If our destiny is cyber-attacks and empty shelves at the Co-op, here's what we should do next
I have seen the future. It was one morning last week – at the Co-op. Shelves that once groaned now had nothing much on them. Sad signs where the baked beans and tinned tuna once lived reduced to a study in impotence. Following a cyber-attack more than two weeks ago that decimated its supply systems, the supermarket has struggled to recover. We would like to sell you stuff, but our cupboard is empty, the shelves say, as yours must now be.
Surveying the emptiness, I turned to the stocky stranger beside me who was reaching into the pastry cupboard with the plastic tongs. 'This is what it will be like when the bomb drops,' I said. He smiled, nodded, and grabbed another croissant. He's smart. If this is what is coming, what a simple cyber-attack can wreak – nothing to do with Enola Gay or the Peaky Blinders bloke as Oppenheimer – two croissants a day will seem an ambitious diet.
Are you prepping yet? I haven't been. Things are bleak and the world seems as tinderbox dangerous as it has been in my lifetime, but I have yet to fill the apocalypse preparatory bag, as so many have, and as an increasing number of governments say we should all be doing.
The Swedish government wrote to its people last year, warning 'we live in uncertain times', and advising them to keep a minimum of 3 litres of water per person, per day at hand for that break glass moment. (Here, I'd counsel customers of financially knackered Thames Water to do the same.)
The Swedes have been pointed towards non-perishable foods, those that can be stored at room temperature and gorged using flints and fingers: dried meat, tinned fare, crispbreads, pesto, cheese in a tube. If there was ever a point to the rounds of Babybel cheese entrenched at the back of your fridge, this is it. They are like an aircraft's black box: virtually indestructible, made for the apocalypse and prepping.
The Swedes, like many European countries, have ample geographical motivation to prep. If you pulled back the curtains in the morning and saw Vladimir Putin peering through binoculars at your house from across the street, you'd pack a prep bag too.
The Brits are less anxious, but then we are us. Our official 'Get prepared for emergencies' advice is less a megaphone declaration, more a ministerial mumble on a website, that advocates the stashing of water, 'ready-to-eat tinned meat, fruit or vegetables (and a tin opener)'. That's the key wisdom, don't forget the tin opener: apocalyptic fistfights will be fought over tin openers, even the basic ones that don't work.
Clearly the need to pack a bag grows urgent and daily their usefulness becomes apparent. Even now, residents traumatised by this year's Los Angeles wildfires testify to the value of having a go bag ready. Popular Science magazine is clear. 'Everyone should be a little bit of a prepper,' it said. 'From gun-toting, cabin-living, former military members, to crunchy homesteaders in Vermont, to suburban parents ready to transform their minivans into go-vehicles at the drop of an apocalyptic hat.' And that was before my Coop ran out of anchovies.
Of course, what goes in the rucksack will vary. What's a luxury: what's essential? It's arguable that for some it may, on some level, be cultural. I have not searched hard, but I have yet to stumble across jerk chicken in a tin, and I would need that to cope for even a moderate period of time. I have a humorously doom-laden friend who proclaims – in the style of a latter-day Moses – 'One day, my people, the chicken will run out.' In apocalypse go bag terms, he'd struggle too.
Though water is a no brainer, how much room would I have for bottles of Supermalt? I'm sure there isn't a saltfish and ackee patty in a tin. No West Indian Saturday soup, that I've seen, with yams and dumplings and vegetables. Is there such a thing as curried goat squeezed from a tube? I don't think so.
All of this needs addressing by a prepping industry ready to serve diverse societies. Perhaps it will be: unless a go-ahead Reform government here decrees the only tinned meat should be the squaddie's wartime favourite, bully beef.
As days pass, the beleaguered Co-op says things are getting better, but it takes a row of pockmarked shelves on a weekday morning to bring it all home: this is a troubled world, in which the clock can so easily stop on just in time deliveries, where each day Cormac McCarthy looks like a visionary, The Road a documentary.
I have seen the future. It's bleak: it's tumbleweed in the aisles and a few squashy croissants – and they're going fast. Be prepared for it.
Hugh Muir is a Guardian columnist
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The Guardian
an hour ago
- The Guardian
‘An absolute steal': supermarket croissants, tasted and rated by Felicity Cloake
Until the age of almost 30, I was largely indifferent to croissants, primarily because, despite all the time I'd spent in France, I'd tried a squashy industrial example sometime in the 1990s and decided they weren't worth the effort. When I finally tasted a croissant fresh from a bakery, out of politeness more than anything else, the flakes fell from my eyes, and a love affair was born. Since then, I've made up for lost time – in fact, I wrote an entire book based around the idea of cycling across France rating croissants, and judged the inaugural Isigny Sainte-Mère Best Croissant Competition UK. But I still steer clear of the supermarket variety wherever I am in the world, so this tasting was a baptism of fire for me. The Guardian's journalism is independent. We will earn a commission if you buy something through an affiliate link. Learn more. My usual croissant-judging system, out of 10, has had to be adapted for the Filter's rating system, but the criteria remain the same: I place little weight on appearance, because some of the flabbiest, most disappointing-looking croissants I've encountered have been the most delicious and, conversely, some perfect-looking beauties have turned out to taste of nothing. Personally, I favour an all-butter croissant, because I like them to taste of butter, and preferably that slightly sweet French butter; if you have to add more on top, or indeed jam, cheese, or Nutella, they've not used enough in the dough. Ideally, the little paper bag should be translucent with grease by the time you get it to the cafe seat where you intend to demolish it in the company of a cafe creme. That said, I'm not averse to the slightly more savoury, bready British style, either, so long as it's done well. Texture-wise, though, I'm aware that a technically perfect croissant should be made up of many airy layers of pastry; I prefer them a little squidgy in the middle and shatteringly crisp at the ends and underneath. After all, if a croissant doesn't leave you covered in buttery crumbs, you're doing it wrong. Not that I'm fussy, of course. £1.30 each in store★★★★★ I'm always a bit suspicious of big croissants – what are they trying to make up for? – but I can see the flakes coming off this one as I remove it from the bag. It's even authentically squashed, as if put in there warm from the oven. Shatteringly crisp ends, lovely, damp, elastic crumb and a savoury, even salty flavour that seems to be characteristic of British croissants. It doesn't taste French, but it is delicious – I'd definitely buy this again. 59p each in store ★★★★☆ A clumsily large croissant with a mildly off-putting matt finish, like a pair of American tan tights, but a prime example of how you should never judge by appearances, particularly when it comes to pastry. Inside lurk some very respectable layers and a decent, if fairly neutral buttery flavour. It's also an absolute steal. £1.30 each★★★★☆ If I'd been told there was a French interloper here, I'd have picked out this glossy, handsomely layered chap as the most likely candidate. It's a bit dry inside, sadly, but it has excellent lamination and they've nailed that authentically French flavour, with the delicate sweetness of good unsalted butter. £1.75 for two★★★★☆ This one has a spray tan worthy of Love Island (I suspect egg wash), and though it has lost a bit of definition in the oven, a few layers are evident on the outside. Unfortunately, I cut it in half to discover an enormous hole in the middle, which feels like a technical fault or a swizz, because what I can taste is actually really rather good. Faintly sweet and subtly buttery, with crunchy, if dry ends, and what remains of an elastic interior. Feels like it has potential, hence the charitable rating. £1 each in store ★★★☆☆ A medium croissant, with a pleasant colour and a classic, flaky appearance. It's not bad at all texture-wise – the ends are delicious and a few layers are evident in the middle – but it's a bit dull and could do with a pinch of salt. Sign up to The Filter Get the best shopping advice from the Filter team straight to your inbox. The Guardian's journalism is independent. We will earn a commission if you buy something through an affiliate link. after newsletter promotion £1.75 for two★★★☆☆ Looks a bit deflated, with a dull finish and not much in the way of layering visible. The flavour actually isn't bad – slightly yeasty and sweet – but the insides are fluffy like a bloomer, rather than rich and springy. Not unpleasant, you understand; just not what I look for in a croissant. £2.38 for four★★★☆☆ Another one to have been given an egg wash glow-up, though I won't hold it against it, because it wears it well, with decent definition and an airy, honeycomb centre. That said, 'exceptional' might be a little hubristic to describe this fluffy, inoffensively bland number. 59p each in store ★★☆☆☆ A nice-looking, golden brown pastry (if rather solid, like a toy croissant). There are some promising-looking layers on the outside that don't translate into much in the way of lamination in the middle, and it has an odd, pronounced, sweet yeasty flavour that reminds me slightly of rooibos tea. Unfortunately, I don't like rooibos tea. 50p each in store ★★☆☆☆ A small croissant, which is not necessarily a criticism; if it contains enough butter, small can be perfectly formed. I don't doubt some has been involved in the manufacturing process, but sadly I can't detect it in the finished product. The ends are so dry I have to reach for a glass of water, while the middle is bready, with a faintly sweet, but fairly neutral flavour. Butter and jam would be required to eat a whole one. £2.25 for six at Tesco£2.25 for six at Waitrose★☆☆☆☆ All the definition of a croissant emoji, but none of the colour, this reminds me of a runty version of a croissant-shaped dog toy I used to keep finding in my bed. No layers, just soft, chewy dough with a weirdly caramelised flavour. Tastes long-life, processed and unpleasant – I don't get the point of these, sorry. They remind me of something you might be given for breakfast on a long-haul flight, right down to the individual plastic wrapping.
The Sun
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Five ‘vampire' gadgets that drain £300 a year from your bank account are revealed – is yours plugged in?
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The Guardian
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How to make coffee and walnut cake – recipe
Today is my birthday, so I'm celebrating with a classic that, for all the sticky tres leches and sophisticated sachertortes I've enjoyed in recent years, remains my absolute favourite, my desert island cake: that darling of the WI tea tent, the coffee and walnut sandwich. The great Nigel Slater once named it his last meal on Earth, and I'm hoping to have it for tea. Prep 30 min Cook 25 min Serves 8 225g room-temperature butter 4 tbsp instant coffee (see step 1)100g walnut halves 4 eggs 225g soft light brown sugar 225g plain flour 3 tsp baking powder ¼ tsp fine salt Milk (optional) For the icing165g room-temperature butter425g icing sugar ¼ tsp salt 4 tbsp double cream (optional) If you've forgotten to get your butter out of the fridge, begin by dicing and spacing it out on the paper to soften (remember, you'll need some for the icing, too). Mix the coffee with two tablespoons of boiling water and leave to cool – I like the nostalgic flavour of instant coffee here, but you can substitute three tablespoons of espresso or other strong coffee, if you prefer. Toast the walnut halves in a dry pan until they smell nutty, then set aside a quarter of the most handsome-looking ones to use as decoration later. Roughly chop the rest. Heat the oven to 180C (160C fan)/350F/gas 4, and grease and base line two 20cm sandwich tins. Crack the eggs into a bowl and beat. Put the butter in a food mixer or a large bowl anchored with a damp cloth to steady it, then beat it briefly to soften. Crumble in the sugar to break up any lumps, then carry on beating for several minutes, until the butter is really light and fluffy; scrape down the bowl as required. With the mixer (or your wooden spoon) still going, gradually pour in the eggs and beat to incorporate, again scraping the sides as necessary. Tip the flour and baking powder into a bowl, whisk to knock out any lumps, then add to the batter. Using a large metal spoon, gently fold the bottom of the mixture over the top, but do so only once. Add the salt, half the coffee (keep the rest for the icing) and the chopped walnuts, then slowly fold in, just until the flour and coffee are completely incorporated – bear in mind that the more more vigorously you fold, the more air you will knock out of the batter, so it's important not to overdo it. The batter should by now fall from the spoon, slightly reluctantly but without the need for violent agitation; if it doesn't, loosen with a little milk. Divide evenly between the two tins (weigh them for perfection). Put in the oven, on the middle shelf if using a conventional setting, and bake for about 25 minutes (check after 20, though!), until well risen but not too dark. Remove the tins from the oven, leave to cool for 10 minutes, then take out of the tins and put on a rack to cool completely. Meanwhile, make the icing. Beat the butter until soft; my mixer is not good with smaller amounts so I tend to use a mixing bowl, again anchored to the work surface with a damp cloth, and electric beaters or a wooden spoon. Sift in the icing sugar to get rid of any lumps, then add the salt. Beat to combine, then add the reserved cooled coffee and the cream – though optional, the latter does make the icing easier to spread; for a less rich result; use a splash of milk instead. Put the less perfect looking of the two cakes (there's always one) on a platter. Top the cake on the platter with a little less than half the icing, leaving it thicker around the edges where it will be seen, then pop the second cake on top. Spoon the remaining icing over the second cake, spreading it out neatly and adding a few swirls for interest, then arrange the reserved toasted walnuts pleasingly all over the top. Avoid chilling before slicing and serving, unless it's really necessary. Felicity Cloake's new book, Peach Street to Lobster Lane: Coast to Coast in Search of Real American Cuisine, is published by Mudlark at £16.99. To order a copy for £15.29 go to
