Ben Benton’s self-imposed mission in All You Can Eat is to survey the nation’s gastronomic landscape and assess what, in 2026, constitutes a “British menu”. The chef and food writer certainly has the requisite enthusiasm and gluttony – but the book is frustrating in a number of ways. For starters, Benton continually ties himself up in knots in terms of grand theses, and attempts to draw conclusions based on what is at best a cursory whistlestop tour of the UK.
Brits are both praised for their culinary curiosity and admonished for their lack of it. Our impulse to adapt international cuisines is lauded for giving rise to innovations one minute and disparaged for spawning dismal bastardisations and “failed experiments” the next. What’s more, Benton insists he’s analysing “what we eat at home on a midweek evening”, yet spends all his time in restaurants and shops, never once venturing behind front doors and barely considering cost factors. And it’s baffling why someone who claims we’ve lost contact with our “agrarian roots” fails to formally interview any producers.
And yet there’s still merit to this part travelogue, part food diary – whether Benton is musing on the meaning of authenticity, lamenting our mystifying underappreciation of Caribbean cuisine or singing hymns to the humble parmo and pasty. The takeaway message is clear: our tastes are ever changing, shaped by geopolitical forces as much as by fads and fashions. All You Can Eat celebrates the rich and exciting diversity of foods available to us today – and, by extension, makes a compelling (and timely) case for immigration and multiculturalism.
