I knew I shouldn’t have eaten treif all those years

To me, there was no conflict or guilt. I just put food in compartments, loving the familiar dishes of my mother and grandmother, both of whom were fabulous Jewish cooks. Yet equally, when I had a creamy bowl of moule mariniere or the sweet and sour pork ribs at the local Chinese all-you-can-eat banquet, I was a happy man.

When I married my first wife, since she wasn’t Jewish and — no kidding — I wasn’t frum, we didn’t keep a kosher home. After all, technically, our two children weren’t Jewish either.

Although, being an Olympic-standard Jewish hypocrite, I drew the line at having bacon, pork or anything manifestly non-kosher at home. (With the exception of my daughter’s 18th birthday party, when we had a hog roast. Though this was in the garden. No triefe in the house.)

But eating out was different. Not least on trips to the south of France, where the cuisine was irresistible, especially the lobster thermidor. And of course frog legs (which to me taste like the pargiot you get at the local kosher deli).

Yet after my first wife and I divorced, I started to feel a yearning to reconnect with my displaced Jewish heritage. I reflected on my cheder days, my barmitzvah, the traditions I had known as a child. I was not quite ready to be a shul-goer, but I slowly edited non-kosher food from my diet. No more breakfast of kings before David Beckham or Jeremy Clarkson rang the office for legal advice. Bacon sandwiches were supplanted by bagels and smoked salmon.

And since the winning results for my so-called professional alter ego “Mr Loophole” were the same, it didn’t seem to be do my career any harm.

I loved traditional Jewish food, not only on Friday night but other days of the week too. Mooching round the deli for fat juicy pickles, chopped herring and of course salt beef sandwiches. A diet which framed a more meaningful and spiritual journey back to my Judaism, which I now try to practise as much as I can.

How ironic, then, that having found my way back this way, thanks to a bout of Covid I no longer enjoy my Jewish food. The virus has stamped all over those taste buds wired to our traditional dishes and robbed me of their taste and smell.

I have no problem tackling, say, poached egg on toast. But chicken soup is like hot dishwater. Challah fresh from the oven is little more than a warm doughy lump. Salt beef feels like chewing on strands of rope — the pickly tang of those stringy bits of meat has gone.

Is this some kind of reverse persecution complex? Am I being punished for all those years of eating non-kosher food by the torment of losing my taste for our religion’s most traditional dishes?

One way to try and get round it is to take a bite and think hard of the memories of, say, my grandmother’s saveloys or mum’s fish balls. But it doesn’t really work.

So will things change? I’ve yet to find a doctor who can address this singularly Jewish krank.

Not that it’s without its benefits. Jewish food has, after all, never routinely featured in those magazine articles about dishes to keep your heart healthy .

But truthfully? I’m at a loss. I start every day not yearning for eggs and bacon with a bunch of coppers but wondering whether I’ll ever again enjoy the true taste of home.