Thanks to Airbnb, I welcome a stream of international guests to my flat several times a week. They, in turn, fill their allocated fridge shelf with an array of intriguing, peculiar, often mundane, but sometimes astonishing foodstuffs.
They nod politely at my spiel about Brixton market and its finest haunts, and then disregard the lot, reaching into their luggage to pluck out treats from back home.
The Koreans settled in the fastest, demonstrating a blase confidence that came with business-class tags. Their silver chopsticks were in the cutlery drawer before their bags were in the bedroom, and then they jam-packed their fridge shelf with Tetris-like precision. Oblong boxes formed the foundation, while mystery pouches buffered them from the shelf above – all were vacuum-packed, carrying what I assumed were seductive descriptions about their contents in characters I couldn't read. At 6am the following morning, I awoke to air heavy with kimchi. By the time I reached the kitchen, curious and salivating, it was all over. They were not only early risers but also magicians, guarding the secrets of their home cuisine more adeptly than Houdini. When they left, all the packets had disappeared, replaced by two fortune cookies.
The Germans didn't need to bring anything from home; they arrived via Lidl, weighed down with cheeses, canned pulses and many a thing in brine. There was a significant amount of rye bread too. In retrospect, I suspect my proximity to the store clinched the booking. Perhaps their leftovers taught me the most. When you're a regular patron of a supermarket, it's nice to see it with fresh eyes.
The Brits brought Strongbow, a box of tea and a packet of dried rice. All three lived on the aforementioned shelf, and stayed, long after their departure. The Italians were more interactive, more appreciative of the kitchen that I am rather proud of. They hummed lovingly at my stovetop espresso pot. They were very interested in the ice-cream maker. And they supplemented their caffeine hits with small non-descript tubs of natural yoghurt. Classic, simple tastes.
The French didn't eat at all. Contrary to popular belief, it seems that they don't when abroad. Instead, they make love. The only thing they put in the fridge was champagne. "Can we trouble you for an ice bucket? And ice," one asked, gazing lovingly into her boss's eyes. For the French, meals are forgone in favour of copulation. I speak from authority. I'm three couples down.
It's easy to find yourself basking in nostalgia once they've handed back the keys. I'm certainly fond of the common traces: the ambitious litres of olive oil, barely skimmed; the bulging boxes of Maldon, dazzling white; the multipacks of mini water bottles, which make me feel as if I'm holidaying in my own home.
The reason people use Airbnb is because it is a home away from home, and when we go home, most of us go to the fridge. We don't necessarily take anything out of it, but we like to survey what we've got in it. It grounds us. Filling a fridge shelf is the edible equivalent of popping a teddy in the bed, a book on the bedside table – it says: "I've arrived." Then again, perhaps these are merely the musings of someone who sees the world in terms of what it eats. I'm not sure. In any case, there are several sights I would do well to forget. A burst Strongbow can in the freezer is one of them. The other is a dishwasher repair man, with a £75 call-out fee hovering above his head, handing me a silver chopstick.
