This sort of cultural variety is evident throughout the book – the Australian influence again, no doubt – with a good mix of recipes from Europe, Asia and America. Beef rendang, Korean fried chicken and steamed scallop dumplings are found between recipes for Glamorgan sausages, baked cod with olives and spaghetti carbonara, and the desserts run the gamut from delicate citrus granita to sticky jam doughnuts and hearty steamed puddings. In the slow cooking section, the beautifully photographed five-hour roast pork belly (one of the chef’s signatures) appears more than worth the wait.

Each dish is captured with excellent photography (the odd bewildering shot of Torode peeking out from behind his kitchen door aside) and, oh joy, printed on thick uncoated paper. A friend of mine insists on wearing white t-shirts every day, despite spilling a decent percentage of each meal down his front. In much the same way, I prefer my cookbooks to be printed on uncoated paper despite being the sort of person who runs a dough-covered finger down the page at regular intervals. Yes, in just a matter of weeks the sticky, flour covered pages of this book will give away which recipes are my favourite, but the paper quality does make for a much nicer reading experience.

Recipes are concise and clear, for the most part fitting on one page, with useful notes for less confident cooks (such as egg size, butter type and temperatures) and handy suggestions for substitutions and servings. It’s nice, too, to discover the diverse sources of inspiration for these recipes outlined by Torode in the introduction to each dish. These vary from his childhood memories of his nanna’s kitchen to the hallowed walls of Conran’s Le Pont de la Tour, all of which help to reinforce the underlying message of the book: good food is good food, no matter where it comes from.