There’s a bloke down my street dressed as Spider-Man. He’s been there for a week, gritting his teeth through the tail end of Storm Doris – weather that would test the toughest superhero, let alone one wearing holey Nikes. He’s also wearing a sandwich board, declaring that Domino’s has just opened in the next town.
Such news was of no use to me, a coeliac with ten years’ gluten-free living under her belt. Or so I thought. Still, feeling sentimental, and possibly a bit masochistic, I leafed through the leaflet to drool at some old friends. In particular, Domino’s Texas BBQ pizza, which got me through a rather miserable break up. The man in question had packed his bags after I’d ignored him for a fortnight then taken another chap to the world darts finals. Fair enough, really. So he took off and I took up with takeaways.
Ahh, Domino’s. Sweet sticky sauce on a crispy base, dripping in warm cheese, delivered straight to your door. Then trough the lot in your stained dressing gown while slugging cheap warm white wine from the Polish off-licence next door. What better break-up diet?
But it’s been more than a decade since I last ordered one. I’d ruled them out, along with all kinds of favourite filthy food, when I got diagnosed.
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It also got me thinking, what else have I been unnecessarily denying myself? And why haven’t these places been shouting louder for longer about their free-from credentials? Don’t they know what good customers we are?
Sort it out, foodie businesses. Send out your armies of superheroes and get the news out. Better still, just add your details to the Safer Eating map for free.
By Kay Harrison – starved of Domino’s for 5 pizza-less years (until tonight)
