The Corner Shop Cellar: Eight Childhood Drink-and-Crisp Duets, Ranked Like Fine Wine

Somewhere between the school field and the corner shop, Britain quietly assembled a wine list it never knew it had. We are talking, of course, about squash: that undefeated orange elixir, the blackcurrant concentrate at the back of the fridge door with the sticky ring around the cap, the purple stuff that stains a school jumper until Year Nine.

So the snack desk did what any snack desk would do. We borrowed the language of the sommelier, wiped down the kitchen table, and set eight childhood drinks against eight savoury snacks to find out which duets deserve a second glass and which should be quietly poured down the sink with the washing-up water.

The Method (Or: Why We Are Doing This)

Nostalgia is a lousy critic on its own. Left unsupervised, it will insist that anything eaten before your tenth birthday was a masterpiece, including the wall of a garage. So we assembled a panel: two adults with strong and frankly unreasonable views on dilution ratios, plus two children whose entire judging philosophy is whether there is more than there was a minute ago.

Everything was served in the correct glassware, which is to say a plastic beaker with a cartoon animal on the side. Drinks were mixed at 1:5, the only defensible ratio in polite society. Anyone arguing for 1:3 is essentially drinking neat cordial and should be regarded with the same wariness as a man who brings a flask to a wedding.

The Scoring, Out of 20

Four categories, five points apiece, in the grand tradition of things that did not ask to be measured.

Salt-sweet balance asks whether the two halves pull in opposite directions just enough to be interesting. Nostalgic hit is a blunt instrument, and we swung it. Panel verdict is self-explanatory and occasionally brutal. Structural integrity asks whether the crisp survives the drink, or the drink survives the crisp, or whether both give up and form a paste.

A perfect 20 has never been awarded and probably never will be. A 12 is fine at a birthday party. Anything below ten is a diplomatic incident.

The Rankings, Eighth to First

8. Cream Soda and Quavers — 11/20

Sweet upon sweet is the beginner's error, and this pairing commits it with a shrug. Cream soda is pudding in a can; Quavers are cheese-flavoured air with a faint vanilla whisper. There is no friction, no tension, no reason to return for a second mouthful. One panellist described it as eating a cushion. She was not smiling.

7. Fizzy Cola and Ready Salted — 12.5/20

On paper this should work. In the mouth, the cola's bubbles scrub the tongue clean with the enthusiasm of a dentist, so the salt never actually lands anywhere. You finish the glass refreshed and the bag untouched, which is the saddest outcome a bag of crisps can suffer.

6. Lemonade and Wotsits — 13.5/20

Lemonade is a bully. It arrives first, shouting, and leaves Wotsits no room to introduce themselves. The crunch does save it: that odd cloud-shaped dissolve is one of the great textures of the British cupboard, and it survives a good swig. Middling, but cheerful.

5. Blackcurrant and Soda with Skips — 14/20

The most divisive entry of the day. Prawn cocktail tang meets blackcurrant sharpness and something in the brain answers with a picture of a seaside arcade. Half the panel called it genius. The other half asked, politely, to be excused.

4. Dandelion and Burdock with Scampi Fries — 15/20

The grown-up entry, in as much as anything here is grown-up. Aniseed against that unmistakably fishy salt is a combination that tastes like a pub which has been taken over by children. Points for nerve, points for finish, points deducted for the smell lingering in the kitchen until Tuesday.

3. Vimto and Cheese and Onion — 16.5/20

Wrong on paper, right in the mouth. Cheese and onion is rich and slightly buttery; Vimto is herbal, sharp, faintly medicinal in the way that children find thrilling. The drink cuts straight through the fat like a stern aunt at a buffet. The panel turned on this one loudly and without warning, and I have the crumbs to prove it.

2. Ribena and Ready Salted — 18/20

The closest thing British childhood has to a house red. Deep, dark, faintly syrupy, with the salt coming in from the side like a good supporting actor. No surprises, no showing off, entirely content to be drunk on a wall in the sun. A reliable classic.

1. Orange Squash and Salt and Vinegar — 19/20

The champion, and it was not close. The vinegar's acid smacks you first; the squash's sugar rushes in to apologise; the crisp then cracks and the whole thing settles into something almost symphonic. Two bites in, one child declared it the best thing she had ever tasted and asked if we could have it for tea. We said no. We were lying.

Serving Notes for the Would-Be Sommelier

Serve the squash cold, but not iced. Ice is for guests and for people showing off. The beaker should be slightly cloudy from previous use; this is called character.

As for pacing, the traditional rule is one crisp per mouthful of drink, though a strong case can be made for eating the entire bag at speed and then drinking the squash in a single heroic swig. Both are acceptable. Only one is advisable in front of grandparents.

Finally: never pair a drink with a crisp that comes in a bag smaller than your hand, and never discuss the results with anyone who takes crisps seriously. They exist, and they will find you.

The House Verdict

Orange squash wins because it knows its job. It is sweet enough to be a treat, sharp enough to be interesting, and cheap enough that nobody minds pouring out a failed experiment. If the corner shop is a cellar, that big plastic bottle in the fridge door is the house special — and we will take it over anything with a foil neck and a sommelier's signature, thank you very much.