williamson Tea
Twinings was once a staple in many Telegraph readers' kitchens, but a subtle recipe change over a decade ago caused many loyal drinkers to look elsewhere. Reader Frances Sutton, 68, a painter from Argyll in Scotland, and a fan for over 50 years, said, 'after they altered something absolutely vital, it was never the same again.'
David and Melody Forrest 'have ditched Twinings forever' after drinking it for 40 years too, while Sarah Heywood cannot bear to drink it, describing it as 'tasting of thin, metallic dishwater'.
Williamson Tea, on the other hand, seems to be winning over more cups by the day.
Andrew Ve, 62, lives in Edinburgh, and his family can't get enough of the stuff, and it seems his local community can't either: 'My wife has been buying Williamson's Earl Grey for years, but our local Waitrose keeps running out of it. Everyone who drinks tea in our house comments on how good it is.'
Joy Christopher writes: 'I've had Williamson Earl Grey for years. The others I've tried just have no flavour in comparison.'
For Lance Cole, who knows a thing or two about tea after growing long-leafed varieties in Zimbabwe, it's clear: 'I've been consistently disappointed with Twinings tea and tea bags. But Williamson's Earl Grey? That's the real deal with actual bergamot rather than artificial flavourings.'
While Gavin Thomas sums why this brand of Earl Grey is so popular perfectly: 'It's easy to imagine yourself in the late afternoon, sitting on an upholstered steamer chair on the upper deck of a paddle steamer cruising gently down the Nile with a bone china cup of Williamson's Earl Grey, with a slice of lemon and a shortcrust biscuit, watching the river bank glide by…'
Tinned Tomatoes
Your favourite: Mutti Polpa Finely Chopped Tomatoes
When Xanthe Clay conducted her blind tasting of chopped tomatoes, many readers were outraged at the omission of Mutti Polpa.
Food editor Amber Dalton explained that they weren't included this time around because the focus was on chopped tomatoes, not finely chopped 'polpa' or whole plum tomatoes. 'Mutti will get a look-in then,' she assured us.
However, when it came to enhancing your tomato-based dishes, you insisted that you weren't fussed over whether your tomatoes were chopped, plum or polpa, so long as they came with the Mutti label.
Several of you wrote in to say how you buy Mutti in bulk, such as reader Luke McCairns, who shared: 'I buy Mutti, they're delicious and make a fantastic pasta sauce of any kind.
'When they're on a deal at Morrisons, I buy tons of them. I always have over 20 cans and bottles of the various varieties stocked up.'
David Cain also buys them in 24 packs because 'there just is no competition, especially when it comes to a pizza topping.'
Although Mutti might be on the more expensive side in comparison to supermarkets' own-brand varieties, Mark Newman, 64, from Worthing, Sussex, suggests: 'If you buy the tins online, you can get them at 95p a can. I've tried cheaper options, but why spoil a dish for 50p, especially when it comes to pasta dishes.'
Mustard
Telegraph readers are infatuated with Colman's Mustard, but attest that it must be in the 'sinus opening' powder form and not the 'watered-down' jar.
Reader Oliver Tattersall, 44, from Broadstairs in Kent, recalls his first encounter with it: 'I remember being six or seven and mesmerised with the Colman's mustard tin. There was something about the bright yellow tin and lettering that I found pleasing to the eye.
'One day, armed with a tablespoon, and before my Mum could stop me, I managed to take a huge heap of the powder and put it in my mouth. I have always since given the utmost respect to the strength of Colman's.'
Many of you share how you use this punchy staple. Don Murray, 60, a gardener who lives in Bishops Stortford, swears by 'a pinch or two in a cheese sauce', while Mr Click prefers the powder form because 'it is more versatile as it can be dusted onto roast potatoes or a beef joint as well as used to make fiery Piccalilli.'
Further afield, the loyalty remains strong. Arthur Pewty, 67, a former RAF officer, writes: 'Living in France, it is easy to just accept Moutarde de Dijon as the norm. I do. But for French food.
'However, when roasting beef and eating a 'Brit' meal, Colman's Mustard Powder is unbeatable. Adding the power powder to the outer layer of a rib of beef for a roast is unbeatable. Bon appetit!'
Across the med, Andrew Cowles, 47, who works in IT, says: 'We're living in Greece now and mustard is surprisingly popular, but it's pretty mild, somewhere between American and Dijon.
'I ask my family to bring the Coleman's powder over because it's great for making a cheese sauce, baking cheesy breads or doing dry rubs to marinade beef.'
Mayonnaise
If one is short on time, or eggs, which seem to fly off the shelves these days, many readers shop for the most established brand of mayonnaise: Hellmann's. As one reader puts it, it's popular for a reason. Quite right too. But you won't go near the squeezy bottles.
Kay Polak loves mayonnaise and has tried many varieties, but 'the only one I go back to is Hellmann's original – in a jar – for it's eggy, fresh and fluffy consistency'.
She continues: 'Squeezy bottles are useless and make it runnier, you lose a good tablespoon at least.'
Meanwhile, an anonymous reader questions our taste tester's ranking. 'I struggle to see how Hellmann's only scored a three [out of five]. It's popular for a reason.'
However, the reader remains open-minded: 'Or am I missing out? Only a trip to Aldi will tell.'
For some readers, it's homemade mayo or no mayo. Gary Nuttall says: 'It takes about five minutes with a mason jar and a stick blender. Just ensure the egg is fresh.'
He too abhors the squeezy bottles of mayo, which 'taste poorer to screw tops.' Here, Mr Nuttall shares his own recipe:
Sardines
Your favourite: Waitrose Sardine All'Olio
Sardines tend to divide a table – people either love them or hate them. For most of you, they're an absolute favourite.
James Walker, 43, from Manchester, writes: 'The only good thing David Cameron did for us was leave us with a decent sardine recipe.
'I like mine with a squeeze of tomato paste, some mayonnaise, lemon juice, Worcester sauce and Tabasco on toast.'
Many of you expressed your disagreement with Xanthe's one-star rating of Waitrose's Sardine All'Olio, including Jackie Lowe, who said: 'Our family live off Waitrose's Sardine All'Olio, we love them and they never taste metallic.'
Allistair Yoxall agrees: 'They're delicious. I buy them whenever I see them and use them to make a puttanesca pasta or just pop them on toast.'
Sam Oliver 'love[s] these sardines and I have them everyday for lunch on toasted Gail's olive bread', while Caroline Minto likes to 'tart them up with half a lemon, some mint and finely cut onion.'
But it's not just Telegraph readers fighting the war on sardines – your dogs are in on it too.
Lady Penelope, 63, who lives in east Anglia, says: 'The dog gets a sardine, whatever vegetables we're having and kibble for his evening dinner. He can count to five and understands a great deal, which we attribute to the sardine suppers as well as his great coat.'
When it comes to sardines, Patrick Kirby's dog 'puts a new twist on 'gone in sixty seconds' as he never gets anywhere near the minute mark.'
Honey
Readers agree with Xanthe's verdict that M&S Collection Apiary Pure British Honey is a humdinger of a honey. However, it is of prime importance to readers to buy locally-sourced honey, whatever the cost, when possible to avoid unnecessary additives and secure the best flavour.
Reader David Stainer, 71, a retired professional technical officer for the Defence Equipment and Technology Agency, opts for the M&S honey if English honey from local producers at a farmers' shop is unavailable.
Mr Stainer, who resides in Maidstone, Kent, admits, 'Local honey costs a lot more, but I would rather pay the extra than buy some concoction coming out of a Chinese factory.'
Likewise, Lynda Benson, 68, believes 'M&S single apiary honey is good if you can't find a local beekeeper.'
She appreciates that the M&S honey names the apiarist and location on the label and wishes 'if only people would read labels and apply some thought to what they're buying, instead of just looking at the price'.
Meanwhile, Andy Jack, 70, drives from Thrapston to Oundle a few times a month. Coming back towards Thrapston on the A605, the retired nurse sometimes sees a car and an awning, which belongs to 'Basil the Apiarist'.
'Basil is from Romania, and he sells his own honey and mead. The honey is very, very good. It is ten quid a pot, not runny, cloudy and spreadable. It's gorgeous. It's from rapeseed flowers. My neighbour does honey too, but it's not a patch on Basil's,' Mr Jack says.
Butter
Readers also back our taste tester's top choice of butter. Xanthe described Morrison's Spreadable with Real Butter as having 'a gently unfolding flavour rather than the wallop of cheap butteriness'.
Reader E. Hatfield uses ''real' butter for baking and putting in jacket potatoes, but 'spreadable butter' – Morrisons – for bread and toast in winter.' To him, this 'seems an ideal compromise'.
John Mulvany keeps his preferences to the point: 'Lurpak is a rip-off, these days. I'll try the Morrison's stuff.'
Similarly, Steve Mitchell prefers 'a good butter dish (ceramic) and a bar of unsalted Morrison's at room temperature.'
Besides Morrison's, readers argue that any British butter that was 'real', or in other words, a dairy spread that wasn't awash with additional vegetable oils or fats, suits them just fine.
Ian Woodier, 79, who lives on the outskirts of Manchester, shares his love of 'real butter': 'Since eggs, full-fat real milk and real butter were admitted back into the fold and declared not to cause instant death, we have gone the whole hog and are enjoying it.'
The retired ex-seafarer adds: 'If you want spreadable butter, just leave it out of the fridge.'
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
The Guardian
2 days ago
- The Guardian
Worried about your child's screentime? Get a landline
Among the many useless but consoling facts I've hung on to at the expense of real knowledge is the telephone number of my best friend from high school. I can say it in my head – 612505 – and, like a combination lock, it throws open the door to a memory of me sitting on the stairs after school, yakking to the person I'd just said goodbye to on the bus. Given it's more than 30 years since I used that number, I have to assume it will stay with me – along with the lyrics to the Cadbury's Roses ad from 1983, the name of the fictional head teacher of Summer Bay High (Mr Fisher) and my own telephone number from that era (623492) – until the day I die. I hadn't given much thought to landlines or the teenage experience of sitting on them after school every day, until a recent piece in the Atlantic shared the results of a small, highly localised experiment: in Portland, Maine, a parent nervous of giving her 10-year-old child a smartphone took the eccentric step of reintroducing a landline, and then persuaded the parents of her child's friends to do the same. Before she knew it, between 15 and 20 families in the area had reinstalled landlines for their preteens in what the Atlantic called a 'retro bubble'. Charming scenes ensued, communications habits changed, and everyone learned a valuable lesson about the advantages of ancient technology. The funny thing about this is that unlike the brick phone, another answer to the puzzle of how to keep children off social media, the families of Portland discovered that the very thing that limits the landline – the fact it's attached to the wall – turned out to be one of its big attractions. Most families put the phone in a high-traffic area of the house, keeping their kid at least notionally in the mix rather than shut away in their room. This was a tactic popular in the early days of home computers, when parents would put the family's single, giant desktop on a table in the kitchen so the kid wasn't isolated or left alone with 'the internet', a healthy instinct that smartphones effectively killed. For the kids involved, pivoting to landlines entailed a conceptual leap as big as any they'd encountered: the amazing Russian roulette of having to pick up a ringing phone to discover who was on the other end; the mediation experience of having to say hello to a parent and ask politely to be put through to their child; the need to memorise a number; and the wildest thing of all, trying to remember that phoning a friend on a landline meant that, if they picked up, they could only possibly be in one place, so that shouting 'ARE YOU HOME?!' down the phone, as one young case study did, made no sense whatsoever (but was very funny). None of the families involved had an interest in reducing the contact their children had with their friends. But they were concerned with the issue of distraction – that kids speaking to each other on smartphones are often scrolling at the same time – and one of the reported findings was that the old-fashioned phones encouraged them to become 'better listeners'. For anyone who grew up getting home from school, changing out of their uniform and getting straight on the phone to carry on the conversation they'd broken off an hour earlier, this idea of extracting formal skills and takeaways from basic behaviours seems part of the broader parenting shift towards turning every last thing into an effing learning experience. On the other hand, I get it; the appeal of old phones is rooted in nostalgia but also in the idea that there is something wholesome about the relative transparency of landlines and returning to a way of doing things that, while it annoyed parents back in the day, didn't strike the fear of God into them. Pre-mobile phones, the main anxiety suffered by parents with kids who were forever on the phone was that they were going to 'run up the bill', 'tie up the line', or fritter their life away gossiping, all adorably quaint concerns. No one can groom or catfish a child via a hunk of plastic attached to the wall. What was the takeaway for us, who grew up on landlines? I guess if mobiles these days exert an enormous gravitational pull in our pockets, still some other order of magic existed around the old landlines. 'I'll get it!'; 'it's for me!'; redundant phrases now that, back then, spoke to the tiny thrill of election that came from receiving a call via the family phone – and like ghosts from the deep past, the lifelong dedication to memory of the numbers. Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist
The Guardian
2 days ago
- The Guardian
Worried about your child's screentime? Get a landline
Among the many useless but consoling facts I've hung on to at the expense of real knowledge is the telephone number of my best friend from high school. I can say it in my head – 612505 – and, like a combination lock, it throws open the door to a memory of me sitting on the stairs after school, yakking to the person I'd just said goodbye to on the bus. Given it's more than 30 years since I used that number, I have to assume it will stay with me – along with the lyrics to the Cadbury's Roses ad from 1983, the name of the fictional head teacher of Summer Bay High (Mr Fisher) and my own telephone number from that era (623492) – until the day I die. I hadn't given much thought to landlines or the teenage experience of sitting on them after school every day, until a recent piece in the Atlantic shared the results of a small, highly localised experiment: in Portland, Maine, a parent nervous of giving her 10-year-old child a smartphone took the eccentric step of reintroducing a landline, and then persuaded the parents of her child's friends to do the same. Before she knew it, between 15 and 20 families in the area had reinstalled landlines for their preteens in what the Atlantic called a 'retro bubble'. Charming scenes ensued, communications habits changed, and everyone learned a valuable lesson about the advantages of ancient technology. The funny thing about this is that unlike the brick phone, another answer to the puzzle of how to keep children off social media, the families of Portland discovered that the very thing that limits the landline – the fact it's attached to the wall – turned out to be one of its big attractions. Most families put the phone in a high-traffic area of the house, keeping their kid at least notionally in the mix rather than shut away in their room. This was a tactic popular in the early days of home computers, when parents would put the family's single, giant desktop on a table in the kitchen so the kid wasn't isolated or left alone with 'the internet', a healthy instinct that smartphones effectively killed. For the kids involved, pivoting to landlines entailed a conceptual leap as big as any they'd encountered: the amazing Russian roulette of having to pick up a ringing phone to discover who was on the other end; the mediation experience of having to say hello to a parent and ask politely to be put through to their child; the need to memorise a number; and the wildest thing of all, trying to remember that phoning a friend on a landline meant that, if they picked up, they could only possibly be in one place, so that shouting 'ARE YOU HOME?!' down the phone, as one young case study did, made no sense whatsoever (but was very funny). None of the families involved had an interest in reducing the contact their children had with their friends. But they were concerned with the issue of distraction – that kids speaking to each other on smartphones are often scrolling at the same time – and one of the reported findings was that the old-fashioned phones encouraged them to become 'better listeners'. For anyone who grew up getting home from school, changing out of their uniform and getting straight on the phone to carry on the conversation they'd broken off an hour earlier, this idea of extracting formal skills and takeaways from basic behaviours seems part of the broader parenting shift towards turning every last thing into an effing learning experience. On the other hand, I get it; the appeal of old phones is rooted in nostalgia but also in the idea that there is something wholesome about the relative transparency of landlines and returning to a way of doing things that, while it annoyed parents back in the day, didn't strike the fear of God into them. Pre-mobile phones, the main anxiety suffered by parents with kids who were forever on the phone was that they were going to 'run up the bill', 'tie up the line', or fritter their life away gossiping, all adorably quaint concerns. No one can groom or catfish a child via a hunk of plastic attached to the wall. What was the takeaway for us, who grew up on landlines? I guess if mobiles these days exert an enormous gravitational pull in our pockets, still some other order of magic existed around the old landlines. 'I'll get it!'; 'it's for me!'; redundant phrases now that, back then, spoke to the tiny thrill of election that came from receiving a call via the family phone – and like ghosts from the deep past, the lifelong dedication to memory of the numbers. Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist
Metro
23-07-2025
- Metro
Gen Z are making their tea without a kettle and it's an 'absolute violation'
As Brits, we're famous the world over for enjoying a good cup of tea — and proud of it. However, it appears that some of us have begun taking a rather, erm, creative approach to preparing our morning cuppa. While getting the kettle on might be one of the first things most of us do on any given morning, it appears that isn't the case for every age group. New statistics, which almost made us spit out our tea, reveal over half of Gen Z (those aged 18 to 27) makes their brew (brace yourself) in the microwave. The research, carried out by comparison experts USwitch, found that three-fifths of Gen Z (58%) admitted to the practice, with a shocking one in six (17%) doing so every day. In news that probably has Earl Grey himself spinning in his grave, they aren't even the only ones at it. Millennials (aged 28-43) were the next most likely age bracket to prefer a nuked brew, with 32% of them admitting to the practice, and Gen X (aged 44-59) took third place, with 15% of them choosing to prepare tea radiation-style. Rounding out the list are the Baby Boomers (those aged 60 to 78) and the Silent Generation (aged 79 and above), with just 10% of the former and only 6% of the latter using a microwave to make tea. Gen Z (18-27) – 58% (18-27) – 58% Millennials (28-43) – 32% (28-43) – 32% Gen X (44-59) – 15% (44-59) – 15% Boomers (60-78) – 10% (60-78) – 10% Silent Generation (79+) – 6% Unsuprisingly, the practice of microwaving tea has disturbed many. The practice is actually surprisingly common in America, and when stateside content creators have filmed themselves making tea in this way, it's caused quite the backlash from Brits. 'I think I just witnessed a crime,' and KerryManyLetters commented on one such video, 'How? How can people not know how to make tea?'. While another called it an 'absolute violation' and a third said that microwaving tea fell under the category of 'things that should be illegal but aren't!' Others had a more emotional reaction. User @sillybillylilly wrote: 'This physically hurts its not even funny there are tears in my eyes.' Meanwhile those who have attempted to make tea 'American-style' in the microwave were less than impressed, with Irish creator Garron Noone (garron_music), describing it as tasting like 'sterilised baby bottles'. As someone who considers themselves a self-styled brew connoisseur, it's a question that I personally never thought I'd have to ask. However, it appears that there is, at least, some reasoning behind why the younger demographic might be turning to the microwave to make a brew. Natalie Mathie, energy expert at remarks: 'It's possible that many younger people use a microwave because kettles are often banned in student accommodation, but this is a trend that's growing with each passing generation. More Trending 'While it seems like an affront to basic tea-making traditions, if it works for people, who are we to argue? 'However you're boiling your water, make sure you only put in the amount of water you need, as heating excess water can waste a lot of electricity' Whatever option you prefer – kettle, hob, microwave – the cost of boiling your tea water is still only about 1p per cuppa. View More » If you are really counting the pennies, then technically, a covered pan on a gas hob is the cheapest way to make tea, at just 0.74p. However, you're gonna be waiting a while for that brew. Gas hob (covered pan) – 0.74p (in 217 seconds) Gas hob (uncovered pan) – 0.84p (in 245 seconds) Microwave – 1.03p (in 180 seconds) Electric kettle – 1.11p (in 52 seconds) Do you have a story to share? Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@ MORE: Bizarre theory around Trisha Paytas' superhero-inspired name of third baby MORE: Mum-of-six reserves sun beds then leaves resort to go shopping and get breakfast MORE: People are wearing 'five finger shoes' to the office in a fashion move we never saw coming Your free newsletter guide to the best London has on offer, from drinks deals to restaurant reviews.
