Slaving my weekend away in the Pimlico Journal offices for a pittance, I noticed a Hot Dinners review advertising Eating with Tod’s Festive Feast: ‘Love him or loathe him, you can’t get away from Eating With Tod on social if you’re even remotely interested in London’s food scene.’ Eating With Tod, or just ‘Tod’, real name Toby Inskip, is a London-based food influencer with more than one million followers on TikTok. If you are fortunate enough to not know of paunchy Tod’s antics, he is best described as this country’s chief purveyor of pornified food consumption. Most of his videos seem to involve him gawping, eyes bulging, rubbing his hands together in gluttonous glee as various sloppy, filthy food of dubious provenance covers his mouth and fingers.
Whatever else you can say about Tod, he does have a consistent vision of what food is, and what food should be. Whether his audience is viewing this with pleasure, disdain, or both is another question — but there is no doubt that this audience exists.
Tod, we are told, thought most of Britain’s existing Christmas markets too bland, so he decided to create his own: ‘Tod’s Festive Feast’, located right next to Tottenham Court Road Station. My curiosity was piqued. I am interested in London’s food scene, given that I am a man whose debit card regularly fails to make payments at the supermarket. I mentioned the Feast to our editor-in-chief, Nigel Forrester, who once again called upon me to do his dirty work. And so, the struggling working man that I am, in dire need of company-expensed calories before my meagre monthly paycheck would arrive — I accepted. I eagerly endured a bout of tube disruptions on a rainy Monday lunchtime in anticipation of the Feast that awaited. Nigel, cynical as ever, chose to accompany me ‘because it’s funny’, insisting that I give all of Tod’s offerings ‘a fair go’.
Upon arriving at the Festive Feast I immediately found myself disappointed with both the turnout promised by Hot Dinners and the appearance of what amounted to a few dreary B&Q-style sheds with Tod’s drooling visage plastered all over them. But it was too late to turn away.
Jerkish: Jerk Mac Feast (£15)
To start off this Feast, I settled upon ‘Jerkish’, apparently some kind of fusion of Turkish and Caribbean cuisine. My thought process here was that I would at least emerge from this experience with a sizeable portion given that both my stomach and wallet were already crying out in agony; the former from hunger pains and anticipation for this veritable banquet — or should I say Feast — and the latter from the £15 it was being asked to expunge. I was told to buy the ‘Jerk Mac Feast’, which amounted to kebab-style chicken and macaroni cheese dumped in a box with a bit of (admittedly serviceable) coleslaw for good measure. It was underwhelming. The ‘jerk sauce’ I was promised turned out to be little more than a slightly spicy BBQ sauce variant. This contributed to the meal having a somewhat muted flavour despite its origins being those regions of the world which — so I hear — enjoy their spice. The chicken was what you might expect at a reasonable kebab shop, and the pasta was also unexceptional, although I was correct that the good people of ‘Jerkish’ did not skimp on the portion size; this was probably, astonishingly, the best-value option at the Feast.
Overall, whilst falling well short of what it promised to deliver in terms of vision, to my surprise, the macaroni, ‘jerk sauce’ and meat did not clash very much with each other and, excusing the price and the social humiliation of eating what resembled a vomitus mish-mash of dishes, it really didn’t taste that bad. (6/10)
The Duck Shed: The Great British Christmas Quacker Burger (£12.50)
‘The Duck Shed’ seemed like another one of the safer options: it’s shredded duck in a bun, after all. What could go wrong? But in the spirit of Tod, and Nigel looming behind me, I chose to try the ‘Great British Christmas Quacker’. I believe it contained ‘smashed’ pigs in blankets, or something along those lines. This burger was very bland - a rare problem in the World of Tod, where the issue is usually a lack of subtlety rather than a lack of taste. It was also less warm than would have been desirable. I did not finish it.
I think that if I took the option of eating the wrap rather than the burger, this would have been less objectionable. Because, aside from being bland, the other main feature of the burger was that it was (predictably) grotesquely overloaded, spilling everywhere into the box. My hands were dirty and they provided just one tissue to remedy this. This, I assume, was what attracted Tod to this outlet, like a mucky ginger moth to a grease-fuelled flame. (3.5/10)
Mestizo: The Volcano Taco and Cheesy Quesadilla Taco (£5.00 each)
This was probably the least interesting - but perhaps also the best - food on offer at the Festive Feast. I was expecting the ‘Volcano Taco’ to be bad, but it was actually rather pleasant. I can’t really remember what was in it, though. Again, I wondered what had attracted Tod to this venue. The answer must be that, being a food that is eaten with one’s hands, it is perfect for the sort of content that Tod produces. (7.5/10)
Ruben’s Reubens: The ‘Festive Frank’, on ‘Bun-free Monday’ (£13.00)
The Festive Frank is served with all of the usual excess that would excite Tod’s passions. Curiously, when I ordered, the Rubens staff proudly announced that today was ‘Bun-free Monday’, and that instead of a bun I would receive a portion of fries at no extra charge. Confused as to whether this was supposed to be a treat, the kind of stunt that one might expect to hear from ‘Manchester’s Finest’ (‘check out this new bar... it’s alcohol free!’), or just quick thinking from the owner who didn’t want to admit they had run out of buns at midday on a Monday.
Bun or no bun, the sausage had a nice snap on the outside and good flavour. The accompaniments were quite tasty, with perhaps the exception of the cranberry ketchup, which felt a little like contrived festivity, and an overgenerous portion of caramelised onions. I’ll give him some credit, Tod can pick out a good sausage. You can also buy gravy for £3.50, which is both completely unnecessary and a rip-off if I’ve ever seen one. (6/10)
From The Ashes: Whole Hog Bun (£13.00)
Next was a hog roast bun with pickles and soaked in something they called ‘mop sauce’. Mop sauce, having done some research, is a thin, vinegar-based American BBQ basting liquid added to a smoking joint of meat with, yes, a mop. It sounds silly, but at least the original mop sauce should be tangy and help to develop a good ‘bark’ on the meat whilst it slowly cooks. This iteration, however, was inexplicably very sweet, mixed with a tinge of a hot sauce (possibly tabasco) and coated all of the pulled hog meat.
They then decided to add an extra dousing of the stuff that completely overwhelmed the meat, which was now basically swimming around in the liquid. Somewhere in this stew in a bun was a passable bit of pulled pork, but I could not taste it. My hands were once again full of grease, but alas, there were so many more delights waiting for me. (2/10)
Truffle Burger: Lobster Thermidor (£19.50)
Truffle Burger is where things really started to take a turn for the worse. Eager to have a try of something more luxurious to make up for the Mop Fiasco, I opted for the ‘Lobster Thermidor’. It should really have been called something like ‘The Surf and Turf Dog’, given that it was an aged beef hot dog with added poached lobster, crayfish, crispy onions, and a cheese sauce with loads of truffle slathered onto a toasted brioche bun. Actually, there was so much truffle that, again, little else could be tasted. Lobster Thermidor might be a slightly out-of-date classic, but one that I would enjoy when my finances do permit, but the nonsensical additions of a hefty beef dog with mild crayfish were not at all welcome.
Traditionally, a thermidor contains gruyere, but the cheese sauce here added an unbearable richness without any of the nutty or earthy complexity gruyere provides. I suppose they wanted to make up for this with the truffle. Feeling increasingly ill, I cut my losses and moved on to sample the desserts. (0.5/10)
Roll Boys: Cookie Butter Roll (£6.50)
Hope of a good lunch was not yet entirely lost, but with the ultimately rather mixed judgments from the mains reverberating in my mind, I endeavoured to ensure that there would be still more pleasure for the good readers of Pimlico Journal: I would now be tasting some of the Feast’s desserts. Our cruel editor-in-chief, thinking himself to be above Tod-style cuisine, was only too happy to oblige, and being the masochistic cattle that I am, I allowed him to lead me over to the imposing shop front of ‘Roll Boys’, which we had all decided well in advance of this visit was the worst offering Terrible Tod had cooked up for me.
For those who are uninitiated in the Ginger Glutton’s ways, it seems that one of his deepest carnal pleasures is the feeling of having food remnants, whether they be crumbs, sauce, or just plain good old-fashioned slop smeared around his mouth upon devouring any item. ‘Roll Boys’, whose premise appeared to be a cinnamon roll doused in icing, definitely promised to fulfil this desire to ‘be like Tod’. With a glint in his eye, Nigel selected the ‘Cookie Butter’ roll from the veritable horrors of the menu. After the woman behind the counter (not one of the eponymous ‘Roll Boys’, I assume) had warmed up my chosen dish and I had received it as a man would his last rites, I prepared myself and my digestive system for what was about to occur.
The bun was completely slathered in thick, gooey, Biscoff-like vanilla icing with cookie crumbs sprinkled on for good measure. Upon unhinging my jaw to get in the first bite, I could feel Father Tod gazing down on me with pleasure and, more than likely, furiously rubbing his hands in glee as the sugary syrup was inevitably smeared all across my face, nose to chin. The icing was (unsurprisingly) sickly sweet, but its flavour was magnified further by the very starchy and bready roll, which seemed to have no other flavour whatsoever. I am normally quite partial to cinnamon, but on this occasion, it was entirely blocked out by the veritable flood of sweetness from the icing. With every successive bite the experience became more and more unpleasant until the roll and its gooey disgusting mess was all gone, and all that remained was what was on my face, along with a £6.50 bill for my troubles.
The tribunal found its expectations were easily vindicated. Not only was ‘Roll Boys’, with stiff competition, the worst item on offer today, but also an experience not to be wished even upon your worst enemy. (0/10)
Chin Chin Dessert Club: ‘The Best Hot Chocolate in London’ (£5.95), Deep Fried Apple Butter Crumble Ice Cream served with Vanilla Cream and Cinnamon Sugar Party Popper (£7.95), Banana Bread Toast & Honey Butter Ice Cream (£9.95).
Having received the old one-two from Tod’s minions with my mains and dessert, there remained but one last roll of the dice to salvage something from what was fast becoming the worst luncheon experience of my entire life. For dessert at Chin Chin Dessert Club, I ordered the hot chocolate and a ‘Deep Fried Apple Butter Crumble Ice Cream served with Vanilla Cream and Cinnamon Sugar Party Popper’. I noticed that there was deeply unfestive rap music being played at this stall — a bad sign.
A couple of minutes into the wait for my second round of dessert, I was politely informed by the Chin Chin staff that, sadly, I would not be able to sample my ‘Deep Fried Apple Butter Crumble Ice Cream served with Vanilla Cream and Cinnamon Sugar Party Popper’, as the deep-fat fryer had broken. This was a pity because at this point, I would have gladly leapt into it to escape the impending tummy ache. It was also potentially the only item of food on offer at the Feast that could have possibly competed with the ‘Roll Boys’ for sheer terribleness. I guess we will never know.
Chin Chin offered me either a refund or an ‘upgrade’ to the Banana Bread Toast. Determined to put Tod’s Festive Favourites to the test, I accepted their kind offer. Now, through my (I assure you) exhaustive encounters with the women of the capital, I was aware that banana bread has had a bit of a resurgence in recent months, and so clung to the forlorn hope that perhaps this would be a light sponge that might soak up the horrendous thick aftertaste that remained after being violated by ‘Roll Boys’.
Unfortunately, the behemoth that had appeared in front of me was anything but light, consisting of the thickest and densest piece of banana bread I have ever seen, drenched in chocolate syrup that splattered onto one’s hands immediately upon grasping it. If you still retained any working grey matter after the sickly smell of pure sugar hits your nostrils, the torturers at Chin Chin also added a slab of butter to crown their creation, which was stamped with the word ‘BUTTER’ — as if they knew you would be so dazed that you’d have to have the food engraved with its own name in order to comprehend what was being shovelled into your gaping maw.
Every mouthful of it felt like a workout. The massive slice of banana bread did not have much in the way of any fruit flavour, probably because it was drenched in a puddle of chocolate sauce. The bottom also tasted burnt or, at the very least, charred. This gave it a disturbing crunch before your teeth met the impenetrable cake body, which, coupled with the sub-par chocolate sauce, did not make for an enjoyable dining experience. Whilst also conclusively proving that the dessert offerings were the nadir of the Feast, it was not quite as bad as ‘Roll Boys’ (if such a thing was even possible), and so I endured its viscous depths to rid myself of the previous course’s memory.
In just a few bites, I was beginning to feel sick with all of the sweetness as my mouth became increasingly coated in an unctuous lacquer; hungry I was not. But summoning my last remaining reserves of willpower, I set out to complete my task. Spoonful after spoonful; gasp after gasp. I repeated the mantra that completion of my serving would install some sense of redemption or at least understanding of the Feast Lord’s philosophy until finally, the wretched deed was done. I am become Tod, Destroyer of Waistlines.
Looking down at the sodden cardboard plate, oozing with what remained of the sticky chocolate sauce, a grim dark brown puddle, there existed no sense of victory, only a profound feeling of shame and the impending bubbling up of irritated stomach acid. Was this it? Had I really spent the best part of £100 on this? Where was Tod himself? What satisfaction could ever possibly be derived from this? Had I really endured a rainy Monday lunchtime of pain with not even a tipple to drown my sorrows? (1/10)
Chin Chin advertised their hot chocolate with reviews from Buzzfeed (‘London’s Best Hot Chocolate’) and Timeout (‘Top of the Chocs, No.1’). Secret London named Chin Chin’s hot chocolate as one of their five ‘top picks’ from the festival. Surely, with such glowing endorsements, Chin Chin could pull it all back. Maybe I had got them all wrong?
What was becoming clear over the day is that Tod’s taste for pornified food, with all of its visual excess, comes at the price of any sense of balancing and contrasting flavours in a dish. Lobster just had to be so thoroughly doused in truffles and other richness that it was inedible. Already-sweet pastries just had to be slathered in glazes, sauces and chocolate. Anything so that the menace of my Instagram feed can get his 15-second cut of himself grasping, squeezing, the various juices out of his favoured grub whilst salivating at you through the camera, with a kind of hunger in his eye that you are not entirely sure is for food.
‘London’s best hot chocolate’ did not break the rule. It turned out to be a small cup mounted by a gargantuan layer of blackened, melted marshmallow — about as sickly and sweet as you would expect. Breaking through the blanket of sugar with a handy spoon provided, you might hope the underlying chocolate drink gushing through would be dark enough to cut through all of the sweetness. Instead, Chin Chin doubles down in their celebration of the saccharine. The liquid part of this hot chocolate is almost as sickly as the marshmallow hoisted atop. It was extremely thick, too — more the consistency of a chocolate sauce than an ordinary hot chocolate. In fact, I am not sure that the hot chocolate and the sauce slathered over my banana bread were not the same product.
I could stomach about two mouthfuls of the substance (yes, mouthfuls, not sips, I don’t know how it could be drunk at all). Although ‘Roll Boys’ must presumably be considered the worst food item at the Feast, if this counts as food — and as it is eaten with a spoon, there is a strong case for this — then it could surely compete. (0/10)
Beltane & Pop: Mulled Wine (£6.90)
While I was trying not to vomit into their ‘signature hot chocolate’ — an addition that may well have improved the consistency, Nigel took some pity on me and recommended a nice cup of mulled wine to wash it all down
With a fully glazed mouth, I turned to Beltane & Pop to relieve me. I had seen the mulled wine at this stall advertised as ‘flaming’ online, but it was completely normal, with options to upgrade with brandy, scotch or amaretto. Still reeling, I chose the regular old mulled wine. The first few sips were indeed very sweet, but I realised it would take some time for my palate to fully recover. The mulled wine brought me back to earth from the depths of Tod’s sugary abyss that stared dangerously back into me, and for that, I am grateful.
With this, I fled from the feast, leaving behind the ringing laughter of Nigel Forrester, his sadism well-satiated, along with any remaining sense of self-respect, and my last desperate hope of any working arteries. (10/10)
Perhaps I should have read to the end of the Hot Dinners review before my expedition into the heart of this Feast: ‘This may sound like your idea of hell, but we predict that there’ll be more than enough folk who are fans of Tod and his more-is-more videos to make this event a hot ticket’.
This article was written by ‘The Hitch’, a Pimlico Journal contributor. Have a pitch? Send it to submissions@pimlicojournal.co.uk.
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Tod is no fun. Posting about Tod's existence endangers the health and happiness of millions. It must stop. I appeal in particular to the editors of Pimlico Journal. Stop the madness. Don't mention Tod ever again. There are better things in life.
interesting