I could never be a restaurant critic - I'd rather be at home with my head stuck in a bowl of Angel Delight

Far too much is written about food that everyone would like to eat and nowhere near enough is written about the food that people actually eat, says Marcus Berkmann

Illustration by Ping Zhu

A friend of mine has developed an unhealthy obsession with Cheestrings – for let's face it, there can be no other kind. One Cheestring is never enough. Three, you die. My friend has been under a lot of stress recently. She has small children who crave Cheestrings even more than she does. But her self-control in always managing to keep herself down to two Cheestrings in any one four-hour period has been exemplary.

Far too much is written about food that everyone would like to eat: nice food, healthy food, food full of "fresh ingredients" locally sourced from Sainsbury's. Nowhere near enough is written about the food that people actually eat, whether they admit it or not.

As a long-time resident of north London, I am sure I am not alone in feeling a tiny prickle of shame when I go to the shop up the road and buy a Dr Oetker pizza for lunch. Are there no "Pollo" ones left? Then a "Spinaci" it will have to be. With teenage children in the flat, I can pretend that I am buying it for them, that they will eat it with their friends in 11 seconds flat. And that this family-sized tub of Carte D'Or ice cream (with real strawberry pieces) isn't entirely for me either. But the shop's owners are not fooled. They have seen me salivating over the Rolo desserts in their chiller cabinet. (Now on special offer! Four for the price of two! That's two to eat right now, and two more to eat in a few minutes' time!)

They have witnessed me at the zenith of my cravings for Heinz Baked Beans With Pork Sausages. Is there really pork in those sausages? How do they manage to taste unlike real sausages and yet exactly the same as the "sausages" in every previous tin I have opened?

My school had what was rather pretentiously called a "dining hall," and it was a 10-minute walk from the main school buildings. On the way there lurked a hot dog van, which we pupils had been strongly discouraged from patronising. It was dirty, we were told. You didn't know where those sausages had been. There were queues 10 deep every day. The rubbery, taste-free hot dogs, of unknown provenance. The snowy-white buns, ominously chalky in texture. And the tomato ketchup, whose manufacture had surely bypassed the tomato altogether. It was disgusting. It was delicious. I want one now.

Alcohol should probably be mentioned at this point, for booze can affect our taste buds, much as it does our conversation, digestion, libido and lives. When not in the pub I quite enjoy a salted peanut or two. But after a few drinks, dry roasted peanuts, with their distinctive taste of chemicals and physical ruin, come into their own. You can feel them stripping the lining from your throat as you swallow them. And yet nothing else will do.

Once, a long time ago, a newspaper executive took me out to lunch and sounded me out about becoming their restaurant critic. I had to come clean. Much as I love posh food, especially when I'm not paying for it, my true tastes could not be concealed forever. Sooner or later the mask would slip, and I'd have to admit that instead of this tarte fine aux pommes avec crème anglaise, I'd rather be at home with my head stuck in an enormous bowl of butterscotch-flavoured Angel Delight. The executive stared into space for a few seconds, possibly remembering the long-discontinued mint chocolate flavour, and then we moved on to talk about something else.