I'm waking up early, I mean really really early, the middle of the night. Actually precisely 5am. The reason, I've had 2 kilos of the chewiest, firm, cardboard like brisket brining in the fridge for the past day and it is about to be massaged and seasoned in a way which a Texan Hilly Billy would drink bourbon to and an Aussie would crack open a Castelmaine XXXX. You get the picture. Drinking at this time, whilst no longer for me, is quite a ritual across the world, in markets, at airports (ever seen an Wetherspoons at 6am?) and an almost given across Europe. At the other end of the day, so to speak, there is the last one up at the party. Stepping like a soldier over seemingly half dead bodies in the lounge, this is the only chance to reach the prize of the kitchen and the naked booze cupboard, desperate for that final fix of anything they can find.

The Komodo Joe, a ceramic egg-shaped BBQ of Japanese origin, is on the balcony and set to the magnificent 110 degrees and is smoking apple wood. This is an incredible device, it's a boys toy, an American dream. The 2 kilo wedge makes its way over to the 90 kilo beast and is rested ready for the slowest of cooks, a glorifying 8 hours, breaking down the tough fibres and creating a lightly fragrant, soft and almost delicate texture.

This has got me thinking about food and eating in general. I hear that there are many fads across many countries none of which really appeal to me. I hear that the Japanese save themselves for KFC at Christmas Dinner, meanwhile in Kenya they are drinking cows blood, in Siberia they have magic mushroom parties and in Thailand there is a barbaric veggie festival. In England we have that famous ritual of cheese rolling.

I start to daydream about my favourite foods and like it or loath it, the French inhale it, for all its controversy I love foie gras. Aside from its great PR attributes it has the taste of naughtiness that culminates in that soporific feeling. Think fig jam, cherries, brioche, Sauternes, to name a few accompaniments. Then there are mushrooms, another acquired taste and I love the expensive ones; think ceps, morels, hen of the woods and the Siberian party versions.

This said the best type of fungi is the truffle. This is about two things. It's about the insecent aroma and the way it is sold. This is an underground trade, it's almost a crime. I worked at Selfridges foodhall and every item of a food delivery was intrinsically checked in and checked out. But not the truffle, there is a deal to be done. Our tall, impeccably suited and booted, mafia like salesman rocks up mid afternoon. Straight through the front door and up to the buying office on the fourth floor. It feels like he should be escorted. The only reason that you know he's there is that the mice on the lower ground start frantically running around due to the petulant whiff that is penetrating from the upper floors. Then the magic arrives on the counter and the queues start forming.

On my travels I was lucky enough to stay on a pontoon on the Great Barrier Reef and have freshly caught scallops and Moreton Bay bugs. This Mud Bug or Slipper Lobster is a hybrid between a large prawn and a lobster and attracts the most delicious sweetness particularly when cooked over the skimpy, stripped down burning wood contraption these guys call a barbie.

All this fancy stuff is truly amazeballs but the reality is that there are times and types of food where traditional and cheap is best - think greasy spoon with a hangover, English breakfast made with everything Tesco Value EXCEPT the beans of course which have to be Heinz. Think Golden Wonder pot noodles, Hellmans mayonnaise, Lea and Perrin's Worcestershire sauce and winter powdered soups. And then there is McDonald's. This is all nostalgia food which is fine as we were all either born, or thought we were born, in the eighties and this type of eating gives us that same satisfied, sleepy feeling.

All of a sudden the alarm clock goes off in the background and the family and the dog are awake. It's light, the Komodo Joe is smoking away, at 110 degrees or course, and I'm off back to bed to dream about salt beef sandwiches with rye bread and gherkins, and slow cooked brisket, bourbon and chocolate chilli con carne with Doritos and sour cream. What a dream, this once tough piece of cardboard will be the centrepiece of the weekends culinary festivities.

The alarm is set for 2pm!