a forkful of spaghetti

candied and vanilla-salted pecans and walnuts

2011-12-20T14:56:00.006Z

I'm surprising myself here. Two blogposts within a fortnight. Good grief.

Anyway. It's THAT time of year again. Time for a bit of ho ho ho and goodwill to all men. Or something.

Over the past few Christmases, I've been ditching the shop-bought snackage and making more and more festive titbits at home. Frankly, they taste so much better, and usually cost a fraction of the price.

These here nuts are now part of our household's newer Christmas traditions. Every year, I try to find a spare few minutes to have some sticky, nutty fun.

Once they're made, I break them up into manageable bite-sized clusters, and bag them up, ready for tucking into stockings for Christmas morning.

Like most of the recipes on this blog, these candied nuts are quick and easy to make, and ridiculously tasty. And, happily, they give a yielding, crumbly, not tooth-shattering crunch, so even Granny can have some. It's also a highly adaptable recipe, so you can add whatever you fancy by way of spices and the like. But I have to say, I like them just as they are. The secret, I think, is good vanilla salt - I use Halen Mon's.

To make them, you'll need (adapted slightly from here):

125g pecans or walnuts, or a mixture
115g unrefined caster sugar
0.25 tsp vanilla salt

First, roast the nuts for 5 minutes or so at 180C/350F/Gas 4, until they're just starting to toast. Keep a close eye on them, because you don't want them to start catching. Once they're done, take them out of the oven and set them aside.

In a heavy-based saucepan, melt the sugar over a gentle heat. Once it's turned liquid, throw in the pecans, and stir quickly to ensure the nuts are covered thoroughly.

Tip the nutty-sugary combo out onto a baking sheet covered with parchment paper or a silicone mat. Working as quickly as you can, spread the nuts out - I use a couple of forks. While the sugary syrup is still warm, scatter the vanilla salt over.

Leave the nuts to cool. Once they're completely cold, break into bite-sized clusters and keep in an airtight container or bag them up for presents.

* Want savoury snackage for Christmas as well? Some equally simple-to-make and super-tasty cheese biscuits are over on my other blog, here.

Merry mincemeat morsels

2011-12-06T13:38:00.008Z

As aged and commensurately cynical as I am, I do love a spot of Christmas. But preferably not starting until about, oh, Christmas Eve.

However, there is one festive frippery I'll happily indulge in before the Christmas holiday period, and that's mince pies. Mmmmm, mince pies. There's something so very right about them at this time of year.

I've never really been one to make my own, not least because when I lived in London, our nearest deli - all of 30 yards down the road - supplied some exceedingly good ones from 1 December through to the end of January. By which time, I was pretty much mince-pied out for another season.

And... *whispers this quietly* .... I was also partial to the odd Crimble Crumble from a well-known takeout store.

But now, living out in the rural wilds of Kent as I have done for the past few months, the above options are, sadly, no longer open to me.

What to do?

Embracing the spirit of self-sufficiency (the damson voddie is rather nice, thank you), I've taken it upon myself this year to make my own mincemeat thingies. And, since tasting the results, I'm confident in declaring that I'll be doing so from hereon in for a very long time to come. They are, if I may say so, rather wonderful. And I can say that, because the recipe's not mine.

Really, they're dead quick and easy to make (oh, and cheap - about £3 max), and a fantastic alternative to mince pies and those Pret versions... They're also utterly addictive, so don't bake them unless you have company.

And, because it's Christmas, they're obviously best served with a glass of something appropriately boozy. Failing that, a good ol' cuppa.

The recipe is taken from the excellent Joy of Baking, and is very slightly edited/adapted here.

260 g plain flour
20 g corn flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
225 g unsalted butter, room temperature
70 g light brown sugar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
400 g good quality mincemeat

Preheat oven to 375F/190 C and place the wire oven rack in the centre of the oven.

Grease a 20 cm x 20 cm square baking tin.

In a separate bowl whisk the flour, cornflour, and the salt. Set aside.

In the bowl of your electric mixer (or with a hand mixer), beat the butter until smooth (about 1 minute). Add the sugar and beat until smooth (about 2 minutes). Beat in the vanilla extract. Gently stir in the flour mixture just until incorporated.

Evenly press two-thirds of the shortbread into the bottom of the prepared pan. Then evenly spread the mincemeat over the shortbread base, leaving a 1/4 inch border.

With the remaining shortbread dough, using your fingers, crumble it over the top of the mincemeat. Then lightly press the dough into the mincemeat.

Bake in the preheated oven for about 30 minutes, or until golden brown on top. Remove from oven, place on a wire rack, and while still hot, cut into 16 squares. Allow to cool completely in pan.

Makes about 16 bars.

My tips:

I mixed in the flour using my hands. I simply find it easier to make the dough come together that way.

pastry and shortbread bakes better from cold. I therefore put the shortbread base in the freezer for 5 mins (once pressed into the baking tin), and put the remaining crumble mix in the fridge while I was waiting.

I found the crumble mix just a little on the claggy side, so I added some icing sugar (about a tablespoon) to the mix to make it lighter and more crumbly.

as you can see from the photos, I finished the squares with a light dusting of icing sugar, too. Well, it is Christmas.

for my next batch, I'll be substituting some darker sugar and a pinch of cinnamon to the pastry.

The Allotment, Dover

2011-10-20T11:27:00.004+01:00

Dover. Hmmm. Fair to say that it's probably not the first place that comes to mind for a 'decent weekend nosh' destination. Unless, that is, you happen to remember a Jay Rayner review of a couple of years ago or so, live a short train ride away, and like the idea of a restaurant championing uber-local and seasonal produce. In which case, Dover doesn't seem such a bonkers idea after all. (And, while we're at it, the Michelin-starred Marquis at Alkham is just a short trip out of the centre.)

So, one chilly but cheeringly sunny October afternoon, we rolled up outside the rather splendid Town Hall (worth a visit in itself, honest). And there, across the road, and largely obscured by a million speeding cars, was our modest little venue:

If outside was traffic madness, The Allotment's interior was - thankfully - a haven of calm and warmth.

And, er, a certain degree of worrying emptiness. Yikes. A glass of Chapel Down's Flint Dry was swiftly ordered - and brought to the table - as a nerve steadier.

Still, everything seemed broadly encouraging. Wonderful decor (tongue and groove panelling everywhere, high ceiling, groovy retro-nod lighting, suitably aged wooden flooring), decent tableware, friendly waiting staff. Menu? Well, ish:

It's not that there was anything wrong with it - it just wasn't the kind of menu to get me positively dribbling with excitement. Some might regard that as a good thing, not least of whom my dining companion.

I gave the aforementioned the task of choosing a starter for us to share. The result? 'Vegetable quesilladas.' Right. I won't be making that mistake again.

Or will I? Y'know, they were really rather good. I'm no expert on Mexican food, and I wouldn't mind betting these would have offended the authenticity hunters, but these prim little quesilladas ticked our boxes for kick-off. Beautifully light, gently crisped, filled with spicy (if unspecified) veggie goodness, and accompanied by a convincing guacamole. And, thankfully, not drowned with sour cream. Relief all round.

Onwards, to mains. For no particular reason, it's been a while since I've eaten sea bass, so that was precisely what grabbed my fancy here. With a buerre blanc? Oh go on, then.

Sea bass? Check. Buerre blanc? Check. Melty mash? Check. But, um, braised red cabbage? I don't know whether the chef was recovering from a big night out, or whether cabbage was all they had to work with that day, but I wasn't wowed by the prospect. Mildly alarmed would be rather nearer the mark.

But, dang it, The Allotment tricked to deceive again. It might not have been the most seamless match ever, but I ate it all, as did The Other Diner, so what does that tell you? Perhaps it says most about the cooking here - it's assured, light of touch, and all about the yum factor. The bass was superbly flavoursome, the buerre blanc spot on, and the mash was a winner for butter lovers everywhere. And that cabbage - whether as a mouthful on its own, or scooped up with the bass and everything else - was actually a pleasure to eat. That'll teach me.

By this time, I'm happy to report, the place was filling up. Some, like us, were late lunchers, but it seems that this is also the local 'go to' place for some serious indulgence of the carbohydrate kind. Generous cakes and tarts with rustic eye appeal occupy the deli-style counter by front door, so perhaps that's no surprise.

The pudding menu was equally big on comfort factor - apple crumble, double chocolate mousse, baked blueberry cheesecake, raspberry and almond tart, and meringue with poached plums.

The Other Diner opted for the plums:

And I decided on the tart:

If I use the word 'light' again, this time for the tart, you'll probably shoot me, won't you? But it was. And moist. And liberal with both ground almonds and raspberries. Most tarts like this tend to be a tad on the dry or claggy side, but not this one. Not a soggy bottom in sight, either. Pure tart joy. With a dollop of excellent vanilla-flecked ice cream on the side.

The Other Diner's meringue and plums were lapped up, although there was a minor whimper along the lines of more fruit required.

While we nursed our coffees, our bill arrived. £53 for a 2.5 course lunch, with wine and coffee. Not cheap, but not horrifically spenny, either, for food like this - tasty, well cooked and portioned, and served with care and plenty of charm. Whether The Allotment can keep going in a not especially prepossessing part of Dover through this particularly vicious recession remains to be seen. But, based on our visit, I'd certainly say it deserves to do so. So next time you're on your way through Dover, I suggest you do yourself and a little local resto a good turn, and stop a while at The Allotment.

The Sportsman, Seasalter

2011-08-26T14:09:00.008+01:00

No, this isn't going to be a review of every single thing I ate. If you want a blow-by-blow account, see e.g. the excellent reviews by fellow bloggers EssexEating, CheeseandBiscuits, FoodStories, or HollowLegs, which cover much of the same territory (the tasting menu doesn't change a great deal, it seems).

I'm far too lazy to do all that. So I'm just going to stick up some photos, identify them (as far as my memory serves me), add a few comments as I go along, and then finish off with a few thoughts at the end. OK?

Here goes:

Not going to win awards for stunning exterior facade, but...

...inside, it's cosy but airy, comfortable, and relaxed.

The breads: sourdough, soda, and focaccia. The dark, treacly soda was particularly amazing, but they were all fantastic. The butter is made on the premises from raw cream.

Pickled herring (a sweet cure) on rye, with gooseberry jam. And lighter-than-light pork scratchings. A great way to start.

Poached oyster, with pickled cucumber and Avruga caviar. Not mine (after a nasty incident involving oysters a couple of years ago), but The Other Diner's. Reported to be 'delicious'.

Liver pâté. Probably the lightest, smoothest, and most flavoursome liver pâté I've ever eaten, on the most exquisitely thin Melba toast.

Dainty beetroot tartlets. Made with super-delicate, friable pastry and punchy roasted beetroot.

Chilled beetroot soup. I am not the greatest fan of soup, and the idea of this one - prior to its arrival - didn't thrill me. Oh, how I ate my words. The flavours sang as brightly as the colour. My word, it was good. So, so good.

Slip sole in seaweed butter. It had both of us licking our plates for every last morsel, every last droplet of molten butter. So simple, but utterly stunning.

The Other Diner's crab risotto. Made from the brown meat, with the white meat atop. Pronounced 'gorgeous.'

My Salmagundi. In times gone by, this was a sort of random leftovers salad mashup. At The Sportsman, it was elevated to the realms of salady godliness. All manner of vegetables were crammed into it, in one form or other - raw, pureed, pickled, blanched... (carrot, aubergine, tomato, cauliflower, cucumber, courgette, broad beans...) And underneath the leafiness was a perfectly poached egg. Joy unconfined.

Courgette 'spaghetti' with parmesan, topped with The Sportsman's home-cured ham. As beautiful as it looked, I wasn't madly wowed by the ham. The courgette creation, however - YES. Made from raw courgettes, it was soft, moist (ooer), melty in the mouth, and with just the right proportion of cheese to make it umami-ly moreish.

The King of Fish - braised turbot with sea beet from the shoreline 'out the back', baby sage leaves, and smoked roe velouté. Turbot is a rare treat at the best of times, and on the odd occasion I've eaten it previously, I've sometimes been left a little disappointed. Not here. It was every bit as wonderful as it should have been. Stephen Harris really, really knows how to cook fish.

Breadcrumbed and fried lamb breast with the ultimate mint sauce. Comfort food of the highest order. With a mint sauce far, far removed from any mint sauce you can find elsewhere on this planet. Scrummy.

Roast lamb from the farm across the road. It doesn't get any fresher or any more locally sourced than this. Tender and tasty. The only meat dish on the menu. And, strangely, perhaps the least compelling. But still, by anyone's standards, very good indeed.

Cherry ice lolly with Madeira cake milk. Exactly what it says on the tin. Take Madeira cake, soak it in milk for a wee while. Strain off milk. Eat with luscious cherry lolly. Run out of superlatives. The fruitiest fruity lolly I've ever had the pleasure of eating. I have no idea how many cherries went into it. Possibly an entire orchard. Even the Other Diner, who professes not to like cherries, was groaning with ecstasy.

Cream cheese ice cream 'with strawberry'. And crunchy meringue crumbled over. The strawberry element was somewhere between a soup and a light jam. It captured all the essence of strawberry, and without any undue sweetness. Lovely, lovely, lovely.

And just when you think it's all over, the 'petits' (!) fours arrive... My. God. Assorted indulgences - chocolate mousse with salted caramel, jasmine tea junket with rosehip syrup, shortbread, truffle, summer fruit tartlets. Note to self: wear elasticated-waist slacks next time.

A close-up of that tartlet. Isn't it pretty?

THE END. The fresh air outside. Which you will need. Not that you'll be able to walk.

The overall verdict? Probably the finest meal I've eaten on these shores. I went with unfeasibly high expectations and they were blown out of the water. It was stupendously good, and words can't express just how fantastic all the flavours were - a real all-singing, all-dancing celebration of the ingredients. Here, I felt, was a chef who cares about his food in a way quite unlike any other whose food I've eaten, and who absolutely revels in it, too. It wasn't poncified food, it was extraordinarily joyous food, and the wonderful thing is that you can taste every single ounce of that delight. I will dream about it for a very, very long time.

new beginnings, and the Fairy Hobmother

2011-07-06T14:35:00.004+01:00

Ahem.

*taps microphone*

Anyone still there?

If so, you have the patience of a saint, and your reward is a nice, big piece of chocolate cake.

I've been busy, a bit unwell, and generally all over the place of late, so blogging hasn't been high on my list of priorities, as you've most probably noticed. Maybe.

Anyway, I thought I'd break my deafening silence to let you know about two things. One - is that I haven't been entirely idle all this time. Not quite. In yet another burst of wine-fuelled insanity, I've started another blog, over here: http://www.akentishkitchen.co.uk/ (Twitter ID @akentishkitchen). *End of shameless plug*

Two - you might have seen, around and about the blogosphere, that the Fairy Hobmother (aka Appliances Online, who sell cookers and other white goods) has been dishing out surprise kitchen appliance gifts to unsuspecting bloggers. Well, I'm happy to say that the Hobmother - actually called Dave, but we'll overlook that for the moment - would like to pay a similar visit to one super-lucky person who comments on this post.

So what are you waiting for? Get commenting. I don't mind what you say, but if you'd give me some feedback on the new blog, then so much the better. And please keep it clean. The Fairy Hobmother certainly won't visit you otherwise.

Good luck. Over and out.

Scandilicious: a review

2011-05-18T11:25:00.013+01:00

Cookbooks, eh? There are seemingly more of them being published by the day than you can shake a wooden spoon at. Whoever said print media was dead?

For any aspiring author, however, this means that it’s harder than ever to get your book noticed. To make any headway, you need to bring something fresh to the mix.

The author of Scandilicious: Secrets of Scandinavian Cooking, Signe Johansen, has done just that, and has written the book that everyone is currently clamouring to buy. Why? Quite simply because she’s articulate, informed, sparky, humorous, endearingly self-effacing, and – hoorah! – she writes fantastically attractive and accessible recipes. Put those ingredients together for a cookbook, and you have everything you need and more for a bestseller. Saltyard Books (an offshoot of Hodder and Stoughton) must be hugging themselves – a new publishing and meeja star is theirs.

Thanks largely to Noma, and other, now highly acclaimed Scandi chefs, Scandinavian food is of course no longer a suspiciously fishy novelty in the UK. In London, eateries such as Texture, Madsen, and the Scandinavian Kitchen, have also been doing their bit to further the cause of Nordic cooking.

But in my view, there’s been no cookbook to date that reflects the best of all that Scandinavia has to offer. Maybe it’s just me, but those that have gone before have come across a tad austere, a little too ‘clean living’ and hair-shirted for me to truly warm to them.

And therein lies a clue to the critical factors responsible for the success of Scandilicious. It’s warm, engaging, generous, and indulgent. It’s packed with recipes for food that you really, really want to eat. (Examples? To list but a scant handful: banana, coconut and chocolate milkshake; cinnamon and chestnut bread; Jarlsberg and fennel muffins; blackberry, almond, and cardamom cake; Daim cake; lemony choux buns; anchovy and potato gratin; Bergen fish chowder; evening pancakes; Norwegian cheesecake with tipsy strawberries.... need I go on?)

Scandilicious is big on home-style Scandi cooking, as influenced by Signe’s childhood and lessons learned at both her grandmothers' apron strings. In short, it appeals to the big-kid-who-likes-licking-the-bowl in all of us. (And yes, there is an entire slaver-inducing chapter on 'Afternoon Cake'.) Unreserved gluttonous enjoyment and comfort therefore abound: cream, cheese, chocolate, alcohol - they're all here in gleeful dollops (to the extent that Signe's Scandi version of macaroni cheese should probably come with a health warning), along with a great deal else.

But there is far more to Signe than home cooking – not least a Leith’s diploma, a stint at the Fat Duck, and significant contributions to other recipe books, to mention just a few strings to her rather full bow. An enviably impressive skills set underpins her recipes, not to mention rigorous attention to detail and a real desire to bring the joy and diversity of Scandinavian food (if you think it's all meatballs, berries, and gravlaks - think again) to the UK public. You won’t find flights of fancy here – just straightforward, reliable formulas, together with a wealth of genuinely explanatory hints and tips, for stupendously delicious nosh. And that’s precisely what makes it such a cracking cookbook.

Thankfully, Saltyard Books have given this publication the red-carpet treatment it warrants. It’s beautifully produced, and replete with sumptuous photographs throughout. It’s the kind of book that would look great on a coffee table – but frankly, that would be a travesty (unless, of course, you buy two copies – one for looking gorgeous in your living room, and one for the kitchen). This is a recipe book you’ll love to use daily, from breakfast through to supper, and through all the seasons.

There is so much more I could say, but I realise I’m in danger of gushing, so just get the book and see for yourself. If you regret your purchase, I’ll eat my herring.

I understand that Scandilicious Book 2 is already in the pipeline. Watch this space for much, much more to come. For in Signe Johansen, Saltyard Books have found a brilliant original and authentic voice, and Scandinavian food has found itself a dynamic and impassioned ambassador. And, most importantly, cooks everywhere have found a new friend.

With thanks to Saltyard Books for a review copy of Scandilicious.

tongue and groovy: ox tongue fritters and green sauce

2011-05-09T12:30:00.005+01:00

So there I was at the weekend, getting my ducks/photos in a row, ready to write this post on ox tongue and green sauce.

And then I sit down to read the paper, and see that Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall has stolen my thunder and written about the VERY SAME THING in the Guardian. I mean - how very dare he? I shall be having a word with his people, never fear.

In the meantime, dear reader, I decided to persist. I did so, not least because HFW missed a trick.

And that trick is to fritter away your tongue. Well, not yours, but the ox's, obviously. Frittering it makes it much more fun to eat and, I'll suggest, more darn tasty and more suitable for summer, too. It's also a cunning way of disguising tongue if you're planning on serving it up to those who, shall we say, might be a little squeamish about all things offal. Prepare it like this, and you'll never hear a negative squeak of disgust or dissent.*

Here's how, in short. First, buy a salted ox tongue from your butcher. It should look like the photo above. You might want to leave it to rinse in cold water for a while before you get properly started - or, if you've got a nice butcher, s/he might have done that for you.

Then, cover the tongue with water (you'll need a BIG pan), bring it to the boil, bubble it away for a couple of hours with a few tasty bits and pieces, such as these:

But unlike me, try not to forget the head of garlic.

It's done when you can pierce the meat readily with a knife. It won't look any prettier than it did before you cooked it, but at least it's edible now.

Remove it from the pan, and leave for a couple of minutes while it cools a little.

While it's still warm, peel away the skin from the tongue. Yes, I know - yeeeeeeeeeuch - but it's got to be done. And it's much easier to do while the tongue's warm. So just get on with it.

Once you've taken off the skin, it's ready to serve. For fritters, cut the tongue into slices of about 3 or 4mm. Dip each slice in beaten egg, and then in white breadcrumbs seasoned with plenty of freshly ground black pepper and Halen Mon's rather wonderful celery salt. Shallow fry in hot oil - turning once - for as long as it takes for the crumbs on each side to turn golden brown.

Serve with a really punchy green sauce. You may as well use HFW's recipe. Grrrr. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Really, I'm not. Make it as the man says (or as Fergus Henderson says, if you've got Nose to Tail), and don't stint on the parsley, anchovies or capers.

Tuck in, and don't stop until you've licked every morsel from your plate.

*Well, it's worth a try, anyway. Worked for me ;-)

A Royal Wedding, a village, and a party with a potent (Courvoisier) punch

2011-05-02T14:29:00.008+01:00

Take one memorable Royal Wedding. Add a village in deepest Kent, a generous offer from the nice people at Courvoisier, and a gathering of folk quick to recognise a chance for a party when they see one.

Place all ingredients in a good-sized village hall. Mix well. Stand back, and let the fun commence...

the goodies arrive...

... along with the top-secret recipe...

dress code...

the hall gets a makeover...

... and the newly-weds put in a guest appearance. Honest.

the stage is set...

... while, backstage, things are looking promising...

... and there's time for a couple of trial cups...

... which seem to go down pretty well...

... and why stop at a cup or two when you can have an entire bottle?

thankfully, a dashing manservant is on hand to make sure the punch is shared around...

the village hall quickly starts filling up...

... and our immaculate MC announces the arrival of....

... YES! The fish and chip van! Cue frenzied queueing!

... and tough decisions. Ketchup, tartare sauce, or both?

'Can I nick your chips?'

No time to digest, as the disco cranks up...

... Camilla puts in an appearance...

... and there's yet another chance for an all-important photoshoot...

... or a spot of dodgy Dad* dancing... (*not mine)

... before, all too soon, the night comes to a glorious, riotous end, marked by that well-known hymn to sobriety, YMCA.

And I'm pleased to say that there are rumours that we'll be doing it all over again soon. Diamond Jubilee, anyone? BRING IT ON.

Feting the feta: a slice of Ottolenghi magic

2011-04-19T10:12:00.009+01:00

Quick post again, as the house refurb drags on...

I should have posted about this yonks ago, like last year when I first made it. I didn't because the photo was taken only as a hasty afterthought, isn't very good (and, worse still, betrays my laziness when lining tins), and doesn't remotely do the food justice.

But the 'cheesecake' is just so darn good, and our current spell of fabulous weather so utterly perfect for it (lunch al fresco, anyone?), that it would be wrong of me to neglect it any longer.

Like most (all?) of Ottolenghi's recipes, it is a work of genius. The main ingredients are simple and, of themselves, unspectacular (aubergines, feta, tomatoes). But combine them with some Ottolenghi magic, and you have something altogether quite wonderful.

I served it up to a party of 10, of whom one was a professed vegetarian. Needless to say, all the carnivores tucked in, too, and everyone fought for the crumbs. I won't make that mistake again. I'll be making two. I might even make it the centrepiece. It really is that good.

let's get to the meat: panch phoran pork belly

2011-03-31T10:23:00.006+01:00

I'm going to keep this short. Yes, I am. This post is all about the meat. Because, in this case, the meat - courtesy of the recipe - was so bloody good, you really need to skip my verbiage and get on and make it yourself.

In short, it's pork belly, confited and infused with a wonderful blend of subcontinental flavours - cumin, fenugreek, mustard, fennel, and kalonji seeds - that makes up panch phoran. And then roasted. Your home will be filled with splendid aromas for hours, and you'll want to make it again as soon as you've finished eating it, if not sooner.

I made this over 2 afternoons when I was short on hover-over-the-stove time. Hence the lack of photos at every stage. But I hope you'll get the idea.

First, confit your slab of pork belly along with a tablespoon of panch phoran rubbed into the skin. (It should take about 3 hours.) The original recipe suggests grinding the spices first; I opted for the more jewel-like effect of keeping them whole. Then, do a cheffy thing of flattening a bit and leaving it in the fridge overnight weighed down by tins or any other suitably heavy objects. Like this:

The next day, remove the tins and your pork should look something like this:

Pretty, innit?

Without further ado, whack your oven up to 220C. Surround the belly with the best red grapes you can get hold of...

... plus the odd piece of star anise if you've got it, and slam the lot in for 20-25 minutes until the pork skin has become crispy, and the grapes have turned, well, squashy. It probably won't be much of a looker*, particularly if you have a patchy oven like I do, with unpredictable hotspots, but don't be deterred. It WILL taste sublime.

Leave it to cool just a tad before you tuck in, otherwise you'll burn your mouth in the attempt to shove in as much of this porky wonder as possible. Serve with rice and whatever else you fancy - I suggest something green and zingy...

... in this case, purple sprouting broccoli quickly stir-fried with a ginger and garlic paste and some red chilli flakes. Perfect for the job. And then eat. Complete silence reigned while we ate ours. Never has so much pork been devoured in so short a time by so few. You have been warned. This stuff is seriously addictive.

* I defer to the author of the original recipe on this. His most definitely is a looker (as is his entire blog - well worth following, IMHO). There's no way mine was ever going to look like that, not least because I was far too preoccupied with how quickly I could get it in my mouth rather than how beautiful I could make it look. It's all about priorities.

No-apology chocolate cake

2011-03-15T08:31:00.007Z

It hasn’t escaped my notice that I seem to post rather a lot about chocolate and cakes, and often both at the same time. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. World peace could probably be achieved if only there was enough chocolate and cake to go around, but that’s another discussion entirely.

So, because I firmly believe in not fixing something if it’s working perfectly well, I hereby bring you yet another chocolate and cake post. It will add inches to your waistline, up your cholesterol levels, stoke up your blood sugar and, most of all, do wonders for your soul.

This particular creation of chocolate joy is all the more delectable for its idiot-proof simplicity and use of store cupboard ingredients. You don’t need a kilo of chocolate or tons of butter to make it, and nor do you need any fancy gadgets or trickery. You just mix everything together, slap it in the tin, and wait for it to emerge from the oven some time later. Even I can do that.

I first came across this recipe a few years ago, when moneysavingexpert.com was a relative novelty (and when Twitter had barely even got going), and I was drawn to the site for its gathering together of food-loving wallet-watchers. As Frugal Cook would surely agree, some extraordinarily good recipes can spring from straitened times.

You can either read the original post, recipe, and commentary here, or read on for my ever-so-slightly edited and tweaked version.

Chocolate yogurt cake
5 fl oz vegetable oil
5 fl oz natural yoghurt
4 level tbsp golden syrup
6 oz caster sugar
3 eggs
8 oz self-raising flour
3 rounded tbsp cocoa
½ level tsp bicarbonate of soda
½ level tsp salt

1. Heat your oven to 325°F/160°C/gas mark 3. Grease and line an 8" round cake tin.

2. Place oil, yoghurt, syrup, caster sugar and eggs in a bowl; beat with a wooden spoon until well mixed. Sift flour, cocoa, bicarbonate of soda and salt into bowl and mix well.

3. Pour mixture into prepared tin and bake in centre of oven for 1hr 30 mins - 1hr 40 mins. Test with the fingers. If cooked, the cake should spring back and have begun to shrink away from the side of the tin.

4. Leave cake to cool in tin, then turn out and remove paper. EAT! (when cool, obviously... Patience is a virtue, remember.)

To store: wrap in foil; keep 2 to 3 days for full flavour (a cruel tease, I know), then up to 1 week in a tin.

If you want to create some additional interest, throw some ground cardamom and/or orange or lime zest into the mix. There’s no reason, either, why you shouldn’t smother the whole thing with ganache. But it really is perfectly good on its own, or else served with a dollop of crème fraiche.

the Great Little BakeOff, or when Hollywood came to rural Kent

2011-03-08T08:14:00.005Z

When friends, family and neighbours found out last year that we were planning to move from London to a teeny-tiny village in east Kent, the most common reaction we elicited was one of a dreamy wistfulness - along the lines of ‘I don’t blame you – I’d love to leave London’; or ‘I’d love to live in the countryside’; or words to that sort of effect. Of course, there were contrasting views, too, such as ‘I could never leave London’, or ‘I’m a city girl/boy through and through’, and ‘I could never live in the country – I hate spiders’ (fair point).

To be honest, we were looking for the best of both worlds – a home in the country, for a bit of peace and quiet in our daily lives (police sirens screaming past our front door at all hours in SW12 didn’t always do it for us), but fast and ready access to London for when our hankering for the bright lights gets the better of us. Thank you, high-speed rail link.

With our rose-tinted specs determinedly on, we also hoped to find a sense of community, a commitment to the area – where we could feel a part of ‘something’, and where folk pull together for the common good. Just like in the olden golden days. Obviously you can find that in parts of London, too, but it certainly wasn’t happening where we lived.

On Saturday, we witnessed the most brilliant illustration so far of precisely that community and commitment in action.

Our local primary school needs a new playground surface. The grand sum of £20,000 is required to get the job done – money that local and central government simply aren’t willing or able to spend.

Enter Paul Hollywood – a local, for one thing, and celebrated baker for another – and a Big Idea. What if the school held a mini-version of the Great British Bake Off to raise the money? (For those of you who missed it [why? how? where on earth were you?], GBBO was the televised baking competition which entertained us over several weeks last year, and which proclaimed the lovely food blogger and Twitterer, Edd Kimber, as the worthy winner.)

A plan was hatched in the form of said bake-off. Money would be generated by charging everyone a small fee to enter their baked goodies, and an entrance fee to be charged on the day to anyone wanting to come and see and eat cake. Word was circulated around the neighbouring villages. Glittering prizes were promised. Stellar judges were lined up: not only the dashing Mr Hollywood (aka the Silver Fox)...

Dashing. Silver. Foxy.

... but also his fellow judge on GBBO, the evergreen Mary Berry*, AND the winner of Masterchef 2010, the gawjuss melty-eyed Dhruv Baker, and, er, Rufus Hound.

Judging. It's tough work, honestly.

But it was also a huge gamble. Would the mighty reputations of the judges positively scare people off? And would people even come?

Stupid questions. The bakers of east Kent, including the children, baked like their lives depended on it.

The children's (under-12s) competition. Mighty impressive.

Large cakes, small cakes, cookies, savoury bakes and bread crowded the massive trestle tables.

And the locals turned out in their hundreds. For most of the time, it was too packed even to move. The judges got going...

Oh, the scrutiny, the tension.

... while never in my life have I seen so much cake eaten in one place. And not just by the judges (whose task wasn’t necessarily the dream gig you might imagine, viz. Dhruv: “it was a dream to start with but Rufus and I were not eating professional amounts (like Mary) and were stuffed pretty quickly!”).

Dhruv and Rufus deep in discussion. R: 'Can you eat any more?' D: 'Please don't make me.'

The paying public also played its part with suitable gusto, devouring those cakes removed from display as soon as they were deemed not to have made the final ‘top 20’ (for another money-raising bargainous charge of £1 per stomach-busting slice). Everywhere I looked, there were plates piled high with carb goodness, along with chunky mugs of tea, being taken back to friends and family seated around little kiddy-sized tables.

So many cakes, so much happy munching, so many smiley, happy faces (sugar highs, don’t knock ‘em). And if we weren’t contributing enough by eating cake, more money was being prised from our pockets in the form of side attractions (really? Dhruv needs a side attraction?) which included raffles, ‘name the bear’ and ‘guess the weight of the cake’ competitions, and stalls selling homeware and cookery books.

But, like all good things, the feeding frenzy - sorry, jollity - had to end some time. There’s only so much cake folk can eat in an afternoon, after all.

Dhruv. Eating 'non-professional amounts'. Struggling. Eh, Dhruv?

Late into the afternoon, final decisions were made, prizes announced, speeches made, and thanks went out to all involved. Everyone had pulled together. Everyone had a great time. The school will get its playground, and that, in turn, will help ensure that families with children will still want to come and live here, and that the villages and their communities live on.

And that is exactly what we moved to the area for. The quality of cake baking around here has absolutely nothing to do with it, honest.

*fellow blogger, MiMi (also @meemalee), asked me the following question on Twitter: “Does she look as much like Nicholas Parsons in real life as she does on the telly?” I couldn’t possibly comment, except to say yes. Yes, she does. Or is it the other way around?

making a pig's ear of it, or not. A simple, tasty, cheap snack of porky goodness.

2011-03-01T08:48:00.007Z

Yes, EARS. Big, flappy, hairy things. Much eaten in, say, Spain, but pretty much shunned over 'ere (geddit?).

So, first - a mini-rant. I despair of those who express revulsion at 'unusual' bits of animal, not least because it often transpires that they've never actually tried said part. They just don't like the idea, and never get beyond that. What a tremendously dull way to live your life.

People, the bits of animal most frequently discarded are often the most fantastically flavoursome. Good quality offal, for example, is an absolute joy to eat. Other points in favour of unpopular bits and pieces is that, in these frugal times, they are great wallet-savers. Many butchers can barely give the stuff away (as also observed by Fiona Beckett in her excellent Frugal Cook blog). The pig's ears I used for this recipe cost me a grand total of 50p. My butcher threw in a pig's liver for free, because 'nobody else will have it and I was going to chuck it away'. Fantastic. That's one delicious pot of Sorpotel coming right up, then.

Anyway, to ears. A little glimpse as to how to make a tasty snack from them.

First, take your ears. Or, more precisely, the pig's ears.

Singe or shave off any excess hairy bits. Chuck the ears in a pot. Cover with water. Bring it up to the boil. Reduce the heat until the water reaches a simmer, and then bubble away for as long as it takes for the meat to become tender - anywhere between 1hr 30mins and 3 hours. And no, I can't deny it - they won't look pretty in the meantime.

Nor, if you're of an overly-sensitive disposition, do they look especially wonderful straight out of the pan.

To someone like me, however, they look good and ready for the next stage. With a sharp knife, slice the ears into thin slivers, and blot them as dry as possible with kitchen towel.

Either dig out a deepfryer, or 2/3rds fill a pan with oil for frying. Once the oil is good and hot, dunk the ear slivers in, and give them a bit of a poke around to help prevent them from sticking to each other. AND - be careful. Hot oil + pig's ears = much spitting.

BUT - the end result is totally worth it. Remove the slivers with a slotted spoon once they've crisped up, and season them liberally with your very best salt and pepper.

A chilled dry sherry makes an excellent accompanying slurp.

Not convinced? Please, at least TRY. And if you don't want to cook them for yourself, book yourself into St. John, and let Fergus Henderson and his nose-to-tail-championing team work their magic for you instead.

Happy Barfi to me: recipe testing for Prepped!

2011-02-13T08:55:00.003Z

One of the best things about being a food blogger is that, from time to time, some fun and interesting opportunities come along. For me, one of those is recipe testing. I like 'playing' with recipes anyway - and the chance to do so more constructively for someone else is an offer I rarely pass up.

So when Vanessa Kimbell - a woman on a crazy-lady mission to write a recipe book within a year, having given up her job to achieve that ambition - asked me if I'd liked to test her orange and cardamom barfi recipe, I was hardly going to say no.

Two more factors added to inevitability of my taking up this particular challenge: I have an unhealthy love of sweet treats, and I adore Indian food. And how.

But enough about me. This is about Vanessa. It's about her book, Prepped!, now reaching its very final stages before publication. Another book is, I understand, in the pipeline. Prepped!, her first, and not even on the bookshelves just yet, is receiving a great deal of attention, and the sense of expectation is tangible. And her admirable decision to go after her dream is already taking her places - she was recently invited to front a local radio show on which she gets the chance to talk yet more food. A career in the industry is clearly already evolving, and fast.

What's different about Vanessa and her cookbook? Well, I could try giving you a synopsis (it's aimed at 'time-short foodies'), but frankly, you'd do a lot better to read it straight from the horse's blog - at http://writingacookerybook.blogspot.com/ (and you can pre-order the book from there while you're at it).

But the question is - is the book any good? The proof of the recipes is, of course, in the testing and tasting, so here goes... Take a look at it, accompanying video and all, here.

You don't need many ingredients, so that's a good start for a cook in a hurry. You just need these...

...none of them particularly difficult to get hold of, although I found I could only get full-fat milk powder from an Asian store. Butter will do in place of ghee, although it's worth going the extra mile for ghee if you can.

Then, as the recipe indicates, it's pretty much a case of warming a few ingredients and mixing them all together. It really is that simple. My only word of warning is that at the second mixing, you need to stir vigorously and thoroughly, or you might find that you get a few lumps forming. If you do, it's not a disaster - but it will mean that your barfi don't have an even texture.

I used an 11" x 7" baking tin to put the mixture in. A shallower, wider tin, such as a swiss roll tin, should also work fine - it all depends on how chunky you like your barfi. I like something I can sink my gnashers into, so the tin I used was perfect, as it yielded barfi a shade under an inch thick (Yes, I know. I have a cavernous mouth.)

Anyway, one way or another, you should end up with something that looks like this:

... at which point, you can either cut it into pretty shapes, like Vanessa did or, as I did, simply cut it into smallish squares. (You might find an oiled knife useful for the task.) I found that I got 24 good-sized pieces from the tray. I don't want to throw down rash challenges, but for me, one piece at a time was ample - what with the full-fat milk powder and the ghee, it's incredibly rich stuff.

And the all-important taste? As scrummy as any barfi I've eaten. The addition of orange zest undoubtedly acts as great foil for the richess, as does the cardamom. I loved 'em. Yes, past tense, because - true to form - I've already hoovered the lot up. And that, I think, tells its own story.

In short, this is a dead easy and speedy recipe that any lover of sweet treats will fall for. And if it's any indication as to the merits of Vanessa's others recipes (more examples here), then I can see Prepped! being a great success.

Thanks, Vanessa - and all the very best of luck with the book!

Who's going to Dinner?

2011-01-27T11:47:00.008Z

Oooooh, look - ANOTHER shiny new restaurant in London Town. Welcome, Heston B. Join the thrusting throng.

Is it me, or does a new eating place open there every day at the moment? It seems as though the world's chefs, their wives, and their dogs are all clamouring for space in the capital. Which, y'know, is all very nice an' all, but why did they have to leave it until I was moving out of town? Hmmm? Well, Heston?

Anyway, moving on...

In this particular instance it gives me particular smug satisfaction to say that I've been to Dinner already. Lookee here - pictorial proof:

And very good it was, too. If Chinese/Szechuan cooking is your kind of thing, then I suggest you hop over to the loveliness of Oslo and get yourself some decent nosh.

I had the pleasure when I was there last summer. It's right slap-bang in the middle of Oslo, just a 2-minute short stroll from the harbour. No, it wasn't my first choice of places to go, but since the much-recommended Theatercaféen was closed for a refurb (how dare they?), we had to go off-piste.

You might think that a posh Chinese place in central Oslo might not be the most popular place to eat at. Think again. We could only get a table for 6.30, and even by then, it was packed - and I'd guess it had about a hundred covers. No mean feat, especially when you bear in mind that the residents of Oslo (we seemed to be the only tourists) are pretty choosy about their food.

And, because I didn't take notes, I can't remember what the hell we ate. Yes, as a food blogger, I am a useless waste of space. I am a disgrace to my peers. I shall press on regardless.

But, BUT - I DID take photos. In a very dark room, with no natural light. Does that help? I'm guessing probably not, but here goes anyway.

Starter: erm, dumplingy things, probably Dai Chi Kau. Some Char siu so. Ubiquitous crispy spring rolls. And a couple of other dim-summy yummy bits and pieces. I'm no expert on Chinese food, but these all seemed very well done. Punchy. Not greasy, soggy, or anything else inappropriate. The seafood and fish stuff was as fresh as anything, of course - this being Norway. Very tasty.

To follow: yikes. I think this was braised duck breast with lychees, amongst other things...

... and this was definitely beef - grilled tenderloin with a mouth-zapping pepper sauce, and Gai Lan..

And, woah, I do remember that it was, er, a tad on the hot side. Still, since it was
all washed down with a zingy little medium-dry Riesling (well chosen, Mister Sommelier), we weren't complaining. Just a bit sweaty around the forehead and jowls.

I wouldn't normally 'do' dessert after a meal like this, but it being my holiday... well, a waistline deserves to be pampered, doesn't it?

Bring on the not-very-temptingly named 'mango pudding with sabayonne sauce, mango and pitahaya':

With the texture and appearance akin to a 1970s crème caramel (complete with accompanying psychedelic fruits), this little retro pud had all the marks of 'bleurrgh' written across it. Instead, it was actually bloody good. Beautifully soft, possibly even a shade too much so (useful to remember if you ever take elderlies with you), and intensely mangoey. 'Twas a welcome cooler after the assault by chilli, and really rather lovely. A lip smacker, no less.

All in all, then, a damn fine meal. Yes, it was kinda Westernised and sanitised, but the food was still notably good. It WAS spenny, but then everywhere in Norway is, and it was no more or less pricey than pretty much every other place we ate at.

I suppose the real test is whether I'd go back. And the answer is 'yes'. Yes, I would. And given what I'm sure will be an inevitable 12-month waiting list to get into Heston's new gaff (yawn), I think I'd rather have Dinner back in Oslo.

Hallo again, and Christmas thoughts...

2010-12-23T08:32:00.011Z

Yes, I know I've been very naughty again by neglecting this blog. But I have a good excuse (don't I always?) - I've moved house! I've shipped out of London, after several years there, and have moved to the supposed peace and quiet of the countryside.

It's all gone pretty well, but it has of course been made infinitely more interesting by the recent weather. Now that we live out in the sticks, the sudden realisation that an 'extreme weather event' (who on earth came up with that phrase, anyway?) can be a very real obstacle to putting food on the table is a bit of a wake-up call. I've quickly learnt the art of stocking up at any and every opportunity, and of using the freezer for keeping stuff other than ice cream, ice cubes, and voddie. ;-) London habits are dying hard, and quickly. It's all about survival of the fittest around here, me hearties.

On that note, here are a few Christmas thoughts and tips (in no order of significance) to help you get through the festive season of ho! ho! ho! and goodwill to all men, women, and random waifs and animals.

1. No amount of kisses in your letter to Father Christmas will guarantee you a Thermomix, iPad, or Lumix camera. There's a recession on, and Father Christmas's priority is to keep Rudolph out of Battersea.

2. Never, ever leave your Christmas tree and pets together unattended. Ever. This applies particularly if you have terriers and/or cats with a known love of shiny things on string.

3. It is too late now to make a Christmas pud or cake, so there's no point panicking about it. If all else fails, buy the richest fruit cake you can find, and pour a litre of whisky over it. Or just drink the whisky.

4. When wrapping the kids' stocking presents, remember that the wrapping paper you're recycling from last year may have wording written on it like 'To Jan, with love from Aunty June'.

5. There will be key points on Christmas Day when you need to remember to turn the oven on, and to turn it off. Try not to confuse the two.

6. Going to church IS important on Christmas morning. It's all about the baby Jesus, after all, and the fact that you want Jemima to get into the local church-run school is entirely unrelated.

7. Make sure that Grandad/Granny has his/her hearing aids switched on, and enough batteries to last through the holidays.

8. You haven't gone grey overnight. It's icing sugar.

9. Granny will insist she doesn't touch a drop. Keep her glass topped up anyway. She'll provide hours of free after-dinner entertainment.

10. No matter how well you've cooked the Christmas dinner, the senior females in your family will all claim they can cook the bird/roast potatoes/gravy/bread sauce/Christmas pud (delete as appropriate) better than you, and your children will agree with them vigorously. Smile sweetly throughout.

11. The tradition is to set fire to the Christmas pudding, not to the house. And holly stinks when it burns.

12. Squirty cream isn't funny and it isn't clever. Still, if you can't get hold of anything else, tell everyone that retro Christmases are 'in' this year and that you're channelling Fanny Cradock.

13. For one sodding day of the year, do NOT take photographs of the food, and do NOT blog your Christmas dinner.

14. Your mother-in-law and your daughter's new Goth metal boyfriend will hit it off and form a worrying alliance. Be very afraid.

15. Even if you don't watch the Queen's Speech, she has her uses. Invoke the old dear as an excuse to pour another drink, and raise a toast to Her Maj.

16. Yes, you did tell your brother that it was fine to get your two-year old a mini drum set.

17. Dogs don't like Quality Street. Actually, they do. But Quality Street doesn't like them. Violently. Unattended Yule Logs achieve much the same effect.

18. If it all gets too much, throw yourself to the floor and wail hysterically. The shock of the sight of you will be sufficient to bring everyone to their senses, and you won't have to do anything else for the rest of the day.

19. Even if you remember the key points in (5), you WILL have left the oven on when you go to bed. You will remember that approximately ten minutes after you've got into bed and have got all warm and cosy.

20. Put Nurofen on your bedside table before turning out the light.

Above all, enjoy! Have a great Christmas and a fantastic 2011!

Les Deux Salons: one to recommend

2010-11-07T08:47:00.008Z

When one food-loving acquaintance whose judgement I trust recommends a restaurant, I’m all ears. When two of them do, it goes to the top of my list. When three or more are all championing the same place, it’s clearly time to drop everything and go.

Which is pretty much how it was with Les Deux Salons. Except that before going myself, I recommended it to another friend who was after ideas for a new weekend nosh place. ‘Go to Les Deux Salons,’ I said, confidently. ‘Everybody’s talking about it, and it’s all good.’

And so I sat back, happy that I’d done my good deed for the day. And then. And then I started to worry. I scolded myself for being lazy. I should have gone to LDS first before mentioning it to others. Or should I? Didn’t other positive feedback count? Could I really trust those who had gone before me? What if it wasn’t up to much after all? What if, what if?

Aaargh. Cue much anguished hand-wringing and soul searching.

But lo. The appointed day came around. And I received a message: “It was fab. So grateful for recc. You must go”. Shortly followed by: “Superb lunch at Les Deux Salons. Quince, wet walnut, dolcelatte salad, saddle of rabbit + pumpkin gnocchi, Paris Brest.”

THANK. MY. STARS. And – where’s my phone?

Skip forward a few days, and I finally arrived at LDS to see/hear/smell/taste for myself.

I must admit, I was already favourably disposed – not just because of the impressive reviews I’d been hearing, but also because of the menu, handily displayed on LDS’s website. There is NOTHING on there that I didn’t want to eat, or dip my head into, as Gregg Wallace would say.

First impressions? Niiiiice. Smart, in a chilled kind of way. Slick, but not creepy with it. Definitely salon-like. Resembles a centre ville bistro/restaurant in a respectable French town. Buzzy and busy. Lots of people already there, munching away, looking and sounding happy. Plenty of staff, whizzing around quietly and efficiently. Shiny new well-stocked bar, already doing plenty of trade.

Not two moments after entering and disrobing, The Other Diner and I were – in true brisk French fashion – swiftly seated at our linen-covered table and brought menus, a generous basket of fresh bread, butter, and water.

Unremarkable, you might think, except that a little mention at this point should go to the set menu...

... which, at 3 lip-smacking courses for a shade under £16 has – surely – to be most outrageously bargainous lunch in London right now. Prove me wrong.

But my tastebuds had already been well and truly tickled by the à la carte menu, so, as tempting as the set menu seemed, it was cast aside for another visit. THIS time, I was after the full whackeroo.

Between us, The Other Diner and I ordered the ravioli of rosé veal, fresh goat’s curd, cavolo nero and the lamb sweetbreads ‘Bouchée à la reine’ to start, and then, to follow, the saddle of rabbit, pumpkin gnocchi and hazelnuts, and the slow-cooked ox cheeks and parsnip purée.

While all that lot was being cooked, we dribbled expectantly and occasionally slurped a jolly good, crisp, Grüner Veltliner. It was all rather, well, cosseting.

Soon enough, the feast appeared before us, carried on huge trays by two serving staff – neatly attired in shirts, ties, and long aprons, French-stylee – who then waited momentarily for a senior waiter to arrive (differentiated by their shirts of random colour, no ties, and no aprons, since you ask*) and to actually present us with our food. Yes, it’s the little details, and I have no shame in admitting that I like ‘em.

So, anyway – the food. First up, the ravioli:

I didn’t get much of a look-in, but I was assured that the ravioli were parcels of savoury loveliness (my one bite did at least confirm as much). You’d think that combining rosé veal, fresh goat’s curd, and cavolo nero so as to achieve a finished mixture that reveals each flavour and yet also comes together to produce something tastier even than the sum of its parts would be a tad tricky. Under Anthony Demetre’s stewardship (he of Arbutus and Wild Honey), apparently not.

My jumped-up vol au vent, meanwhile, was no less arresting. In a cardiac kind of way.

Boy, it was good. Mushroomy, buttery, creamy deliciousness with treaty little sweetbreads to match. The pastry? Fab, faultess, and only succumbing to sogginess once it had done at least three circuits of my plate to soak up stray sauce.

Blimey. So good so far and still 2 more courses to go? I let out a notch on my belt, and sat back comfortably into my obligingly squidgy seat.

Up next, our mains – the ox cheeks and the rabbit. Well, I guess if you’re the critical type, you might seize upon the fact that slow-cooked ox/cow/pig cheeks are the lamb shanks of a few years ago. A bit of a restaurant cliché. Still, there’s a reason for that. They’re bloody tasty and a joy to eat. I’m sure I will get tired of eating them one day, but that day isn’t coming around any time soon. I can vouch for this particular bulgesome beauty, which was every bit as good as it looks:

My saddle of rabbit wasn’t far behind, if at all, in the pleasure-giving stakes. Lovely tender, positively succulent rabbit, kept perfectly moist, with sweet pumpkin gnocchi and hazelnuts. Need I really say more? I couldn’t, in any case, because my mouth was stuffed full with it.

A minor niggle was that my plate featured the same mushrooms and carrots that I’d had with my bouchée, but then that’s hardly the restaurant’s fault unless they were serving them up with every main dish, which they weren’t. Still, it was perhaps fortunate that we’d ordered sides of braised endive and winter greens. I can’t describe the endive any better than how it was described to me by the friend I’d ‘sent’ there a few days previously: “the braised endive with orange. Deelish! Almost like a pudding. You can really taste the Very Best French butter. Yum.” So there you are.

By this stage, my only concern was whether LDS had a dormitory upstairs in which happily sated customers could spend a half hour or so for a post-lunch nap.

Fond daydreams of fresh bedlinen and plumped pillows were, however, chirpily interrupted by the effervescent co-owner, Will Smith. “Are we desserting?” he trilled at us, with an encouraging grin. Hah! The answer is yes, and thrice, YES, I do believe we are. So – again acting on hot tip-offs – we opted for the Paris Brest and the floating island.

And here, dear reader, I confess that pure greed overcame me. I managed a photo of the Paris Brest, but in my haste to get my gnashers around the floating island, the intricate technicalities of getting a point-and-shoot to focus were beyond me. It’s not as though the rest of my pics are particularly brilliant, I know, but this one was so shamefully bad that I just can’t bring myself to reproduce it here. Instead, I will return to LDS, order it again, and try once more. The things I do.

In the meantime, here’s the Paris Brest:

Yes, it was as big as it looked. Audley Harrison fist-sized. Halfway through, The Other Diner declared an inability to manage it all. Barely two minutes later, it had disappeared entirely. Uh-huh. Draw your own conclusion.

My floating island, a rather more refined affair, arrived in a charming silver bowl, a fat cylinder of Persil-white meringue puff decorated with Barbie-pink pralines sitting atop thickly vanilla-spotted custard. It looked pretty. It ate pretty. Actually, it was rather better than that.

I suppose I’d anticipated a confection somewhat on the sweet and sickly side. No bad thing in my book, and that’s why I ordered it. But it wasn’t. There was indeed a good sugary hit on first bite, but nothing overpowering. It was moreish, not cloying, in its sweetness. The pink pralines added crunchy interest and welcome nuttiness. And the custard was a marvel. I simply don’t understand how you can make custard so that it’s comforting and refreshing – yes, refreshing – at the same time. But then that’s why Anthony Demetre holds Michelin stars and I’m a paying punter. Sir, I salute you.

Good coffee? Check. Oh, and chocolate truffles? Don’t mind if I do.

On this form, Les Deux Salons is onto a winner. I really, really hope they keep up the standard, because I really, really want to be able to keep going back there. It’s a fun place to be but, more importantly, the food was flippin’ fabulous. I personally can’t wait to go back.**

* There may also have been other, more subtle distinctions of seniority based on choice of belt and/or shininess of pointy-toed shoes. If so, they eluded me.
**(Or to be able to recommend it to others with an entirely clear conscience...)

A dark affair: chocolate, stout, and raisin cake

2010-10-22T09:27:00.014+01:00

I have always loved chocolate cakes - more so even than chocolate itself, or at least until recent years, in which time I've had the pleasure of discovering real chocolate. (The sickly stuff of my childhood never did it for me. And yes, I probably was a strange kid.)

But you'll never, ever wean me off chocolate cakes, and for that reason, I hereby confess to spending a shocking proportion of my time seeking out the best chocolate cake recipes.

For the most part, I'm a purist. I don't my my chocolate and/or cocoa messed around with too much. But when I spied a Dan Lepard recipe for a chocolate cake which also incorporates stout and raisins, I couldn't help but be tempted. It was the stout that got me, doctor.

Purist, be damned.

And so, I baked. It's an incredibly easy recipe, and pretty foolproof, so long as you don't heat the chocolate over a fierce flame. Chocolate is a fickle mistress, and likes to be treated gently. Overdo things, come on too strong, and - like most affairs of the heart - it'll all go horribly wrong.

Regard patience as a virtue, and you'll soon enough end up with a generous slab (the recipe doesn't say as much, but you'll need an 8" square tin) of a moist and seductively dark cake, with just a hint of bitterness to offset the richness.

I used London Porter instead of Guinness, but I think - to give Dan his due - Guinness would indeed be better. If you're wary of stouts, or think you don't like them, there's no need to be afraid of the bitter tones in this cake, because (a) they are gentle, and (b) there is, in any case, plenty of sweet chocolate frosting to counter them.

In fact, I thought the recipe made rather too much frosting - I left about a quarter in the bowl. And even doing that, there was plenty on the cake. Mr Lepard clearly has a sweet tooth.

Overall verdict? A real heart stealer, and one that you can enjoy on the side without anyone else knowing... Oh, and it goes well with cream and/or crème fraîche, too, just in case you feel like upping the pleasure levels. Just saying.

impressions of Norway: some sights

2010-10-18T09:01:00.004+01:00

I've been away from this blog for so long that I'm going to have to ease myself back in gently. Excuse me while I get the harness dusted down and sorted out.

In the meantime, some of you (particularly those of you on Twitter) may recall that I spent a couple of weeks in Norway - well, Oslo and Bergen, at any rate - in the summer. To be brief, I loved everything about it. And, needless to say, the food was one of the many highlights. I'll come on to that in my next post - which, I promise, will follow shortly.

But for now, I'll try to give you an idea of some of the sights, including the good, the bad, and the frankly bizarre...

let's start with the blindingly obvious...

spectacular fountain in central Oslo...

Oslo old town...

cute scooter...

view from Oslo harbour...

another of Oslo harbour's assets...

Oslo concert hall/opera house...

chef resting after service...

Oslo flower market...

view from Oslo castle...

the Ice Bar...

out for a paddle...

friends...

Oslo Nobel peace museum...

Oslo flower market: the reprise. With added pigeons...

Whiter than white: walking on Oslo opera house...

view from Bergen hotel window...

Bergen public sculpture. Lots of it there....

view from atop the funicular...

erm, a rose...

typical Bergen weather...

the handsomest fish, Bergen fish market...

more of that public art I warned you about...

the funicular cafe. Great location, shame about the cafe...

erm....

cheese, please, but pass on the service: La Fromagerie

2010-06-30T11:34:00.006+01:00

Cheese. A world without it would be very dull indeed, IMHO. As I've noted before on this blog, I bloomin' love the stuff, and would happily eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And sometimes I do.

It's not going to take you more than a shake of a lamb's tail, then, to anticipate that I'm likely to be a supporter of London's finest cheese emporia. Neal's Yard, Paxton & Whitfield, Hamish Johnston, La Cave à Fromage... they're all close to my heart, not to mention my stomach. But La Fromagerie, tucked away in a quiet corner of Marylebone, should be on that list, right?

And it is, kind of. The cheeses there are worth the trip. A huge selection, all in pristine condition, ready and ripe to go. But the rest? The shop? The café? Not so much.

I visited a few weeks ago, and although satisfied by my intake of the whiffy stuff, was distinctly less so by the service throughout. Put simply, the latter put the dampers on my lunch, and might have blighted my entire afternoon, were it not for a post-La Fromagerie visit to Ginger Pig's droolworthy shop right next door, where service is cheery, friendly, helpful, and expert. The contrast could hardly have been greater.

La Fromagerie, pleeeeeeeeease take note: if you're going to sell premium products, then please at least TRY to make sure the service is up to scratch, too. So, having sight of a menu when I'm seated would be good. Not 15 minutes later. If I ask for a wine recommendation to go with my cheese, I do NOT expect, 'Well, if you like white, go for the house white, but there's the red, if you prefer red.' I mean, WHAT??? Oh, and - in the event that I do in fact opt for a glass of vino after such brilliant guidance - I'd prefer to drink it from a clean glass, please. Not one that seems to have been handled by the entire staff first, going by the number of fingerprints all over it. And the slices of pear that come with the cheese plate - any chance they could be replaced with slices that aren't bruised?

Grrrrrrrrrr. I expected better. A lot better.

Anyway, for what it's worth, here are the pics:

Waiting to be seated. I'm expecting a disco in the interim, 'cos of the glitterball, natch.

Seated. It's a little on the cosy side. But you've gotta love that clock.

The view behind me. Cheese room in the background - where the service is as chilly as the room temperature, but more of that later...

The cheese plate. Can you see the bruise on that pear slice? Thought so.

OK, well, the cheese was good. Clockwise, starting from 3 o'clock as you look at the plate - Sariette de Banon (goat), Camembert Fermier Durand (cow), Haut Barry (ewe), Lou Bren (ewe), Devon Blue (cow). For me the standouts were the Sariette de Banon - creamy, flaky, and slightly fruity - and the Haut Barry - earthy, slightly sweet, and nutty.

And what I also liked about the Haut Barry was its ridiculously colourful (and wholly natural, I hasten to add) crust...

Pretty, innit?

Portion sizes, although the picture may not suggest as much, were pretty much spot on, I thought. Not too little, not too much, and just about acceptable for the moolah involved (£13.50).
And then, my friends, is the small matter of cake. Or rather, the large matter of cake:

Soft hazelnut meringue filled with Valrhona ganache? Really? Do I have to? Oh, go on, then.

Again, you probably don't get quite the sense of scale from the photo, but these slices were IMMENSE. A couple seated next to us gasped when they saw what was being put in front of us. I smiled back, reassuringly. Of course I can, and will, eat it all.

I didn't. But one of these days, I might try again. Because I don't like being defeated by cake. It pains me. Still, on this particular occasion, the pain was relatively short-lived, because we had a pressing engagement with the cheese room before we left.

For a cheese lover, a cheese room is surely ultimate fantasy, the room we'd all have built into our homes were it not for the fact that space and money don't permit. At La Fromagerie, you can indulge that fantasy a little without paying an architect for the privilege.

But only a little. Because, frankly, the whole experience is (or was, for us) spoiled by the affineurs, whose brusqueness and coldness made for a tongue-biting and teeth-gritting time. I know a fair amount about cheese (four decades of eating the stuff helps), and I don't appreciate being treated like a numbskull, least of all by an arrogant and patronising schmuck (sorry, affineur) seemingly barely out of nappies. And in any case, what I may or may not know about cheese is wholly irrelevant. If I'm asking questions about the cheese, wouldn't you want to help me, to get my interest, convince me, maybe let me try some, and, y'know, SELL IT TO ME? You are failing your customers, La Fromagerie, and doing your business a disservice.

Oh, and I was told that I wasn't allowed to hold my point-and-shoot closer than about a metre away from the cheeses (no reason given, and no, I'm not exaggerating).

OH, YEAH? So sue me, then.

With the teeth-gritting rendering me in danger of an imminent dentist's visit, we chose just 2 cheeses from the many to take home. By this time, I really didn't feel like lining La Fromagerie's pockets and propping up some overblown egos any more than we had already done.

Our choices:

This is a favourite of mine, but I have to be in the mood. It's strong, verging on brutal (any idea why I chose it on this particular afternoon? No, me neither). Its taste is pungent 'fading' to something resembling a chilli burn. It's an acquired taste, I guess, but fun.

And...

This is a lovely, rich, creamy goat's cheese. If you like goat's cheeses - and I know they're not everyone's favourite - do put this on your must-try list.

And so, some GBP sterling lighter, but pounds of cheese and waistline heavier, we took our leave and dived into the Ginger Pig shop next door. Our experience in there threw that of La Fromagerie into even greater relief. And not in a way that was favourable to the latter.

Drinking wine, eating top-notch cheese and cake, and choosing more cheese to take home, should surely be a pleasure, a joy. I regret to say that on my visit, La Fromagerie didn't make it so. I'd heard great things, but I left disappointed and disgruntled. I may end up returning at some point, if only because I love the cheese, but what it comes down to is this: there are other cheese shops/cafés I'd rather go to first, where the service is everything it should be and the customers leave with happy hearts and bellies. So it's probably safe to say you won't see me back at La Fromagerie anytime soon.

rhubarb, rhubarb...

2010-06-13T14:17:00.003+01:00

Yes, that's rhubarb, twice over.

It would be true to say that, once the first signs of summer arrive, I develop a bit of a rhubarb habit. I don't think it controls me, but on balance, it's probably a good thing that it's not available all year round. Any which way it's possible to do so, I'll consume it. Compotes, jams, fools, pies, crumbles, jellies, cakes - I've been there, done them, and will no doubt do them many more times yet.

But drinks - not so much. Not until this year, anyway, when several conversations with various Tweeters, and especially @goodshoeday (a veritable doyenne of bottling all things fruit and veg), and the acquisition of Mary Prior's rather brilliant little book, Rhubarbaria, made me think it was high time I tried making my own rhubarb beverages, too.

And now that I have, I can tell you that it's a dangerous path to tread. Making rhubarb drinks is so darned easy, for one thing. And the results are just too good to make you want to settle for anything less. You WILL be making them time and time again. Consider yourself thoroughly warned.

Thus far I've made a ridiculously simple and oh-so-refreshing rhubarb and orange cordial, which involves nothing more than a bit of a boil-up of, well, rhubarb, orange, lemon, and sugar:

Pretty, innit? And even prettier at the end, when the finished product has a pinky-peachy glow to it. I recommend you make this recipe EXACTLY as Lotte Duncan suggests - the balance of flavours, sweetness and acidity is perfect, and so much better (and far less sticky) than any shop-bought varieties. Make it up exactly as you would any other cordial.

Of course, there are times when only a drop of the hard stuff will do. At such times, rhubarb vodka is your friend.

There are so many recipes for this that you're spoiled for choice, frankly. I refer you back to @goodshoeday's blog for one way of making it, but in this instance, I used one of Mary Prior's recipes:

300g/12 oz rhubarb, chopped
120g / 4 oz sugar
60 ml / 2 fl oz water
1 litre vodka

Cook the rhubarb with the sugar and water until tender. Put in a large glass storage jar or bowl. Cool. Add the vodka and cover. Store for about a week. Strain the vodka off the fruit pulp and bottle. Leave to mature for a bit. (Ha! Define 'a bit'...)

HOW EASY IS THAT?? No excuses, you CAN make this.

I love this stuff. I particularly love it neat, poured over 3 or 4 large ice cubes, in a large glass. I don't know why (and I'd be grateful if someone could explain), but adding the ice cubes seems to bring out more of the rhubarb flavours than if you omit them and simply drink the vodka chilled. Answers on a postcard, please.

Meanwhile, I'm off for a little sip of something...

some ideas for broad beans, peas, and rhubarb

2010-05-28T12:36:00.004+01:00

Yes, I know I haven't been here lately. A lot going on...

Still, just to prove I haven't been entirely idle, here's an article that I wrote for fellow Twitterer, @FrancoiseM's newsletter, published a few days ago. Have a squiz for a summery pasta, a recipe for pea ice cream, and details on how to make your own rhubarb drinks, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic.

http://www.francoisemurat.com/garden-styles-a-tips/235-summer-goodness-in-the-garden.html

Enjoy, and have yourself a great Bank Holiday weekend!

right first time: 101 Pimlico Road

2010-05-10T10:24:00.008+01:00

I'm aware that there's a school of thought that believes a restaurant should be visited no fewer than three times before it gets reviewed. It is not a school of thought to which I subscribe. In my view, if they're taking your money, they should deliver the goods - no excuses. As a paying punter, I really don't want to hear about how the chef's dog has chewed the saucepan and is therefore somehow responsible for my lacklustre meal.

Via the almighty source of information that is Twitter (thanks especially to @Gastro1, @Willielebus, and @mcdulwich), I have for some while been forming the impression that a newish eaterie just off the edge of so-called Mozart Square (yes, the musical maestro once lived 'ere, apparently), is one of those places that has been getting it very right. And since the Square also boasts a Daylesford Organic shop and the new William Curley Dessert Bar, I needed no further encouragement to grace the neighbourhood with my presence and put 101 Pimlico Road to the test myself.

Without any more ado, let me just say this - I'm glad I did. Very glad. This is a place that's doing it right: great food, beautifully cooked (by ex-Tom Aikens alumnus, Keith Goddard), and at perfectly acceptable prices (particularly if you opt for the set lunch menu, which is an utter bargain at £16 for 2 courses or £20 for 3). I've already been back once - not because I felt it needed a second chance, but - shock, horror - BECAUSE I WANTED TO.

To the food, then. My first meal was, indeed, from the bargainous set lunch menu, and went like this:

To start, warm chicken liver salad:

I must have eaten several times my bodyweight in liver over the years, but this was as good an example as any I've eaten, anywhere. Actually, scrap that - it was better. Fat, creamy, silky, melting pieces of liver cooked to the kind of perfection that would have made the chicken proud, if only it had lived to tell the tale. A plate of joyous meaty stuff not in any way spoilt by the neatly-judged salad that accompanied it.

Next, grilled quail:

I might know my liver from my elbow, but I am a good deal less familiar with quail. I've eaten it several times, but never been particularly inspired by the experience, especially when I've had the dubious pleasure of trying to prise off a microgram of meat from its miniscule frame. Deboned, however, as it is at 101, it is an altogether different proposition. Quail DOES taste of something after all, not least when it picks up char from the grill and has a chef like Keith making sure it doesn't go horribly dry. This was simply delicious, and on this showing, I may eat it rather more often.

And, to finish, chocolate tart with Maldon salt and peanut butter ice cream:

A confession. I was never not going to choose this. Chocolate AND peanut butter could be my all-time favourite combination. And that, I'm afraid, is reflected in the photo. So eager was I to get my choppers around it all that I completely forgot to get clicking with the camera. I apologise. I remembered with a morsel left, and I think that probably tells its own story. This was everything that chocolate tart and peanut butter ice cream should be. The pastry was beautifully short and thin, the chocolate filling was light but rich and luxurious, and the peanut butter ice cream had all the peanut-iness that you could wish for. It, too, was a creation of lovely lightness - more gelato-like, in fact.

In all, a thoroughly enjoyable meal, and one that I really couldn't fault. It's not many times that I can honestly say that.

Fast forward a couple of weeks to a hideously cold, windy, rain-strewn Monday. A Bank Holiday Monday, of course. What to do? A revisit to 101 seemed by far the best - nay, the only - option, frankly.

This time round, and embracing the holiday mood with as much fervour as I could muster, I opted for the à la carte menu.

So, this time - to start, spicy fried whitebait:

This is getting a bit like Groundhog Day. 'I must have eaten several times my bodyweight in [insert name of food here] over the years, but this was as good an example as any I've eaten, anywhere. Actually, scrap that - it was better.' OK, insert 'whitebait', and there you have it. For all those whitebait I've eaten, most were done an injustice - either cooked to bullets, or over- or under-seasoned. Either that, or they simply weren't whitebait worthy of their species in the first place. These specimens, by contrast, were fat, fishy, juicy critters treated with the lightest (another recurring theme here, it seems) of spicing and frying, blessed with a gorgeously creamy accompanying aioli. Yummy yummy yum. My only criticism is that there were, for me, too many of them - with 2 courses still to follow, I really didn't feel I could polish the lot off and have sufficient room left for the rest of the meal. I fear that age may be turning me into a wimp.

Whatevers.

Next up, 'Ten hour Lamb shoulder, spiced fruit couscous, smoked aubergine purée':

Yes, I know. It doesn't look THAT great. Which is unfortunate, because it was. If you like sweet/savoury combos of Moroccan inspiration, then this is for you. I have NEVER eaten cous cous as good as this (and certainly not in Morocco). Beautifully, beautifully done. Moist, fruity (with the plumpest raisins and apricots), nutty, spicy loveliness. The lamb, as you can probably imagine, was fantastically tender and flavoursome, and the smoked aubergine turd - sorry, purée - while looking like nothing remarkable, was delicious in its own right, and married with the other components without detracting from or overwhelming them.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand, once again, to finish:

Hmm, y'see, here's the chocolate problem again. I was never not going to choose a warm chocolate brownie, even if it didn't come with peanut butter ice cream.

Now, rightly or wrongly, I like to think I know a thing or two about brownies. And warm ones shouldn't be so dense as their non-warmed siblings, otherwise they become teeth-stickers of the worst order. Keith knows this. His version positively melted in the mouth, while still maintaining enough 'bite' to ensure you feel you're getting your money's worth. It's obvious the chocolate is Valrhona. It's all so very perfect. And that ice cream? Not too shabby, either, and full of heady vanilla.

In sum? This is food you want to eat. And eat more of. It's not flashy, gizmo-supported stuff, it's just bloomin' good food, cooked really well.

The team responsible for 101 know their eggs, and much else. Will Guess, the improbably youthful-looking 24-year old owner (whatever he's on, I want some of it), seems to take real pride in his gaff, and rightly so. On both occasions I've been there, so was he. That says something. His serving staff are young, capable, and friendly and free from 'is everything alright?'-itis. Glory be.

In Keith, he has found a talented, committed chef who has strong ideas about the kind of food he wants to serve up, and who has the skill to do it. He is big on sourcing premium ingredients (much of the meat comes from O'Shea's, for example), and he knows what he's doing with them. A chef who chooses to let the food speak for itself, instead of toying with it for the sake of it, is to be cherished. Oh, and he makes his own ice creams. I should probably marry him, come to think of it.

And I should also mention the wines. The list is not lengthy, but is chocka with quality. why? Because 90% of them come from Bibendum Wines, that's why. And I gather that BW are constantly working with 101 to provide even more excellence and value for money, particularly at the top end.

Only its location and space go slightly against 101. Just off the main hubbub and thrum of Mozart Square, you'd be forgiven for not spotting it. And its interior is a little on the small and narrow side to be ideal, which is possibly a reason why previous incarnations on the site haven't thrived.

But if you're going to a restaurant for its location and space, then you're surely not bothered sufficiently about what you're actually going to eat and drink, dammit.

Love food, love wine? Then I say this: go to 101 Pimlico Road. You'll probably end up loving Keith, too.

ewe must try this: runny cheese fun with torta cañarejal

2010-04-28T11:23:00.016+01:00

I've been eating 'funny' (as one of my grandmothers used to say) cheeses for very many years. My dad has always loved cheese and, way back when I was a wee thing, at the end of each week, instead of spending his wages at the pub, he used to seek out the best cheesemonger he could find. Armed with his parcels of cheesy goodness, he'd then stink out his fellow commuters on the train home. My, how they must have loved him, particularly in the dog days of summer. You have to bear in mind, too, that this was back in olden times when most folks were used to little more than plastic cheese, and Red Leicester represented the height of exotica. Looking back, I'm surprised MI5 weren't watching such a dangerous subversive.

Roll on a few decades and both his and my love of weird and wonderful cheeses happily endure. Lord knows how many I must have tried, eaten, and generally gorged on, but the figure must run into the many hundreds. I love them ALL. (Well, all except the fudgy Norwegian Gjetost, which - try as I might - I just can't get along with. It messes with my tastebuds and brain.)

But until a few days ago, there was one cheese that I'd not come across before. It was being pushed forward by my local deli, owned by two chaps who have a particular penchant for all things Spanish and Italian. And that's it, at the top of my post - torta cañarejal, a Spanish ewe's milk cheese.

So far, so cheesey. I asked about it. 'Slice the top off, dip things like crudites into it, and eat. You don't have to do anything to it - no baking, no nothing.'

Crikey. So that's one over on Vacherin, then, isn't it? No baking, even. Dippy cheese to go, no less. How very fab. Better give it a whirl, then.

And so we did.

Step 1. Slice the top off. This, I can do.

Step 2. Have crudités prepared for dunking. This I can do, too. We have carrots, roasted cauliflower (in rapeseed oil), and baby potatoes slathered in butter and wild garlic. Oh, and some leafy green stuff to cancel out the cholesterol, natch.

Step 3. Dunk. Easier said than done. This baby is VERY runny. In fact, a spoon is a good plan.

Step 4. Repeat.

Step 5. Repeat.

Step 6. Repeat until fade.

But the fun doesn't end there. Oh, no. Here's where there's another advantage over Vacherin - you can eat the outer, firmer layer and rind! That's if you have any room left. I didn't, but still went ahead anyway. Some things are just too good to pass up.

Torta cañarejal is not only good, it's a must if you're a cheese-lover. It's mellow but with a distinctive tang of sheep, slightly sweet (Ferran Adrià used to serve it with red fruits and honeyed meringues, apparently), and creamy. It has something of a Camembert about it, but is infinitely more interesting than that.

But, best of all, it's possibly the most edible fun you can have with a whole cheese. For 2 cheese lovers, it's the perfect tasty, simple, and sharing meal. Well, I say 'perfect'. Let's just say it's all fine and dandy until the level of the runny cheese starts getting low. At that point... well, it can become a bit of a no-holds-barred fight to the finish ;)

Do you love someone enough to give them the last scoop of runny cheese? Share one of these (or a Vacherin, if you must - though you'll find they've just gone out of season now) and you'll soon find out...

American dreams: chocolate pecan pie

2010-04-19T11:23:00.013+01:00

pecan pie goodness ready to go into the oven

Back in the rose-tinted hazy mists of time, when I was barely taller than a grasshopper's knee and CHiPS (or rather, Erik Estrada) was the hottest thing on telly, my dad took me on my first holiday to the States.

To say I loved it would be an understatement. For a kid of my age, it was paradise. Huge cars, fast food, seemingly limitless Coke, McDonald's, 24-hour TV, endless sunshine... Never mind that those are all the things I'd go out of my way to avoid now (well, perhaps not the sunshine) - back then, it was an utterly, mind-bogglingly wonderful revelation.

Food memories stand out, even after all these years... of lots of firsts - my first 'easy-over' egg, giant chocolate chip cookie, hamburger, fried chicken, real coffee, peanut and jelly sandwich, 'fries', and... pecan pie.

Of all of them, pecan pie has endured as one of my food loves. Until recently, I've scarcely seen it over here, and given that for the most part, I can rarely be bothered to make pastry, I've never made it myself. But now, all that's going to change. For I've found a recipe that (a) makes pastry a doddle, and (b) also adds chocolate to the mix. And it's no secret that when chocolate goes into a cake or pudding, I can offer no resistance. NONE. WHATSOEVER.

This recipe, from Linda Collister's Chocolate book hit the spot for me. Some of the sugar and butter combines to form a thin fudgy layer on the bottom of the pie, while above it sits the light, almost fluffy chocolate and pecan filling. If you use (as I did) dark chocolate with around 70% cocoa solids, the taste is wickedly dark and rich.

You'll need:

Pastry - 1.5 cups plain flour, more for dusting; pinch salt; 1 tbsp sugar, 1 stick unsalted butter; 1 extra large egg yolk mixed with 1 tbsp cold water

Filling - 3 tbsps unsalted butter, softened; 3/4 cup firmly packed light brown sugar; 2/3 cup corn syrup or golden syrup; 3 extra large eggs, beaten; 1 tsp vanilla extract; 3.5oz bittersweet chocolate, melted; 1 cup pecans

Method - put flour, salt, sugar and butter in food processor, and process until you have fine breadcrumbs. With processor still running, add the egg yolk and water through the feed tube. Run machine until dough comes together. If there are dry crumbs, add teaspoon or so extra water.

Put dough on floured surface and roll out to a large circle about 2 inches bigger than the tart pan, then use to line the pan. Prick with a fork, then chill for 15mins. Line with parchment paper and baking beans, and back blind at 350F for about 12 minutes. Remove beans and paper, and bake for another 12 minutes. Let cool.

Put better, sugar, and corn syrup in a mixing bowl and beat until smooth. Gradually beat in the eggs and then the vanilla extract. Stir in melted chocolate followed by the pecans. Pour into pie crust and bake at 350F for about 35 minutes until just firm to touch. Remove from oven and let cool. Serve warm or at room temperature. (Best eaten within 4 days.)

It's great on its own...

yep, it's mighty fine...

... but really, it's just all the better and so much more of a complete, authentic experience if you go the whole American hog and have it with a generous scoop of the best vanilla ice cream you can buy.

but, ah, that's the baby...

So, go on. Make, eat, then lie back and think of, er, the United States...

the simple things in life: The Draft House, Clapham

2010-04-10T08:38:00.020+01:00

I don't know about you, but there are times when I want to go out for a simple, tasty meal, cooked well, with something decent to drink on the side. And not to have to pay a ridiculous price for the privilege.

could this be the place?

For a big city, London has an awful lot of places that don't fit the bill. Yes, there are thousands of cafes, bistros, and restaurants in this huge metropolis, but a dismayingly large proportion of them disappoint on one criterion or another. For that reason, I'm always on the lookout for new (whether literally, or just new to me) venues that promise the holy grail.

A few months ago, Twitter was a-flutter with rumours of a venture that sounded as though the grail might be opening soon and, better still, opening near me. The omens were good - Charlie McVeigh, owner of the acclaimed Le Cafe Anglais, was the man with the vision to turn what was a branch of the Pitcher & Piano into something, well, rather less of a pig's ear. (Actually, that's rather unfair to pigs' ears which, despite one or two pronouncements on MasterChef, are quite a treat, as finalist Alex Rushmer can demonstrate.)

Initial reviews were favourable, with special mention going to the Draft House's excellent range of ales...

what you see in the picture amounts to about half the choice of ales on offer

... and its novel idea of offering them in third of a pint measures, as well as the traditional half and pint.

from l-r: Wandle (quite possibly THE holy grail), Bitter & Twisted, Porterhouse Red

I visited for the first time for lunch on New Year's Day, not least on the basis that you might as well start the year in the manner in which you intend to carry on. Baked eggs, chips, sprout tops (where else serves sprout tops, I ask you?) and a selection of ales went down rather well, to say the least. Dinner there a few weeks ago involving meaty steaks and burgers scored highly, too. After a third visit last week I thought it was time I should give this happy, cheery place a little shout-out.

Because what they do here is good. Very good. And at very reasonable prices. It's not frilly, complicated, smoke-and-mirrors stuff. Instead, it's rather joyous food made from wonderful, carefully selected (and thankfully seasonal - the menu changes accordingly) ingredients by chefs who evidently take pride in their cooking.

And so, this is the kind of nosh they come up with:

squid and chorizo in their liquor

eggs florentine, the uncut version

eggs florentine, the cut version

scrambled eggs and smoked salmon (well, obviously)

rhubarb jelly and cream. In a half pint glass. Yay! Definitely not for kids ;)

You'll be relieved to know that I'm not going to ramble on and give you my pronouncements on everything we ate. But let me just say this - these dishes might look simple, but a great many places make a bloomin' great hash of them. At the Draft House, they look good, are cooked to perfection, taste fantastic and just as they should. I seriously doubt whether anywhere in London does eggs or greens (apart from sprout tops, I've eaten their equally meaty and minerally spring greens and spinach) consistently as well as they do them here. The jelly was not only fun, but truly delicious - not too sharp, but full of rhubarby spritz and tang nonetheless. And far from being just a extraneous afterthought (as the ugly cynic in me rather expected), the addition of the rich, gloopy, buttery cream took the whole thing up another notch - the combination with the jelly was a glorious revelation. Jelly and cream? Who knew?

And then there's the ales... Which are probably worthy of a entirely new post. Let's just say they're worth the visit.

The only downside to all this is that, inevitably, The Draft House has become a very popular place in a very short space of time. But the good news is that the eaterie part (separate from the bar area) takes reservations, so if you can plan a little ahead, you can still get a table even at the busiest periods.

Just don't nick my table. Please.

the UK's first Underground Market...

2010-03-30T16:10:00.004+01:00

...took place on Sunday 28 March, and was hosted, organised, and brilliantly managed by MsMarmiteLover. You can read all about it on her blog, and I strongly suggest you do - I think markets like this are going to be the next big thing in the foodie/crafty world, judging from the huge popularity of Sunday's event. It was surreal, frenetic, mad, but massive fun, and stallholders and visitors alike seemed to have a complete ball while making lots of new friends and contacts into the bargain, too.

Here are some pictures I took very quickly before the hordes descended. All a bit random (and apologies to those I didn't snap - I really had to whizz round!), but hopefully they'll give you a flavour of it all. For more pics, go to MsMarmiteLover's blog, and also look at links from there to others.

Oh yeah, and I had a little stall of all things choc, too. ;-) (If you really want to know - original brownies, pecan brownies, cardamom brownies, choconana loaf, torta caprese, squillionaire's shortbread, and Portuguese-style chocolate custard tarts).

The sun shone (well, for the most part, anyway), the wine and cocktails flowed, and everyone was happy. Yes, THIS HAPPY!

Big thanks are due to MsMarmiteLover and her great team of helpers, fellow stallholders, and everyone who came along - you all made it very worthwhile, and I hope to see you again soon!

set lunch at Texture: Northern (de)lights, bargain price

2010-03-21T13:17:00.013Z

I have a confession to make. For the last 2 or 3 years, I've been eating on the cheap.

Nope, I haven't been deluged with freebies, much as I would like to be. No, I've simply been taking advantage of very competitive set lunch pricing at some of London's best restaurants. It's a great way to try top-notch cooking without having to remortgage your house.

My recent visit to Texture, an Icelandic-run resto in the heart of swanky Mayfair, was one such occasion. As with so many places, it's been on my list for some time, but was recently given a gentle nudge back towards the top of that list by my recent reacquaintance with Scandinavian food. Texture's head chef is Agnar Sverrisson, formerly of Pétrus and Le Manoir - a man of evident ambition and vision who, since Texture opened in 2007, has been bringing a touch of Nordic style to the capital. His efforts have been well recieved - numerous accolades have already come Texture's way, including its first Michelin star just a few weeks ago.

High time, then, for me to pay a visit. And, for the first time in a while, I remembered to take my camera along with me. Unfortunately for me, we were then seated at a table away from any natural light. C'est la vie.

Still, I had my camera and I was going to use it, as you will see... ;-)

So, what can you expect for £22 for 3 courses? Well, for a start, our meal was littered with more than just the three courses. Unlike some places that offer set price menus, and which serve up a mealy-mouthed effort devoid of all the extras that make a venue like this a bit special, Texture does no such thing. We had exactly the same frills and fripperies as those eating a la carte.

We kicked off with an array of 'crisps' for want of a better word...

These included the obligatory parmesan crisp, but also a thinner than thin potato version, a pungent seaweedy variety (think cat's breath, and you're halfway there - but it tasted way better than it smelled, for which I'm hugely thankful), and a couple of others which now escape my memory. And a dip which we largely bypassed, not least because the crisps were so delicate as not to need it.

Next up, our amuse bouche, a cold pea and mint 'soup' topped with a granita comprising the same ingredients. Sadly, my camera nearly went into meltdown at this point, struggling valiantly as it was with the low lighting. Trying to get a shot of the amuse from above the little cup just wasn't going to work. This, I'm afraid, is the best I could come away with...

... which I hope gives you at least some semblance of the idea. My (and no doubt, your) frustration at the photo isn't eased if I tell you that this little concoction was stunning. An amazing, lighter-than-light granita on top of a rich, creamy, very pea-y-and-minty, smooth-as-you-like gloopy soup. The Other Diner and I agreed on its fabulousness, and would have been happy paying our respective £22 just for that. Well, almost. How Sverrisson achieves the creaminess of the soup without using butter or cream (one of the hallmarks of his cooking), I would dearly love to know. Perhaps I should have asked him - he was much in evidence at the pass throughout the lunch service.

It was hard to imagine that our amuse could be bettered by our starters - and, arguably, it wasn't.

Mine, of beetroot, goat's cheese, and chervil ice cream, was beautifully prepared, fresh and lovely to eat, but it just didn't reach the heights of the amuse. That said, it was infinitely better than most beetroot and goat's cheese starters I've eaten to date, so I guess I'm being a bit picky.

The Other Diner said much about our other starter, described on the menu as 'Icelandic line caught Haddock - Smoked, confit, mustard, hen egg'. It did, indeed, seem to include all those things (my photo was so appalling, I've spared you - so you'll have to take my word for it), but somehow it didn't quite grab us.

Having booked in for a late lunch as we had, I suppose I wasn't wholly unsurprised to be told that they had only one portion of one of the mains left, the lamb - which, of course, I'd been intending to have. Still, out of the goodness of my heart, I let The Other Diner have it. In its place, the waitress offered me five-spiced duck - which I might well have opted for had it been on the menu in the first place. Hardly a shoddy substitute.

Enter, the lamb...

... and the duck...

... and now, another confession. I didn't take notes, and neither the lamb nor the duck are mentioned on the current menu. So I can't tell you what they were accompanied by, and nor can I dredge anything helpful from my age-eaten memory. I CAN tell you that the duck was very good - cooked to perfection, with a crisp coat giving way to tender, tasty meat. The spicing was perfect, and notable for its restraint - there, but in no way overwhelming the duck.

And that last portion of lamb? Equally good, apparently, and wonderfully tender and moist. Like my duck, not a morsel was left on the plate, so I guess that tells its own story.

Dessert was a shoo-in for Iceland's very own Skyr, on this occasion served with poached forced rhubarb, muesli, and granité.

The Other Diner and I were both rendered speechless again. The lemon-tinged creaminess of the Skyr was the perfect foil for the rhubarb and, together with the muesli crumb, and the icy granité went to make up a gorgeous, refreshing, palate-tingling dessert. It was simply quite stunning.

For me, a good meal isn't complete unless finished with a good coffee. But so many places fall down on this element, serving watery, bitter, under- or over-brewed, lukewarm or super-heated brown stuff instead. Not here, I'm pleased to say.

Coffee to treasure... smooth, dark, mellow, with champion crema:

oh, and ably assisted by coffee macarons (not my thing, but these were admittedly rather good), and some uber-dark chocolate truffles.

Yes, ok, so we chose to spend more than £22 by virtue of indulging ourselves with the wine list (for which Texture has also received considerable acclaim), but the point is, we needn't have done.

We could have had all the above, a bottle of water, and coffees for little over £50. For the overall standard of food you get here, not to mention the superb service, the relaxed ambience and lovely room, it represents an absolute bargain. True, the actual meal didn't dazzle absolutely all the way through, but there were more than enough sparkly highlights to leave us feeling happy and satisfied.

So, when you next have £22 or so in your pocket, you could do worse than to give yourself the afternoon off and toddle along to Texture, just as we did, and bear witness to its Northern (de)lights.

nutty treats: awesome peanut butter cookies

2010-03-12T11:21:00.004Z

Yet again I find myself flagging up someone else's recipe. Ho hum. Still, I guess that's what blogging is partly all about, isn't it? Sharing the good stuff. Consider it my good deed for the week. Well, I will, anyway.

Peanuts and/or peanut butter have been a lifelong love of mine. As a kid I used to eat so much peanut butter that my grandmother used to shriek 'have any more of that and you'll turn into a peanut!' whenever I went near a jar. Clearly, the thought of becoming a little legume did nothing to put me off. And, just to prove that grandmothers aren't always right (since when did your hair turn curly when you ate the bread crusts, for example?), I'm still very much here in human form. And still eating peanut butter.

So... peanut butter and cookies. A good match for me. Love peanut butter, love cookies. With one caveat. The cookies have to be the soft, chewy kind. And not the kind that go as splat as a pancake on baking (yes, I did mean 'splat'. Conveys so much more than 'flat', don't you think?).

In my experience of cookie recipes, many simply don't live up to the hype. I'm pleased to say that these do. First posted by Patricia, over at Technicolor Kitchen (a blog well worth following, particularly if you like baking), her recipe promised everything I look for. Happily, it delivered.

Real cookies, with substance. What more can you ask for?

Oh, perhaps a glass of cold milk. ;-)

afternoon tea with a difference: éclairs at The Arch

2010-03-04T15:21:00.005Z

New hotel, in London, good early reviews - I'm there.

Actually, I'm not usually. But the Arch hotel caught my eye after a couple of fellow food bloggers visited and reviewed its afternoon tea offering.

Because it wasn't just any old tea. Not a scone or dollop of clotted cream in sight. No, it was a tea with a difference. A tea with éclairs. And, more to the point, a tea with savoury éclairs. Oh, and some rather good Jing tea, too.

Neat idea, I thought. Must go try for myself.

And so I did.

First, the menu. Or the most relevant part, for the purposes of this little exercise:

Second, the tea:

Next, the crumpets with blueberry butter (not jam, note):

And then, the grand finale - the éclairs (from l-r: Amalfi lemon and biscotti; chocolate and green tea; and crab and crème fraiche):

The verdict?

Lots of positives.

The place itself is beautifully furnished and blessedly quiet, in a good way (not in a 'we're quiet because we're deserted' way) which helps hugely in making it a great spot to have tea and while away a couple of hours.

Service is keen, friendly, and attentive, without being overbearing. In other words, it's the kind of service I like.

The menu? The éclairs aside, there are plenty of scrumptious options. Check out the full version here. And if you don't want an option in its entirety, you can simply pick and choose individual items, as we did.

The tea? Perhaps rather boringly, we opted for English Breakfast tea. But this, to my mind - not least because it's the tea I drink most frequently - is a good benchmark for the general quality of teas a place serves. This was clean, punchy, refreshing, with just a hint of tannin. My only quibble lay with the strainer - a rather Heath Robinson-like contraption, whose irritation factor was exacerbated by the fact that there was nowhere to put it after you'd poured your tea.

The shortbread biscuit accompanying the tea was perfectly pleasant, and evidently made on the premises. Living up to its billing, it was certainly 'short' - so light and crumbly, in fact, that it almost disintegrated into nothingness in my (not knowingly strong) grasp before making it into my mouth. But what was its point? I can understand serving a biscuit with tea if tea is all the customer is having - but we had also ordered crumpets and éclairs... In our case, then, while the biscuit was arguably a 'nice touch', it was also wholly superfluous to requirements.

Crumpets. Well, they were certainly recognisably 'crumpety'. Light, soft, and doughy, with a decent crisp outer. But the real revelation was the blueberry butter. This, my friends, is the 'jam' of the future. If, like me, you like jam, but can rarely face its uber-sugariness, then do give this stuff a try. You get a decent hint of the fruit, but without all the, well, jamminess of jam. It was subtle, tasty, and very moreish, and a good foil for the richness of the butter and the crumpet dough.

And the éclairs? You can see from the pics (ok, not-so-great pics - blame the low artificial light, as ever - but I think you get the idea) that these are not your standard eclairs. I must admit, I had feared they might fall foul of the usual éclair errors: over filling, too little filling, dry or heavy pastry, etc... There is, after all, a multitude of ways in which an eclair can go wrong. But not these. Maybe we got lucky, but each of those that we tried was perfectly judged.

Perhaps my marginal preference would be for the crab and crème fraiche combo, if only because it had the added novelty factor. The filling was delightful - distinctly charged with crab, but prevented from being too much of a good thing by the lemony crème fraiche. But the sweet éclairs were no less enjoyable - the addition of green tea in the chocolate and green tea version helped cut through the chocolate to produce a mellow and low-level chocolate hit, while the Amalfi lemon éclair was fresh and zingy without going so far as to induce any lip-puckering or teeth-sucking. Like Fiona and Sig, however, I'd agree that the biscotti on top - while undoubtedly fine and dandy for decorative purposes - did nothing to improve the éclair.

All in all, then, a thumbs-up. It made an interesting change, and is certainly a little different from the other afternoon tea offerings out there at the moment. I liked the idea, and the execution was pretty good. Only a dinner engagement, just a couple of hours later, prevented me from sampling more.

I hope they keep up the good work, because I, for one, hope to be back to try the other éclairs and, indeed, the rest of the tea menu.

is it a cake? is it a dessert? no, it's chocolate torrone

2010-02-24T16:35:00.004Z

So, I seem to be on a bit of an Italian drive at the moment. And that's having denied all knowledge in my last post. Oh well. Never mind. Speak first, think later, and all that.

You may have gathered by now that I like chocolate. So at least I'm being consistent by coming up with another chocolate-themed post.

But next, a dilemma. Torrone. Soft. Chocolate. What to call it? Cake or dessert? Dessert or cake? Or neither? Anna del Conte calls it 'a confection' - a neat get-out if ever I saw one, particularly as she then goes on to explain that it is 'usually served as a pudding, though it is delicious with coffee at any time of day'.

Hmmm, not a good start. And then there's the question of which recipe. As any fule no, Italians will argue all day and night - nay, an entire lifetime - over the provenance and authenticity of a recipe.

Fine. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, I go.

What follows, then, is my version, based on a recipe by Anna Del Conte. She is in no way responsible for what I've done to it, be it for better or worse. (No way could I countenance putting digestive biscuits in it, for example. To me that would result in something much more like the ubiquitous chocolate tiffin.) Mine will give you a very soft and intensely chocolatey 'nougat', which should be served straight from the fridge.

Ingredients
100g blanched almonds
100g blanched hazelnuts or pistachios
200g unsalted butter
120g cocoa powder (the best you can get, 100% pure cocoa)
1 large egg
1 tbsp golden syrup or a plain honey
2 tbsp dark rum

Method
Preheat the oven to 180C/Gas 4. Line a 2lb loaf tin with cling film. Spread the nuts on a baking tray, and toast for 7-10 minutes until they've turned golden. Watch them like a hawk, though - they burn very easily.

Leave them to cool, and then whizz in a blender until coarsely ground. (Alternatively, depending on how you like your torrone, whizz half until coarsely ground, and the other half more finely.)

Cream butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Add the cocoa, a spoonful at a time, and beat hard until completely incorporated. Next, mix in the nuts. Then beat the egg and golden syrup together, and add to the mixture. Add in the rum, and stir the whole lot until thoroughly blended.

Spoon the mixture into the clingfilmed tin, press it down, and level the top. Cover with clingfilm and refrigerate for at least 4 hours.

(Anna's serving suggestion: 'Decorate with crystallised flowers and/or blanched or sugared almonds to serve.' As you can see, I ignored that, and went with blood oranges instead - a good match for both the rum and cocoa.)

This chocolate torrone goes well with a Maury, or with a decent, strong coffee. Eat it as a dessert, a cake, I really don't care. Have it for breakfast, if you feel so inclined. Life's too short to argue about it.

a slice of the action: torta caprese

2010-02-15T15:10:00.003Z

I'm aware that some people out there in the vast space that is the interwebby think that my blog is, or should be, all about Italian food.

Er, no. It's not.

There are flashes of it on occasion, but this blog was actually named after my very first gastro-memory, and not for my expertise in all things Italian.

Nevertheless, it's certainly the case that Italian food remains high on my list of all-time culinary preferences, not least because - if done properly - it brings back wonderful memories of happy holidays and of several months spent living and working in central and southern Italy in my early twenties.

Those days are sadly long since behind me, but that doesn't stop me trotting out a few old favourites from time to time.

Torta caprese is one of them. Frankly, what's not to love? Chocolate and ground almonds and a few minor supporting ingredients all whisked together to make a light, moist cake which is chocolatey, but far from overwhelmingly so. I've known many a professed non-chocolate eater to tuck into this, pronounce it to be delicious, and to come back for more. I think that says it all, really.

I whirled it out again this last weekend, for a rather indulgent Sunday lunch, and served it together with lightly caramelised blood oranges, which rather livened things up from the aesthetic point of view.

OK, enough yabbering - let's get to the pointy end.

There are numerous recipes for torta caprese - but they vary little. Here's one, a Sophie Grigson recipe taken from 101 Best Loved Chocolate Recipes.

Sophie Grigson's Torta Caprese (serves 8-10)
200g butter, melted and cooled until tepid, plus extra to grease
200g dark chocolate, in pieces
4 large eggs
170g caster sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
250g ground almonds

Line the base of a 24cm cake tin with baking parchment and grease the sides. Preheat oven to 180C/Gas 4.

Whizz the chocolate in a food processor until finely chopped, but still retaining a little texture.

In a large bowl, beat eggs with sugar and vanilla extract until the sugar has dissolved. Mix in the chocolate, ground almonds, and butter until evenly combined. Spoon mixture into the tin.

Bake for 50-60 mins, until the cake is just firm to the touch. Leave to cool in the tin, then turn out.

Dust with icing sugar.

Serve, eat, enjoy! (I usually serve it with creme fraiche or double cream.) If it doesn't become one of your favourites, then too bad. All the more for me. ;-)

100 posts: what's it all about, then?

2010-02-07T09:05:00.015Z

This blog and I have reached a mini-milestone. It's taken just over a couple of years to get here, but we've finally made it: 100 posts.

'100' sounds vaguely important, doesn't it? I feel I should be celebrating, or doing something momentous, such as cooking some outrageously inventive dish, or coming up with a suitably profound insight into the world of food blogging.

But that's not really what this blog's been about. So far, it's been a rather eclectic mix of restaurant 'reviews', several recipes, a peek at a few cookbooks, and some random other stuff. Focussed and organised, it is not. It's not even a reliable indicator of what I cook or eat - I blog only a tiny fraction of all that. Sadly, there aren't enough hours in the day or days in the week.

I have, however, learnt a few things along the way (notably, that I prefer to eat my food while it's hot, rather than faff around photographing it, and that British daylight really isn't up to the job for much of the year), and that the more I learn, the more I learn that I've got lots more learning still to do. Hmm. There endeth the first (and only) lesson: food blogging = mini life lesson.

And, of course, it's been fun. I've discovered an amazing array of food bloggers (for me, it all started with the wonderful mattbites), been to some great restaurants and food 'events', tried new recipes, and revisited old ones. I've trialled new products, reviewed cookbooks, and interviewed a few of my food heroes. When I started this blog, all those months ago, I had no idea that it would bring me so many opportunities.

Above all, though, it's been about the FOOD - about making it, eating it, trying it, sharing it, and enjoying all that it brings. Food is my raison d'etre, my modus operandi, and quite probably my most powerful memory bank. I wouldn't have it any other way.

So, dang it, I WILL celebrate - with 3 photos from last week that neatly sum up some of what 'a forkful of spaghetti' has been all about...

1. Cheese, lovely cheese

Or, to be more precise, Yarg, lovely Yarg. Cheese has always been a big part of my life. As far back as I can remember, when smelly cheeses were largely unknown here and the cause of much instant suspicion, my dad was buying wonderful and weird cheeses and bringing them home like a proud hunter. Where he got his love of the stuff from, I don't know. It certainly wasn't from his upbringing. But I share that love, and now that he no longer lives or works anywhere near a decent cheesemonger, I take particular pleasure in tracking down cheeses for him that he may not have come across before. I'm fairly certain he's familiar with Yarg, but that won't stop me buying him another truckle at some point in the not-too-distant future.

Carefully wrapped in nettles, it's gorgeous to look at - but it's better still to eat. Despite its slightly chalky, crumbly appearance, it's actually a smooth and creamy cheese. Buttery, tangy, earthy, and with a hint of the salty sea from the Cornish coast, it's subtle and extremely moreish. The baby pictured above came to me from the kind people at Lynher Dairies. Apparently, they're also offering heart-shaped truckles for Valentine's Day. If your lover is a cheese lover, then this is surely a perfect gift.

2. Chocolate, in (almost) any form

'Real' chocolate has been my big discovery of the past few years. As a child, I was never into all those sickly Cadbury and other confections, and so never really ate much chocolate. Easter eggs would go untouched. Christmas tins would go unopened. Chocolate cakes, however, and some chocolate biscuits, were a different matter altogether. And now I understand why. It's all in the cocoa. Cakes were made with the real stuff, whereas the chocolates of my childhood were not.

Now my life is happily punctuated with real chocolate, and London, even more happily for me, is studded with some truly great British chocolatiers. Paul A Young, Demarquette, L'Artisan du Chocolat, Melt, Damian Allsop... I salute you all. And a special mention must go the Mother of them all, Rococo, and its founder, Chantal Coady. I've got messy in the Motcomb Street kitchen and learnt a tremendous amount over the last two years about all things cocoa from Chantal and 'Prof Choc', Laurent Couchaux - from the secrets of ganache-making through how to make a perfect mousse to how to taste chocolate properly.

But while my stash of real chocolate is a relative novelty, my love of chocolate biscuits, cakes, and desserts still thrives. Last week, I made a batch of deeply dark, all-chocolate chewy, fudgy cookies. With a glass (or mug, in my case) of cold milk, they are one of my life's simple but indulgent pleasures.

3. Eating out
Let's get a few things straight. I love cooking, and I cook a LOT. Most of it is functional, and goes largely unblogged - the evening meal - but I enjoy it no less for that. But - and it's a big but - I do also love eating out from time to time. Whether it's being cooked for by friends or eating at a restaurant, it's all good as far as I'm concerned.

Eating in restaurants does, of course, lend itself to a special kind of expectation. I'm fascinated and awed by what some chefs come up with, and my tastebuds revel in trying something new. I usually make a point of ordering things I can't readily get hold of, have never eaten before, or know I'll never make in a month of Sundays. Sometimes expectations are sorely disappointed; sometimes they're spectacularly exceeded. For me, it's all part of the adventure.

At the very tail end of last summer, I was lucky enough to visit Pierre Koffman's 'pop-up' restaurant. From start to finish, the meal was superb, and the experience will live long in my memory. Last week, I received this through the post:

A menu from the night, signed by the great man himself! I was, and still am, ridiculously chuffed. Claire, his partner, had been as good as her word. She took a note of my name on the night and promised she'd get Pierre to sign a menu for me. Weeks and months passed. Nothing. I wasn't unduly disappointed - I still had the memories of one of my great dining experiences, and Koffmann is, after all, a tremendously busy man. How could I possibly be disappointed?

Now, though, that memory is forever signed and sealed. I'll be framing it and putting it somewhere that I can see it every day. The autograph thrills me, the cartoon amuses me, and the menu serves as inspiration and a reminder of a truly great meal and experience. I couldn't ask for more.

And that's what food is all about, isn't it? Fun, experiences, memories.

What will my next 100 posts bring? I have no idea. But I can guarantee you there's a lot more fun, experiences, and memories still to pass this way.

spice up your life: keema shepherd's pie, a twist on an old classic

2010-01-29T12:16:00.003Z

I hope I'm not tempting a flurry of emails here, but I've yet to come across someone who doesn't like shepherd's pie and/or its sibling, cottage pie.

It's the stuff that my (and I suspect, many others') childhood was made of - a warming, comforting fest of rich minced lamb, covered in a blanket of crispy-baked mashed potato. If there was ever a perennial family favourite, then shepherd's pie - along with the Sunday roast - is surely it.

The love affair, for me, continues to this day. Though I rarely cook it myself, I still get ridiculously excited if someone cooks it for me (any offers, please feel free to email me...). There's something about those lamby wafts that gets me just... there... every time. And, of course, the prospect of those crunchy, 'umamied' bits of potato... y'know, the bits that everyone scrapes the dish for and fights over. Yep, those, too. In fact, there's not a single aspect of shepherd's pie that doesn't appeal to me.

A week or so ago, somewhere out of left field, I had a thought. I'd been thinking of actually making a shepherd's pie myself for once, when I had a sudden urge (settle down at the back there) for some spice. So maybe I'd make some keema instead.

Oh, HANG ON....

(see where this is going yet? OK, so the title of this post rather gives it away, but go with it...)

And so the idea of a keema shepherd's pie was born. Since I get excited about keema almost to the same extent as I get excited about shepherd's pie, you can probably picture the scene. Yes, it's fair to say I was, well, excited.

So - to the recipe books. And most of all, to the (or my) goddess of reference on all things Indian cookery, Madhur Jaffrey. (I really don't know as much about Indian cooking as I feel I should, after all my years of eating it, so if anyone has other recommendations for great Indian recipe-book authors, please let me know.) I have a few recipes of hers that are personal favourites, including - thankfully - one for keema matar (lamb mince with peas), and another for zeera aloo (spicy potatoes). Both of them come from her 'Simple Indian Cookery' book.

I realise that there are probably about as many different versions of keema matar and zeera aloo as I have had hot dinners, so I won't trot out Jaffrey's here unless you specifically ask me to (leave a comment, and I'll get back to you). Choose whichever versions take your fancy, and then put them together as you would a shepherd's pie - first, a make a layer of lovely, juicy, spicy meat in the bottom of an ovenproof dish, and then pile your spicy potatoes on top so as to completely cover the meat.

Whack the whole lot in the oven at around 180C for 30 mins to heat through properly, and for the potatoes to become irresistibly browned and crispy on top.

At that point, resistance will be futile. Get it out of the oven...

... press your nose up against the glass to have a closer look...

... and then get stuck right in without further delay!

Will you ever make 'traditional' shepherd's pie again?

the easiest marmalade ever...

2010-01-22T12:28:00.009Z

Having given you a recipe for bread in my last post, it occurred to me that perhaps you might like something to go with it.

And lo! - I have the answer. Following on in the spirit of an easy-peasy oatmeal loaf recipe, I bring you a recipe for what is most probably the easiest recipe marmalade you're ever likely to come across. There is NO COOKING involved, and it takes NO TIME at all. Better than that, though, it's also absolutely delicious - bursting with citrussy zest and fragrance. A real winter cheerer, and one that has gone down an absolute storm here and with friends and family, for whom I made a batch for Christmas. Even those who aren't usually mad keen on marmalade (I include myself here - I'm not fond of the bitter aftertaste that many marmalades leave) love this version.

One small confession. It's not actually 'my' recipe. Sorry to disappoint. Nope, it's by Darina Allen, she of the esteemed Ballymaloe cookery school in Cork, and author of the excellent Ballymaloe Cookery Course, from which this recipe comes.

I can't add to the recipe in any way - it's perfect as it is - and so I present it here in its entirety:

No-cook marmalade
Makes 8 x 350ml (12fl oz) jars

If you use organic fruit for this recipe, you will really notice the difference.*

5 oranges#, roughly chopped and discarding as many pips as possible
1 lemon, roughly chopped
1 grapefruit, roughly chopped
sugar, the combined weight of the above fruit, minus 110g

Put all the ingredients into a liquidiser and whizz together.** Then transfer to a sterilised jar and cover. This fresh-tasting marmalade will keep in the fridge for approximately 3 weeks.***

(aforkful notes: #or 3, if they're large oranges; *I made it with organic fruit, and can vouch for deliciousness. Haven't tried with non-organic; **How much you whizz it is obviously down to you and the texture you prefer. I like mine chunkyish; ***We've just opened our last jar, 4 weeks minus 2 days after it was made. Seems absolutely fine.)

And THAT. IS. IT.

Really. As simple as...

...1

...2

...3

I know some of you will already be elbow-deep in vats of Seville orange marmalade - but for those who aren't, and for those who are but would like to try something that can be made year-round and takes all of 5 minutes to make, I can't recommend this one more highly.

(For my next post, I promise I'll try to up the skill level. I'll attempt a full Cordon Bleu recipe, complete with four 2.5 turns, two backflips, and at a level of 9.75 degree difficulty. Perhaps.)

Irish oatmeal bread: don't wait for the snow

2010-01-12T10:30:00.005Z

We Brits are hopeless, really. We spend much of the time moaning that we don't get proper winters any more, and then as soon as we do, we moan about that, too.

Still, there's no doubt that conditions have been, erm, a little challenging of late. I live in balmy south London, and even here, it's been difficult to get out for the past few days. Roads and pavements have been transformed into veritable ice rinks, and only now does the snow and ice seem finally to be melting away.

And wait - we'll moan about how everything looks dull and dreary again now it's not all covered in Narnian white... ;-)

Like many, the conditions outside have meant that I've been forced to resort to the freezer and the cupboards rather more than I would do usually, and I hit a particular crisis at the weekend when I ran out of bread.

Yikes! No bread??

And no bread flour or yeast, either. Hmmm. Or buttermilk. Or anything, really, that looked like it would help make some half-decent bread. Added to that was the slight dilemma that I'm a little intolerant to wheat, so I try to eat wheat-minimal bread if possible. Rye and spelt are my preferred alternatives - luckily for me, both flours make terrific bread. But on this occasion, I didn't have rye or spelt flour either.

Cue some frantic interwebby searching via that faithful friend, Google. And lo, shortly afterwards, I found an answer. Not the Holy Grail, perhaps, but certainly a potential worthy contender in the acceptable bread stakes.

Not that I wasn't a tad sceptical. American recipes with American measurements tend to do that to me. Although I have cup and tablespoon measures, I don't think they're greatly accurate to use in practice, and can sometimes be plain barking, especially for those of us in the UK. For instance, I recently came across a recipe which required 8 tablespoons of butter. I mean, really. The great oracle, Twitter, subsequently informed me that in the US, butter packs come with tablespoon measurements already marked on the wrapper. Well, that's great. In the UK, they don't.

Anyway, enough of that. The bread, people, the bread.

I read the recipe, read the reviews, and adjusted and tweaked to fit the ingredients I had. I shoved the dough in the tin, popped it in the oven, crossed my fingers, and left it to do whatever it was going to do. To say I wasn't overly hopeful would be putting it mildly.

Fifty minutes later, though, and I was preparing to eat humble pie. Or, to be more precise, warm, oaty bread. Because it worked. It worked brilliantly well. And moreover, it tasted great. If you've ever had soda bread, the taste and texture is much the same - which makes this oatmeal bread a complete winner for me since I happen to be a firm fan of soda stuff.

And the best thing? It's SO ridiculously quick and easy to make. The next best thing is that you don't need bread flour, yeast, or a bread maker. You need 2 bowls and a 2lb loaf tin or a baking sheet. And an oven, obviously. That's IT.

The recipe's here. I used SR flour + 0.5 tbsp of baking powder (and could have probably got away with using less, or even none). I used a very ordinary runny honey - it'd be easy to ring the changes with different varieties of honey. I forgot the salt (I'd recommend no more than a teaspoon, though, if you want to include it). I baked it for just over 50 minutes in all. It was that simple.

And I ate the lot.

And I won't be leaving it as an emergency recipe next time. This is going to be a regular in this household from now on.

where there's smoke, there's duck...

2010-01-06T14:13:00.005Z

or New Year's resolution #1 - take up smoking

or how to smoke your duck and eat it

or 10 simple steps to smoking your duck

or...

ok, I'll just get on with it, shall I?

For a while now, I've been following @paulscooking on Twitter. More to the point, perhaps, I've been checking out the recipes on his website - an eclectic mix of British and Asian cooking, with some other randoms thrown in once in a while. Finally, some time in November, I got around to making his storming Tau Yew Bak (braised belly pork with star anise and soy sauce) which was an unqualified and utterly delicious success.

Shortly after that, I bought some duck legs. Good plan, you might think, except that I couldn't find a recipe that really tickled my feathers, despite the fact that I have eleventy million recipe books.

But wait! An embryo of an idea fluttered across my brain (mmm, maybe that image doesn't work too well after all). And then and there, I hatched a plan.

EMERGENCY TWEET TO PAUL! EMERGENCY TWEET TO PAUL!

And, like the good man he is, he came up with a quacker of a recipe for me. Smoked duck! Ah, of course, I said. Sichuan smoked duck. Of course. Erm, but I've never smoked anything in my life before. (Honest, Dad.) So, er, how?

Don't panic, said Paul. I'll email the details over to you. (It wasn't on his website at the time.)

And so he did. A few helpful other tweeters offered their top (wing) tips, in the meantime (copious quantities of silver foil being the standout one - thank you to all those concerned), and I was ready to fly.

This, my friends, is what happened next. Like I said up there ^^^, it's a case of how to smoke your duck in 10 easy steps. And they must be easy, because I managed it. Not only managed it, but managed not to (a) smoke the house out or (b) to burn it down, either. In my book, that's a success.

Here we go, then. First, marinade your duck legs:

Next, assemble your smoking ingredients. You can use any tea, but I think it's preferable to go with something that has a distinct flavour, such as Earl Grey or Lapsang Souchong. I opted for the former.

Then, construct your smoker. Line everything with foil - you don't want a ruined pan. You also need a rack or similar to go over the smoking ingredients. We don't have a rack of the right size, so I, er, cut out the wire mesh from one of those anti-splatter thingummyjigs. We never used it anyway. Worked a treat, like so.

By now, it's time to get the smoking things smoking. Light hob, place pan over, and wait for little *pfffft* sounds to emanate from said pan, and for smoke signals to appear.

Look! Look - over there! Over there, at the back, towards the right! SMOKE!

Inhale. Go on. The tea, spices, sugar, and bay leaves give off the most gorgeous (and somewhat addictive, I should add) sweet-scented fragrant aroma. Lovely stuff.

Shake yourself out of your aromatic reverie, and grab your duck legs, plunge them in boiling water very briefly, dry them off, and load them onto the rack. They might not look very appealing at the moment, but stick with it. They will do soon, honest.

To avert almost certain disaster to you and your pan, cover the pan with more foil, and then put the lid over that.

You're on your way. Now all you have to do is wait anywhere between about 30 and 50 minutes, depending on the size of the legs.

At some point, of course, you're going to find it hard to resist peeking (Peking?) at the duck to make sure all's going swimmingly.

OK, yep, think it's plenty smokey in there, ta.

*coughs*

Just don't do that stage too often, ok?

Before long, you'll have fully smoked (and thoroughly cooked, for those of you who might be wondering) duck legs, hot off the rack:

No, I know they don't look wildly different from the pic taken at the start. But they are smoked and cooked, I promise. All you need to do now is to inject (not literally) a little colour into them, and some crispiness to the skin.

For this, you need to take your life into your hands again if you don't have a deep-fat fryer. For those of you who do, well, you've got it easy.

Alternative to deep-fat fryer: find pan. Fill with some kind of vegetable oil (not groundnut). Heat until very hot. Plunge your legs in. NO! Not those! The DUCK legs. Not yours. Jeez.

... and let them bubble away until they're a lovely golden brown.

At that point, all you have to do is drain them ....

... and they're ready to serve! Paul suggests an accompanying sauce based largely on hoisin. All I'll say at this point is I think I picked the wrong brand, because it was far too overwhelming for the duck. Next time round, I'll ask Paul first.

What I can say is that the duck was lovely - a tad overcooked for my taste, so I'll smoke for a shorter time next time, but beautifully fragrant and gently full of the flavour of the tea and other aromatics. Definitely a winner, and a recipe to play with again and again with variations on the theme.

(Just make sure you have lots of foil, and an airtight seal. If you don't, prepare to get friendly with your local fire brigade.)

For the full recipe, check it out on Paul's website. And have a good look around while you're there - you're bound to find lots of other stuff to tempt you.

And Paul? I owe you one. Thank you! It was a quacker!

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

2009-12-23T10:35:00.003Z

I would have liked to have ended this year on more of a bang, but this Christmas thing - it just takes over, really, doesn't it?

So, as usual, I'm running around like a headless turkey, trying to get last-minute shopping, wrapping, cooking, cleaning and tidying done while attempting to get into the ho-ho-ho mood at the same time.

It's working, but I think I probably need another sip of sherry. Or bottle. I forget which.

In the meantime, all bets on the blog are off for the moment - so have a great Christmas and a wonderful New Year, and I hope to see you back here again in 2010!

a few ideas for Christmas...

2009-12-15T11:11:00.013Z

OK, first - disclosure time. All of the items that follow have been sent to me via the companies concerned. Having said that, noone's directly asked for a plug, but given that Christmas is hurtling towards us with the speed of something driven by Schumacher, now seems to be as good a time as any to do a little round-up.

So, just to whet your appetite, and as a little stocking filler, how about these cute packets of different varieties of teas (bags, by the way, in case loose tea frightens you) from the BelleVue Tea Lady?

Alternatively, of course, you could drink the tea while you're writing cards, wrapping presents, and putting up the Christmas decorations. In that case, you'll be needing something to go with the tea and to help keep you going. Preparing for Christmas is hunger-making stuff, after all. So perhaps consider having some festive cookies to nibble? These, made by the self-styled 'Biscuiteers', come in a dinky tin, and are available from Interflora:

I suppose you could always send them to someone you know, rather than keep them for yourself. But really, why would you? ;) Actually, they come very well packed, and the tin is plenty sturdy enough to resist the vagaries of Royal Mail, so if you know someone who has a sweet tooth and likes eating the hind legs off biscuity reindeer, then you might just have found the perfect present.

If sweet things aren't your, er, thing, then you might want to delve into the wonderful world of umami, the 'fifth' taste. It's not a particularly new concept, but it's novel enough to these shores, and it's what everyone's been talking about for the last few months. Foremost among those is Laura Santtini, who has both published a cookery book earlier this year - stuffed full of suggestions on how to give your food that 'magic' umami taste sensation - but has also launched a range of products (available from Selfridges) to make it that much quicker and easier for you to do so. The talk of Twitter in recent weeks has been her Taste No.5 Umami paste. I can vouch for this myself, too - I've used it in both a rabbit pie and a venison stew, with great results on both occasions. There's plenty more in the Santtini range, including the salacious-looking Carnal Sin rub. I haven't yet tried it, but I can report that it certainly smells promising, with lots of Eastern aromas to boot.

Try rubbing it into the turkey skin for something a little more exotic for your Christmas dinner...

Regular readers of this blog will know that chocolate tends to be a recurring theme. And that I'm a bit of a snob about it. I try not to be, but I'm afraid I just can't help myself. So I was a little sceptical when I was offered some Thornton's chocolate to try. Then again, I know they've been trying to up their game lately, and I was keen to see and taste the results. And you know what? They've won a whole host of awards for their new range of chocolate, so they're on their way. And better still, so far as Christmas is concerned, they've packaged them in a rather attractive fashion, too. Great for stocking-fillers again, or equally good for your own personal chocolate stash. I leave it to your conscience. (The one with pistachio is particularly good, though, so you might want to hang onto that one, at least.)

Flagging yet?

Hmm - me, too. Probably time to have a mince pie, then. I'm a bit partial to a good mince pie, and I'm quite fussy about them, too. Not all mince pies are created equal, after all. Happily, those sent to me via Abel and Cole, from the Authentic Bread Company, meet my requirements. The pastry is nice and short, and the mincemeat is pleasingly moist and uncloying. And I, for one, prefer my mince pies to be dusted with icing sugar rather than caster sugar, so they scored on that count as well. In fact, I defy you not to eat the whole box (of 6). If you don't, I will.

But then, just as you congratulate yourself on having got the presents sorted and having eaten your quota of mince pies, the front doorbell always goes at this time of year, doesn't it? Neighbours 'just popping round' to deliver cards, and all that malarkey. Aaargh.

Best to have something ready for them, then. For wine, I think I'm probably going to be stocking up on a very drinkable range of both whites and reds from the Australian award-winning vintner, McGuigan. But for food? A few goodies from Unearthed might do the job. Try the olives, cured meats, barrel-aged feta (my particular favourite, and great with in a pasta with chorizo, butternut squash, and sage), and panettone (always handy for making a quick pudding with, too, remember).

Right. There you go. Don't say I haven't tried. If you still haven't got any ideas for Christmas, don't come whining to me. I'm simply too busy munching my way through that lot ^^ to care any more.

talking with... Antonio Carluccio

2009-12-11T12:13:00.003Z

A little while ago now, before this blog had its forced hiatus, I was lucky enough to be able to talk with Antonio Carluccio.

I must confess, I have a soft spot for the man. I find him engaging, warm and infectiously enthusiastic when he’s talking about food, and for that he gets a very big tick in my book. I’ve probably watched all his TV series over the years, and there’s something about his avuncular demeanour that I just can’t help but be drawn to.

But just as importantly, I’m a fan of his food – the food that characterises the cafe chain that still bears his name, and for which he still acts on a consultancy basis, and which fills several of the recipe books he’s penned.

I spoke to him very briefly following the publication of his latest book, Antonio Carluccio’s Simple Cooking, and had the chance to fire some rather random questions at him, related to the book. Between limited time, a poor mobile reception, no voice recorder, and my hearing loss (more about that another time), it wasn’t the easiest – but this is what I managed to salvage....

What, I asked him, was the inspiration for Simple Cooking?
It was partly the times we live in, he replied, in which food has become over fussy and complicated. He felt a need to pare it all back, and to make it simple and enjoyable again. Equally, though, he felt that it was the right time to gather together some of his favourite recipes and put them into one book.

Is there anything or any particular moment that he could remember sparking his deep love for food?
His mother was a very good cook, he said, and his father a good critic! He and his siblings were always closely involved with ‘food production’ in the Carluccio household, so it was natural for him to enjoy helping his mother and to be around food. He was often asked to go and gather ingredients from outside as well as help prepare things in the kitchen. What really changed and shaped his attitude towards food, however, was the time he spent studying in Vienna as a student. There, he became self-reliant, cooking for himself, and then others. Cooking, and sharing the food he cooked with his fellow students and friends, became part of his social agenda and then a hobby which ultimately led him to take up cooking professionally.

His fondness for mushrooms is well known. What would he choose as favourites after mushrooms?
There are so many that it’s difficult to choose, he said, but his preference is for typically Mediterranean vegetables, particularly courgettes and aubergines.

And spinach, I asked? What about those famous spinach balls? (One of the most popular dishes on the Carluccio’s menu is Penne Giardiniera – pasta with courgette, chilli, and very more-ish deep-fried spinach balls with parmesan and garlic.)
Yes, he loves spinach, too. The spinach balls were created for a friend as a favour, about 25 or so years ago. Carluccio experimented in the kitchen to come up with something new, and so the spinach balls were born.

Some of the recipes in the new book seem more novel, and less typically Italian (what would his mother have thought?), such as the dessert of mango and lime. What lies behind those?
It transpires that Carluccio likes the mango and lime dish very much, not least because it is so simple. The same goes for the other less recognisably Italian recipes, he said – he chose them for their taste and for ease of preparation. They are straightforward, yet taste amazingly good. Those were the principles of cooking that he was brought up on by his mother, and for those very reasons, he is sure she would have approved of the book, even though it is not given over entirely to specifically Italian recipes.

Does he have a personal favourite recipe in the book – one that captures everything he feels that good food, cooking, and fun should be about?
There are too many! But if he had to choose, and aside from the tagliatelle con funghi, it would probably be the giant spaghetti with onion and anchovy sauce (bigoli in salsa di cipolle e acciughe).

And what, I asked him, does he think the future hold, cooking-wise? Is the trend for simple, good food here to stay, or is it just a reflection of the recession?
His answer was immediate: food in the UK had, until a couple of years ago, become far too over-the-top, rich, and fancy. We have come to this juncture quite naturally. While simple food is very ‘now’, it is certainly something that we are all coming back to, and it is likely to stay around.

Finally, I ventured to ask, what’s next in the Carluccio pipeline?
His autobiography is planned for next year, and he may write another book. And he’d consider doing more television if asked!

There are a couple more things I should say before signing off. Despite being in the middle of a whizz-stop tour of the UK to promote his new book, Antonio Carluccio was a joy to speak to. I believe he was getting over a cold at the time, and probably rather tired to boot, but he answered all my questions with unfailing politeness and patience. It genuinely felt like a chat with a long-lost uncle rather than an interview with the man who’s arguably done the most to put Italian food on the map in this country over the last 20 years or so. To him, and to Absolute Press, huge thanks. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m off for a plate of tagliatelle con funghi.

McGuigan wines with lunch at Roussillon - a memorable occasion

2009-12-05T12:30:00.008Z

Yes, I know there’s been a bit of a hiatus here, and I’m sorry. If you’re on Twitter and follow me, you’ll know why. For those of you who don’t – very briefly, my dad was on the wrong end of a drunk driver recently, and I’ve taken a bit of time out while he recovers.

Thankfully, he’s getting better now, and so I’ve been getting out and about again.

Given the nature of what happened to my father, it is perhaps somewhat ironic that the first thing I was invited to since his horrible crash was a wine tasting. I guess life’s like that. Still, it wasn’t all about the booze – the additional lure was a meal at the Michelin-starred Roussillon restaurant in Pimlico, designed to match the wines concerned.

And what wines. All from McGuigan Wines, one of Australia’s foremost wine makers, and winners of so many trophies for their wines that their trophy cabinet must be built of particularly stern stuff. The tasting was to be hosted, too, by Mr McGuigan himself, Neil – White Winemaker of the Year at the International Wine Challenge (held in September) for 2009.

Invitations like this don’t come beating their way to my door every day, so it took me precisely, ooh, 0.02 seconds to accept. The wines were obviously a big attraction, but so, too, was the actual meal. Even though Roussillon has been on my radar for some long while, and is not a million miles from where I live, I’d never visited. My interest had been further piqued a few weeks ago by watching the chef, Alexis Gauthier, put the Masterchef Professionals finalists through their paces. Suffice to say, then, that my expectations of the entire event were high.

Initial impressions were good. While it’s located in a rather unappealing and busy (with traffic) part of Pimlico, the restaurant itself is an oasis of comfort and charm. I was greeted by an elegant and efficient member of staff who swiftly whisked me off to the downstairs haven in which our tasting lunch was to take place.

Coat off, a few initial introductions, and we (a group of 12 of us in all) were immediately into the wines – an informal tasting before lunch of some of McGuigan’s readily available ‘Classic’ wines, ranging from this year’s Pinot Grigio to last year’s breathy Merlot. None of them cost more than £7.49. I’m no wine expert, but these were all pleasantly quaffable – though I admit to going easy at this stage, wary of (a) an empty stomach, and (b) a heavy session ahead... Yes, I am a wimp, and I can live with that.

And then – after a brief amusing and engaging introduction by Neil on the history of Australian viticulture, and on the McGuigan Wines – to lunch. On the menu:

(Apologies for the grainy photos, BTW, but we had no natural light at all.)

Oh, yum. (‘Yum’ being a highly technical gastronomic term for ‘golly, that’s a hugely attractive menu which happens to include some of my favourite foods. The wines sound promising, too. I shall look forward to this with every inch of my intestines’).

First up, the lobster bisque, paired with Earth’s Portrait Riesling 2004 (don’t ask me why that name). I won’t try to describe the wines, as others will do a far better job of doing so than me, but I will say that the slightly leathery fruit and juiciness of the Riesling was – to my palate – a wonderful match with the rich and intense sea-sweetness of the lobster. It was a contrasting pairing of the highest order.

Next, the sea bass, with the McGuigan Bin 9000 Semillon 2003 to drink.

My jury’s still out on this one. Sea bass has been one of my favourite fish to eat over the last twenty years, but this particular rendition didn’t do it for me. It was perfectly cooked, and there was nothing to find fault with, but it didn’t soar, either. The same goes for the wine – a citrusy, rather riper-than-usual style Semillon, which complemented, rather than contrasted with the dish. Don’t get me wrong, both the food and wine for this course were more than pleasant and acceptable, but they just didn’t inspire me.

Our meat course was prefaced by the pouring of the wine to match – the McGuigan Shortlist Cabernet Sauvignon 2008. Oh, for smell-o-blogs. This was fantastic on the nose – pepper, cedarwood, damsons, prunes, and bags and bags of juicy blackcurrants. Pure joy in a glass. I could honestly have spent the rest of the lunch simply inhaling this fruity beauty. Neil explained that, although perfectly drinkable now (well, that’s a relief, then), it will probably be at its best in another 2 to 3 years’ time, when it may well develop coffee and coconut flavours.

Oh, and the food:

The menu says it all. Thyme and more thyme. With lamb. But not just any lamb. Milk-fed, delicate baby lamb, lifted by a meaty jus. It was very good indeed.

And now for the cheese course, with a McGuigan Handmade Shiraz 2008. After the Cab Sauv, the Shiraz just didn’t tickle my nose in quite the same way. But make no mistake, there are BIG, voluptuous berry fruits in this wine, and without the cheek-sucking tannins that can take the edge off the pleasure of similar wines. Again, Neil suggested that perhaps it still needs more time to develop fully. I should certainly like to try it again in a year or two’s time.

And the feuillette?

Pastry and cheese is not normally for me. If you’re going to give me cheese, just give me the cheese. I don’t need or want the pastry, thanks. But the feuillette was a little charmer – delicate, tangy and moreish at the same. The Bleu d’Auvergne was hardly in evidence but that was, I suspect, the whole point. It’s an incredibly powerful cheese, and this pastry number demonstrated how to use a little to great effect. Also surprising, to me, was how well it went with the Shiraz.

Finally, the dessert, a quince parfait, with a ‘sticky’, the Personal Reserve Botrytis Semillon 2005. It was as though Alexis and Neil had seen me coming. Anyone who reads my inanities on Twitter will know that I am a quinceomaniac. If I could eat only one fruit for the rest of my life, it would be quince. Roasted, poached, made into membrillo, ice cream – I’ll have it any way it comes. But mostly poached, because to me, that’s when it’s at its most beautiful, both in looks and taste. I also have a weak spot for dessert wines. I don’t know enough about them, but I’ve yet to find one that I don’t like, whatever their style.

So, here we go:

Right. I’ll be honest – I can’t be objective or usefully descriptive about it. It was joyous. Lots of quince, with boozy sultanas, all wrapped up in a creamy (and surprisingly light) parfait, topped with a tangy yoghurt and honey sorbet which was just the right accompaniment. And the wine? Lots of honey, wax, flowers, and esters. Gorgeous to drink on its own, but even more so when matched with the quince parfait. The room, at this point, was quiet as anything, the silence punctuated only by barely perceptible sighs of pleasure. I’m so glad no one had a voice recorder running.

There can’t be many better ways to spend a grey, wintry Tuesday in London than this. And it wasn’t even all about the fine food and the splendid wines. I should make special mention of the McGuigan team who, led by the lovely Neil, were as warm and entertaining as their wines. They were interesting, informative, engaging, and most of all – fun. Yes, fun. Wine tasting can be spoilt by over-bearing pomposity and obscurity, but not on this occasion. The emphasis was firmly on enjoyment and informality, and for that I, for one, was extremely grateful. Alexis, too, was in fine form, and took time out to introduce the menu and to explain his choices.

It was only fair, then, that at the end of lunch, our heroes should indulge in a minor celebration:

Well deserved, guys.

I understand from McGuigan's PR team that the top-end wines we had with lunch should be available from Tesco online in the New Year. Until then, I will try to wait patiently, and in the meantime sigh wistfully to myself every so often.

(Thanks to McGuigan Wines, to Alexis Gauthier and his staff, and to Chris and Scott at Cube Communications for inviting me and creating such a memorable experience. Special thanks go to Peter Hall of McGuigan who clasped his enormous warming hands over mine for a few moments to help get them back to blood temperature again following their exposure to the nasty British winter temperatures.)

if you like porridge, you'll love this...

2009-11-27T16:05:00.001Z

Porridge Championships
to be held on at Giraffe restaurant on London`s Southbank on Saturday 28 November

Who will be crowned London`s porridge champion, prince or princess?
This Saturday (28th October) as part of their annual porridge extravaganza, seriously fruity cereal maker Rude Health is holding a freestyle gourmet porridge contest for adults and for children. Contestants have been whittled down over the past few weeks and on Saturday the finalists will battle for the title of London`s porridge champion whilst slaving over a bubbling saucepan of rolled oats. Weird and wonderful concoctions are anticipated.

In addition to the competition, the reigning World Porridge Champion - Anna Louise Batchelor - will be demonstrating the dish that clinched her the speciality category at the Golden Spurtle World Porridge Making Championships - SPOTTED DICK PORRIDGE PUDDING.

The making of the sexiest, gourmet porridge will be filmed and posted online at www.rudehealth.com

EVENT SUMMARY
Date: 28 November 2009
Timings: 10 - 12 am
Childrens Prizes will be handed out at 10.25 am
Adult Prizes will be handed out at 11.30 am
Event: Rude Health Porridge Championships
Location: Giraffe restaurant South Bank, 1 More London Riverside, London SE1 8XX / www.giraffe.net

review: Supper for a Song, by Tamasin Day-Lewis

2009-10-30T13:38:00.004Z

Billed as a ‘book for a resourceful cook in the prudent kitchen’, this latest publication by Tamasin Day-Lewis seems to be another of the current crop tapping into a recession-hit market. The premise is sound, and initial impressions are promising –a cursory flick through the pages suggests that any notions that cooking to a limited budget necessarily means bland and dull meals should be promptly banished. The colourful pictures promise much – feasts of delicious, vibrant food leap out from almost every page.

And, indeed, the book gets off to an appropriate start with a core recipe for a roast chicken, and then a variety of ideas for what to do with any leftovers. Ditto a handful of recipes for using mince (without an initial roast lamb or beef recipe, though). How to get creative with leftover mash follows next (bread, potato apple ‘cake’, and parmesan potato cake, since you ask).

I’m not sure I understand the rationale behind the ordering of the sections (not helped by the lack of a Table of Contents), since next up is ‘The Saturday Bake’. Personally, I would have thought that a chapter on roasts and leftovers would follow more logically after Saturday, but maybe that’s just me. The sequence of the other chapters is equally mystifying. Still, whether you bake on Saturday or some other day, you’ll be spoilt for choice with recipes here, among them many old favourites: carrot cake, chocolate cake, fruit tea loaf, and brownies. But there are also novel versions of familiar cakes, too: wholemeal date scones, banana blondies, and bay, lemon, and honey cake, for example.

From baking, the book launches into one-pot cooking, with plenty of those hearty winter warmers that we’re all so fond of, like stew and dumplings, braised belly pork, sausage casserole, cobbler, and fish pie. Again, there are tasty twists: brisket comes with pickled walnuts, the belly pork with quince, the casserole with chestnuts, and the ‘pudding’ is lamb, rather than steak, and kidney.

If those aren’t enough to make you content, a chapter on ‘Happy food’ follows. As Day-Lewis puts it: ‘When we are broke we need to reward ourselves more than ever, with little luxuries in the absence of large’. Chocolate, unsurprisingly, features largely here – in truffles, a terrine, a truffle cake, little baked custards, and a sorbet. Other treats include a date and coffee sponge, crème caramel, and pannacotta, as well as a comfort-food Victorian nursery pudding, called General Satisfaction – something of a cross between trifle, Eton Mess, and Queen of Puddings.

Next is a fulsome section on bread, and how to use up old loaves. Many of the savoury recipes are Spanish or Italian in origin, while the puddings include old English classics such as Brown Betty and Summer Pudding.

Then it’s the chapter that takes its title from that of the book itself. The concept for Day-Lewis was born out of necessity at university, and even now ‘I still take the greatest pride in inventing suppers for a song’. Any reader following her lead will eat well: from pea, mint, and scallop custards, through stuffed squid, to little John Dory fillets with braised fennel and anchovy butter. A dessert of caramel and cardamom ice cream with Tarocco oranges would certainly have been much appreciated in my student days.

Autumnal gluts of fruit are swiftly despatched through baking, stewing, sun-drying (tomatoes), and jamming, before the book ends with ‘Something-out-of-nothing suppers’ – the kind of meals we might conjure up from our store cupboards. Again, the recipes derive largely from beyond UK shores, with Indian curries, gnocchi, tortilla, paella, pan bagna, Boston baked beans, baked penne, and pizza all appearing on the menu.

In all, it’s a cheery book for hard times. My query, though, is to what extent it will really fulfil readers’ expectations for frugality. The braised belly pork recipe suggests a 1.2kg piece of ‘ideally’ organic Middle White. And the quinces to accompany it aren’t exactly cheap. Other recipes don’t stint on top-notch ingredients, either. Organic Sierra Rica chestnuts? Pheasant? Scallops? Wild salmon? John Dory? Marsala wine? Or that caramel and cardamom ice cream recipe, anyone – requiring, amongst other things, a vanilla pod, 350ml Jersey milk, 284ml thick Jersey cream, 8 (yes, 8) large egg yolks, and 6 Tarocco or blood oranges? Crikey. If this is frugality, then we should all be getting rather more excited about it than we are.

This is not, then, a book that will square with everyone’s idea of managing on a limited budget. Neither is Day-Lewis someone to stint on quality, even in parsimonious times. She exhorts readers to buy the best they can afford, and organic wherever possible. I’ve already cited the Middle White example, and there are several similar instances. That sort of quality doesn’t exactly come cheap. She does, however, point out that those recipes using expensive main ingredients are frequently ‘balanced’ by cheaper minor ones, and there are also plenty of recipes which are genuinely cheap (and easy) to make – but the net effect is only to throw the extravagant items into sharper and more alarming relief.

In fairness, none of this – balancing expense, buying the best produce affordable – should be particularly controversial. We all deserve to eat well, and to eat good food. To a degree, Day-Lewis is right – it’s about learning to make prudent choices, and evening out expense with moderation in order to arrive at a happy status quo. Recycling a roast chicken, making the most of mince, learning how to make bread and use up stale ends imaginatively are all things that make a plenty of economic as well as culinary sense (not to mention environmental sense), and Jamie O and Huge F-W would surely approve.

It’s just that Ms Day-Lewis’ starting budget appears to be set at a rather higher level than that of the average punter. As does her expectation regarding access to good butchers, fishmongers, and supermarkets and delis. Sadly, the reality is that many of these recipes simply won’t deliver on taste and texture if lesser and cheaper substitutes are used in place of the ingredients she lists. Even the simple fried mozzarella sandwich won’t be half as good with mozzarella that is anything other than bufala campana, and anything other than ‘spanking fresh’ mackerel could render a pickled mackerel and potato salad near inedible. But then, I strongly suspect that Ms Day-Lewis’ regular audience have access to all these things and more, and can readily afford them. And so long as everyone is aware of that, then I’m sure this book will find its market.

(With thanks to Quadrille Publishing for the review copy.)

Supper for a Song, by Tamasin Day-Lewis
Hardcover: 192 pages
Publisher: Quadrille Publishing Ltd (2 Oct 2009)
Language English
ISBN-10: 184400743X
ISBN-13: 978-1844007431
RRP: £19.99

a little piece of Love: Scandinavian Kitchen

2009-10-24T18:00:00.008+01:00

Those of you who follow me on Twitter will be aware that I've been helping to organise short food photography workshops with Chris Windsor.

Chris has been a photographer for many years, and more recently has been doing a lot of food photography projects for various clients, and for Jenny Linford's The London Cookbook and Food Lovers' London.

Not surprisingly, then, he knows a few eateries and their owners. So when we were cooking up the workshops, he suggested the Scandinavian Kitchen, just off Oxford Circus. I was slightly embarrassed to admit that I hadn't been there. It was yet another of those places that had been on my radar for a while (I defy any London foodie not to have a list of such places the length of a rather long arm), but somehow I'd never got around to going.

But now I have. And I very much liked what I saw, from the unmissable exterior...

... and equally vibrant interior...

and, more to the point, I liked what I tasted... from a huge range of open sandwiches...

... to the best hot dog I've ever come across...

... and then there are the cakes... including the famous Love Cake (aptly named) ...

... and Kladdkaka ('a bit like a brownie, but more gooey', as their label says)...

Will I be going back? Absolutely. Except in future I think I'll leave the camera behind so I can concentrate more on the important stuff - the eating...

review: My Life in France, by Julia Child with Alex Prud'homme

2009-10-21T10:20:00.011+01:00

Who would have predicted the television success of Julia Child? Over six feet all, already into her fifties (BBC, please note), and with a voice that irritated some as much as it enchanted others, the late TV chef’s success must surely have been as much as a surprise to her as it was to everyone else. In addition, by the time she hit the small screen in the US, she had spent almost as much time living outside of her native country as she had in it. On the face of it, then, her rise to prominence as a TV star was, to say the least, an unlikely one.

But succeed she did, and now, five years after her death at the age of 91 (she also successfully predicted her longevity), interest in her life has been reignited once more, if indeed it can be said to have been extinguished in the first place.

‘Julie and Julia’ is the film responsible, a film chronicling a period in the life of a food blogger who decided –on the verge of marital breakdown – to reinvent and challenge herself by cooking her way through Child’s famous tome, ‘Mastering the Art of French Cooking’. Child’s own life, particularly her life in France, which is when she wrote ‘Mastering...’, forms the parallel tale.

Luckily for those of us who are interested in the making of ‘Mastering...’, Child wrote her own memoir of that time, aided by her grand-nephew, Alex Prud’homme. Called, simply, ‘My Life in France’, it takes as its starting point the moment she and her husband first moved to France in late 1948. The majority of the book concentrates on the ten years immediately following Child’s first visit to the country – the years in which ‘Mastering...’ was born – and effectively ends in 1974, with Paul’s death and her work on ‘From Julia Child’s Kitchen’.

As Child tells it, it was her first meal in France that spawned the hitherto unknown cook within her. Unfamiliar with much of the food (she didn’t even know what a shallot was), never mind drinking wine at lunchtime, her eyes were opened to a very different kind of dining experience from that with which she was familiar: “Our first lunch together in France had been absolute perfection. It was the most exciting meal of my life.” It was, as she put it, her epiphany.

From that point on, Child gobbled up all things French, particularly anything to do with eating, revelling in it all like a small child in a toyshop. As her gastronomic experiences quickly widened (escargots, and even more so, truffles “quickly became an obsession”), so too did her appetite for learning how to cook. Spurred on and enthused by Paul’s gift to her of Larousse Gastronomique on her thirty-seventh birthday, she attended a demonstration session at the nearby L’École du Cordon Bleu, and swiftly signed up to a six-week course.

It wasn’t all plain sailing. Child soon decided she was in the wrong class, and badgered the owner of L’École to let her enrol in another. It seems to have set the tone for a difficult relationship, punctuated with somewhat wilful stubbornness on both sides. What emerges from the narrative is Child’s forceful resolve, supported by impressive self-discipline. Often frustrated by the lack of individual attention in class, she carried on regardless, and indeed, classtime neglect simply “had the effect of making me work even harder”. Becoming totally absorbed by cooking as she was, it wasn’t long before she “could hardly bear to be away from the kitchen”.

And so began the quest for culinary perfection. Mayonnaise was the subject of one early mission, by the end of which Child was of the belief that she “had written more on the subject of mayonnaise than anyone in history”. She was undaunted by others’ lack of interest: when family and friends failed to respond to her foolproof new recipe for mayonnaise, Child simply reports “I was miffed, but not deterred. Onward I plunged.” By this point in the book, her reaction comes as little surprise.

Still, her tenacity saw her finally take her Cordon Bleu diploma (although not before one last stand-off with the owner). With new-found confidence, she teamed up shortly afterwards with two fellow ‘Gourmettes’ (members of an exclusively-female dining club in Paris) with an ambitious new project – to write a cookbook of French recipes for the American home cook. This itself segued into another venture between the three women, a new cookery school to counter the perceived stuffiness and archaism of the L’École.

What followed was, by Child’s account, a tortuous period of writing, editing, and persuading. Various publishing houses showed interest, only to lose it at the sight of the huge tome laid at their feet. What had, in her words, been conceived as a “modest little book” had in fact become an unwieldy behemoth of over 700 pages, as the authors – and Child in particular, one imagines – chased after every detail in their quest for recipe perfection. More than once, it seemed that it would never see the light of day. But, once again, it was Child’s sheer bloody-mindedness and determination that ensured the book finally saw the light of day, a full ten years after it had been first started. Moreover, her underlying optimism proved well placed – as we now know, the book became a huge success, and a veritable culinary bible for readers all over the world.

And so, nearly fifty years on from the date of its first publication, it is still inspires – as it did the blogger who made her own fame and fortune by cooking her way through it all (much to Child’s disgust, apparently).

It is, of course, a book largely about Child and food, and is thus a veritable literary feast for foodies. But there is plenty else of interest in here for non-food lovers – the respective backdrops of post-war France and Europe, the McCarthy era (she and Paul came under investigation at one stage), not to mention the uncertain and nomadic life of being the wife of an American civil servant.

In many ways, this is an indulgent book – Child gets to pick out her own highlights and darker times, and to pass judgement on others without restraint. Neither she nor Alex Prud’homme makes any apology for that, and why should they? Child is (or was) what she is, and by living to the venerable age of 91 and still holding court, she was surely entitled to tell it her way.

Somewhat ironically, though, through her accounts of her dealings with others, Child also lays herself bare. What emerges – strangely enough, given her success – is arguably a certain naivety, an underlying insecurity, a lack of self-confidence. Her early days in France, especially, found her plagued with feelings of inadequacy and frustration at what she perceived to be her shortcomings - most notably, when amongst (Paul’s) intellectual friends.

Perhaps this goes some way to explaining not only her insatiable appetite for knowledge, but her own impatience and intolerance of those who didn’t subscribe to her views. Several family members (her father and mother in particular), as well as friends, seem often to be little more than an irritation to Child, although in fairness, such moments are just as frequently countered by moments of frank self-realisation (for example, “I could at times be overly emotional”; and of her father, “I know there were times I could have been better, nicer, more generous to him...”). It is no surprise, then, that by the time ‘Mastering...’ was finished, one of her co-authors had vanished from the picture almost entirely, while Child’s relationship with the other was, shall we say, ‘difficult’. By contrast, those she loved, she loved unswervingly – the saintly Paul, and her younger sister, Dort, were clearly both the focus of almost unquestioning admiration and loyalty.

Whatever you may end up thinking of Child herself, ‘My Life in France’ is an engaging read. And perhaps it’s precisely because of her very human frailties – it’s almost impossible not to find yourself cheering her on in one moment, and then despairing at her lack of empathy, or at her apparent ruthlessness, the next. Just as mesmerising is her obvious energy – no one could ever accuse her of having simply stumbled upon fame. Everything that came her way did so as a direct result of colossal (some might say obsessive) hard work and force of will.

There’s also plenty of photographic evidence throughout the book, reproduced in black and white, documenting both her life and work in France – ranging from snaps from the family album to photographs (littered with Child’s numerous additions and amendments) of her ‘top secret’ recipes sent to Dort while ‘Mastering...’ was still a work in progress. They are themselves testament to Child’s scrupulous record keeping and attention to detail.

By her own admission in ‘My Life in France’, Child was not the easiest person to live or work with. But those traits responsible are undoubtedly the very same that lie behind the dynamism and sheer joie de vivre of this book. If you are a fan of hers, or of French life and cuisine, or if you’re curious to find out more about the inspiration for ‘Julie and Julia’, then this is a must-read. If you’re none of those things, read it anyway. As Julia Child puts it herself, “one learns by doing”.

(with thanks to Duckworth for the review copy)

My Life in France, by Julia Child and Alex Prud’homme
Paperback: 336 pages
Publisher: Gerald Duckworth & Co Ltd (11 Sep 2009)
Language English
ISBN-10: 0715639005
ISBN-13: 978-0715639009
RRP: £7.99

Pierre Koffman's Restaurant on the Roof at Selfridges

2009-10-15T10:32:00.005+01:00

I live an ordinary life. Some ups, some downs, and plenty of routine daily stuff inbetween. I have no complaints, and I’m more than happy with my lot.

But once every so often, I have moments of realisation – moments of thankfulness, even, for the sheer wonder of life and the pleasures it brings. It is not overstating things to say that my meal on Tuesday evening at Pierre Koffman’s ‘pop-up’ restaurant on the roof at Selfridges was one such moment.

I don’t want to sully the memory by giving a detailed blow-by-blow account of each course. I’m a food blogger, not a master of culinary wizardry, and I doubt I could find the words, frankly, or accurately identify all the ingredients or technical skill which comprised the taste extravaganza. In any case, others have already done that task for me and taken the photographic evidence, too.

For the record, we (two of us) ate our way through fricassee of wild mushrooms with snails and bone marrow, and pressed leeks and langoustines with a truffle vinaigrette to start; followed by Koffmann’s legendary pig’s trotter stuffed with veal sweetbreads and morel mushrooms, and royale de lièvre; and to finish, a warm chocolate mousse with malt ice cream, and Toscano dark chocolate mousse layered with hazelnut dacquoise, served with orange yogurt ice cream and Yuzu jelly. And, as if that wasn’t enough, the meal was prefaced by a langoustine bisque with a herb crème Chantilly, and tailed with a generous plate of assorted petits fours.

From start to finish, and without exception, the food was exquisite. If I had to pick my personal highlight, my epiphany, then I’d single out the pig’s trotter. Why? Because it was infinitely more pleasurable than I could ever have imagined, and quite possibly the most wonderful thing I have ever eaten (and I’ve been fortunate enough to eat at some rather special places over the years). I’ve had trotter several times before, but nothing could have prepared me for just how exceptional Koffman’s version was. I can’t improve on the adjectives others have already used: unctuous, silken, gelatinous, rich, intense, delicate, elegant, creamy, ambrosial. It was all those, and still more, as was the ‘mash’ which accompanied it. Never, in my experience, has the humble mashed potato tasted so utterly divine.

Suffice to say this was a meal that far exceeded the sum of its parts. Added to that, the service was friendly to a fault, immaculate throughout, and enhanced by the warm and attentive presence of Claire, Koffman’s partner. A more welcoming host you’d be very hard pushed to find.

The actual restaurant structure, too, completely surpassed expectations – sumptuously and imaginatively decorated and furnished (all Selfridges’ own work, apparently), with only the somewhat bouncy floors betraying its impermanence.

In short, I all but gave thanks to God while I was there (and I speak as someone who havers between atheism and agnosticism). I gave them instead to Claire. And no, I haven’t taken leave of my senses or critical faculties. I’m aware, too, that not everybody has been wholly ecstatic, and that there have been a few inconsistencies and niggles along the way.

All I can say is my own experience was flawless and memorable for all the best reasons, and for that I am truly grateful. What’s more, I’m happy to report that there IS a god, and he’s alive, well, and currently cooking majestic food in a restaurant touching the heavens above Selfridges.

review: Sauces by Michel Roux (Snr)

2009-10-13T11:14:00.011+01:00

If there can be said to be trends in cookbook publishing, then we are certainly going through one now. As I’ve noted previously, every second new book at the moment seems to be something to do with ‘basic’ ‘frugal’ or ‘simple’, or similar variations on those themes.

At first sight, then, it’s not the obvious time for a former holder of 3 Michelin stars to be launching a new edition of a book on preparing sauces. I mean – sauces? Lots of time and effort, surely, just for a bit of extra something on the plate? And do they really qualify for the current vogue for simplicity and thrift?

First, a sauce shouldn’t really be regarded as an optional ‘extra’. A meal without a sauce, or an appropriate sauce, lacks its cornerstone. It’s unthinkable, incomplete, a half-meal. As M Roux himself insisted when I spoke to him, ‘Sauces are a must, the top priority’. Any viewer of Masterchef (particularly the ‘professionals’ version) will have seen many a young chef die a culinary death as a result of a sauce no-show, or by serving a misjudged one. Get it right, and the simplest meal can be elevated into something memorable; get it wrong, and perfectly good food can be made unpalatable. So, sauces are, in fact, very much a case of ‘back to basics’.

Roux’s book makes sauce preparation look straightforward and appealing. Many of the recipes are reasonably quick and inexpensive to make. However, if you fancy using more luxurious ingredients and taking your time over making something particularly special, there are sauces to tick that box, too. All the classics are in here, but so are more novel and more intriguing creations, too (parmesan water, anyone? parsley nage with lemongrass? sea spray sauce? Arabica fig sauce?). In short, this is a book which makes you wonder why on earth you haven’t been making sauces regularly before.

With this book to hand, you have all you need to become a maestro. Every aspect of preparation is covered, with all the explanation and help you could ask for: equipment, ingredients, flavourings, whisking, blending, thickening, reducing, enriching, straining, and even how to keep sauces warm properly. And then, onto the real ‘meat’, so to speak – sections devoted to different types of sauces, including all the classics: stocks and marinades, infusions and nages, white sauces, emulsion sauces, vinaigrettes, flavoured oils and butters, salsas and other piquant sauces, vegetable coulis, sauces for fish, and for meat. And then, for the sweet tooths, savoury fruity sauces and chutneys, coulis and other fruity dessert sauces, custards and sabayons, chocolate and other rich creamy sauces.

All the way through are tips, hints, and suggestions aplenty – ranging from how best to keep a sauce (and whether it will freeze, what ingredient substitutes can be used successfully, through how to vary the core recipe, and what foods the sauce best accompanies. The reader is, for example, warned against overcooking a stock: ‘With long cooking, a stock becomes heavy and loses its savour; this applies particularly to fish stocks, which can also acquire a bitter taint’. Béchamel sauce will apparently keep in an airtight container in the fridge for up to 4 days, and should be reheated in a bain-marie. Cumberland sauces tastes best the day after it is made. Grapefruit coulis with mint goes well with blackcurrant sorbet. And so on – a veritable food geek’s delight.

There are over 200 recipes to try. Twenty new ones have been added since the original edition, reflecting changes in tastes since 1996 (the date of the first edition) and Roux’s own current interest in lighter food – salsas and nages occupy more space this time around, for example. By far the majority of recipes are under a page long (including the list of ingredients), and broken down into simple, short steps, so even the most easily scared or novice of cooks shouldn’t be daunted.

No expense has been spared in the publication of ‘Sauces’, either, which is just as it should be, really, when the author is as esteemed as M Roux Snr. It’s printed on premium quality paper, making it joyous to handle. The text is set out so that there’s plenty of white space around it, and the font is a good size, making the recipes easy to read. The high production standards don’t stop there, either – the photography is both exquisite and inspiring.

And just to complete the book properly, there’s a comprehensive food/sauce matching section at the end, together with a thorough index.

All in all, it’s no surprise that the first edition is revered as a classic, both in France and in the UK. I see no reason why the second won’t be just as successful, and appeal to a whole new audience, too. For anyone wanting to master sauces, it’s an absolute must.

(With thanks to Quadrille Publishing for the review copy.)

Sauces, by Michel Roux
Hardcover: 304 pages
Publisher: Quadrille Publishing Ltd (2 Oct 2009)
Language English
ISBN-10: 1844006972
ISBN-13: 978-1844006977
RRP: £14.99
Available now.

want to cook with Theo Randall at The InterContinental Hotel?

2009-10-07T11:36:00.002+01:00

Theo prides himself on using the freshest ingredients sourced daily to create dishes inspired by northern Italian cuisine. On Saturday 5th December, Theo will be sharing his culinary skills in his monthly cookery class, which will focus on fish dishes. Traditionally, Italians abstain from meat on Christmas Eve in celebration of the birth of Jesus on Christmas Day and some serve the ‘Feast of the 7 Fishes’. Keen cooks can learn how to re-create at home some of the fish dishes available from Theo’s menu, depending on which ingredients are available on the day. These could include Spaghetti con Aragosta (spaghetti with Dorset blue lobster, plum tomatoes, parsley and chilli), Insalata do granchio (fresh Devon crab with rocket, fennel, aioli and bruschetta), Cape Sante (Scottish scallops with chilli, capers, parsley and lentils di Castelluccio) or Branzino al cartoccio (sea bass baked in foil with porcini mushrooms, thyme, vermouth and Italian spinach. Priced at £150 per person the class takes place from 9:30am until 3pm, including a wine tasting with head sommelier Cristian Fusco and a three-course lunch.

To make a reservation at Theo Randall at The InterContinental or book a place at the cookery class please call 020 7318 8747 or email reservations@theorandall.com

something for all aspiring food writers... Simon Seeks YOU

2009-10-06T14:45:00.003+01:00

I KNOW there are loads of you out there, otherwise you wouldn't have a blog in the first place, would you?

Well, here's another site to which you can devote your energies, and maybe earn yourself some money for your efforts, too: Simon Seeks travel guides.

Dedicated to travel and food, it's a foodie's delight. So why don't you offer up your knowledge of hidden gems and the like, and then we can all benefit?

C'mon - stop reading this, and get writing!

review: The Eagle Cookbook

2009-09-30T16:24:00.006+01:00

Microsoft, Burger King, MTV, Hewlett Packard, and The Eagle pub aren’t necessarily names you’d expect to hear mentioned in the same breath. And yet they share one thing in common – born out of recessions, they’ve all gone on to huge things. Granted, The Eagle might not have quite the same global reach as Microsoft, but its effect on pub food culture in the UK has been barely less dramatic.

The Eagle first opened its doors in 1991, serving up good food at very reasonable prices, mostly to hungry journos from the Guardian’s offices right nextdoor. If ever there was an exemplary case of ‘location, location’, then this, surely, is it. Where better to put your new business than next to a building full of people whose very job it is to spread the word? And so it proved with The Eagle. Before long, the word was out, and happy punters started packing the place to the rafters.

Clearly, the owners – David Eyre and Mike Belben – were doing something very right. And (even though Eyre has since moved on) still are. Even today, nearly 20 years later, it’s nigh impossible to get a table there at lunchtime if you arrive after 12.30. Happily, for those of us who can’t make the trek to Farringdon, or who aren’t prepared to do battle for a table, there’s a new cookbook. Actually, it’s not quite new – it’s a revamped, expanded version of the original which came out in 2001. Like the pub itself, the book has benefited from an injection of fresh blood and some added inspiration during the intervening years.

So what, exactly, is all the fuss about? Open the pages and you might think, at first glance, that some of the recipes are for dishes that look rather familiar. But that’s just it – they ARE familiar. The Eagle ‘effect’ has been to help make them the standard, the common food currency. So you won’t find cutting edge, sharp-ended recipes here. You’ll get the stuff on which The Eagle’s reputation as ‘the granddaddy of them all’ was founded: plates of hearty, fuss-free, comfort food, big on flavours and great ingredients - the kind of meals alongside which you can just as easily sup on a pint of ale as you can a glass of red.

The real beauty of The Eagle’s food – and of the cookbook’s recipes – is that, down the year, its various chefs have each brought different flavours to the pot. The result is a menu, or list of recipes, full of distinctly Mediterranean riffs. A quick flip through the main sections will give you an idea. ‘Soups’ opens with Portuguese ‘stone’ soup; ‘Meals on Toast’ begins with bruschetta with warm ricotta salad; while ‘Eggs for Dinner’ includes huevos a la Flamenca. Nor does the southern-European feel stop with the more tapa-like parts of the meal, either. For ‘Fish’, you might have grilled squid piri-piri, and for meat, fabada Asturiana (pork and butterbean stew). Not that anyone’s complaining, mind. In fact, this meld of culinary cultures points to the very reason for The Eagle’s success – the London pub acclaimed for revolutionising pub cooking across the country has itself been revolutionised by the changes to the capital’s population mix over recent years. The Eagle’s food succeeds because it reflects this most cosmopolitan of cities and is the food we now demand.

For that reason alone, this is a book that should please a lot of people. But there are plenty of other good reasons, too. None of the recipes is complicated, needs chef-level skills, or requires an overwhelmingly long list of ingredients. The majority are illustrated with fine photographs designed to get your salivary glands working overtime. There are helpful explanations introducing most of the dishes, and some sound advice on ingredient shopping, and on cooking and serving techniques (e.g. for making a risotto, or for grilling meat).

Highlights? Too many to mention. Die-hard Eagle fans will be pleased to see the perennial favourite, the steak sandwich, while other old friends include grilled fennel sausages with lentils and green sauce, lamb shanks with chickpeas, and belly pork stew with peas and saffron. But it’s not all about big, meaty stuff. There are plenty of vegetable soups (e.g. Andalucian garlic soup; cold roast aubergine soup; black mushroom soup; red onion and red wine soup) salads, plenty of pasta and rice, and fish, not to mention some excellent side vegetable dishes (my personal favourites, caponata, and spinach with raisins and pine nuts make an appearance).

Traditional British food isn’t entirely forgotten, either, and it’s good to see the inclusion of some of this nation’s simple pleasures: smoked haddock with horseradish mash and poached egg; mutton chop and potato hotpot (hurrah for mutton!); casseroled beef; pheasant casserole; and celeriac mash.

If you’re a keen cook, it’s quite likely that you’ll have some of these recipes, or at least variations on them, already. But I’d still suggest it’s well worth getting. Not only will you be buying yourself a little piece of gastropub history, but having those 100+ self-styled ‘robust’ recipes bound together in one volume, ready for cooking that comfort-food hit, is frankly just too handy to resist.

So it’s your choice. Prepare yourself for the crowds and the queues, fight for a table, and have a meal and a pint at the Eagle? Yes, I know – all very nice, but.... Or, spend that same £20 on the book, and be able to recreate over a hundred of their very best recipes in the comfort of your own home? If I hadn’t already been sent a copy by the lovely people at Absolute Press, I know exactly which I’d choose.

(With thanks to Absolute Press for the review copy.)

Further details:
The Eagle Cookbook, by David Eyre and The Eagle Chefs
Hardcover, full colour photographs, 192 pages
Published by Absolute Press, 2009
ISBN-10: 1906650055
ISBN-13: 978-1906650056
Price: £20.00
Available now.

a quick review of Polpo, Soho

2009-09-28T09:06:00.006+01:00

Why a quick review?

Well, because I seem to have way too many things to do at the moment, and simply not enough time in which to do them all. I also didn’t take any photographs which will, I know, deter some of you from reading on...

Wot not photos? Why didn’t I take any? I think it’s just rude, to be honest. Call me a prude, but I really don’t wish to spoil other diners’ meals. The lighting in Polpo was very low indeed (without the candle on the table, I think I would have failed to read the menu at all - must be getting old), and to take any photos would have meant using my flash. I, for one, would rather not have a flash going off near me every 10 seconds - given the tapas-style dishes at Polpo - while I’m trying to enjoy my dinner with my nearest and dearest.)

So. Polpo. Set just off Oxford Street, and just on the edge of Soho as it is, this is clearly a place with ambition. I dread to think what the rental figures must be like in a location such as this, but I’m sure they’re sufficiently lunar to ensure that every potential new eaterie owner here needs to think long and hard before signing on the dotted line. And they need to have ambition. Lots of it.

Clearly, Russell and Tom (the chef) do. They made several trips to Venice to make sure they recreate the essence of a Venetian bácaro (a kind of Italian equivalent to a Spanish tapas bar) as faithfully as possible. Recipes were tested and tested again. Russell signed up to Twitter to help spread the pre-opening word, which is how I got to hear of it.

The ‘decor’ (or lack thereof) involves a lot of exposed brickwork – but not in an ostentatious way, somehow) – and tiles, wooden floors, mismatched tables and chairs (reclaimed from churches, by the look of them), bare light bulbs complete with glowing filaments, and a faux stucco ceiling. Fun, low-key, warm, and suitably atmospheric. Oh, and it’s pretty intimate. I doubt there’s room for more than 40 covers here, so space is at a premium. We were fortunate enough to bag the one alcove, so bear in mind if you’re not the social sort.

It means the emphasis is on the food and drink, which is just as it should be. The menu is printed on your table mat, so you can easily peruse while you’re sipping your (very good) Campari spritzer and nibbling at the accompanying pizzette.

It’s divided into 6 short sections – cichetti, breads, meat, fish, vegetables/salads, and desserts. Each section offers around half a dozen choices, none costing more than £6 or £7. Cichetti and crostini are, for once, properly priced – all around the £2 mark or less. As Russell says, they’re trying to ‘keep it real’. Good to see. (You can also buy wine by the glass, 50cl or 1l or bottle, the latter starting at £14 to the most expensive at £36 –another welcome move.)

It was hard to choose from such an array of tempting-sounding food, but choose we did, aided and informed by the ever-helpful Russell. He’s conscious that not every dish is as perfect as they would like it to be yet – but then, that’s what preview nights are for.

So, as though we were on Countdown, we ordered 3 from the first section of the menu (please, Carol), then 2 from the third, 2 from the fourth, and 2 from the fifth (thank you, Carol). And 50cl of Cortese.

Onto the verdicts. I can’t ever get terribly excited about crostini, but the fig, prosciutto and mint version here was good – generous with the meat, with a perfect slice of ripe fig and a leaf of mint to complement it all. The salt cod on grilled polenta divided us – I liked it, but The Other Diner didn’t so much, saying it tasted as though it had mayo in with the cod (it didn’t, BTW). I’d add that the combination of textures might not be to everybody’s taste but, like I say, I liked it just fine. The arancini? Ah. Never arrived.

Next up, the meaty goods. The slow roasted duck, with black olives, tomatoes, and green peppercorns was a stunner. The meat was perfectly tender, the sauce lip-smackingly unctuous. The addition of peppercorns to the mix lifted the whole thing just a notch. I could have eaten quite a few plates of the stuff.

The calves’ liver was equally pleasing. Moist, with a near-melting texture, and served with gently caramelised onions, this was another winner. So far, so good, and another plate licked clean.

Our fish choices comprised that Italian standard, fritto misto, with another (less standard), cuttlefish in its ink. Gotta love a place that chooses to serve up a dish that looks like bits of tubing in dense, pitch-black tar. Is anywhere else in London serving it? If not, Polpo is where to come to satisfy your cuttlefish cravings. The fish was cooked just right – tender, but with a bit of bite. The ink was as black as you like, fishy, and rich and slightly piquant. It’s not one for the faint-hearted, but if you like this kind of thing, you’ll love it here.

The veg/salad dishes we ordered were really to accompany the rest rather than to have in their own right, but they’re still worth a mention. The grilled polenta was just as it should be – light but sufficiently firm, with tasty streaks of char. The real showstopper, however, was the fennel, green bean and cobnut salad. The fennel was sliced as thin as you like, carpaccio-style, and tossed in a delicate olive oil with a little lemon juice, with a few of the slenderest green beans you’ll ever see, and a scattering of beautiful, milk-sweet cobnuts.

Desserts (2 from the last section, please, Carol) didn’t disappoint, either. Ciambella with chocolate sauce was extraordinarily good. Subtly lemony, fluffy sponge, surrounded by a more crunchy outer layer (think doughnuts, which is what a ciambella cake traditionally resembles), dribbled with a fine chocolate sauce. Double yum. If you don’t think that lemon goes with chocolate, think again. Our other dessert was a honey and walnut semifreddo, served in a lovely, biscuitty cornet – again, given those all-important Italian touches with a coating of chocolate around the rim of the cone, and also about an inch filling the very bottom of the cone. The semifreddo itself was wholly pleasant, if not outstanding, with the flavours failing to materialise much above that cornet.

Finally, coffees were as good as you get in Italy. Served tiny, in little glasses. Like.

Other pluses? All the waiting staff were generally pretty efficient, polite, and friendly, and all passed that vital litmus-test – when asked about a dish, they were able to describe it properly, and even offer recommendations. Check.

Gripes? Well, not so much gripes as minor glitches. Like I said, the arancini went AWOL. The Cortese could have been quite a bit colder. The service was, at times, just a leetle on the slow side - but only a little, and they were very busy. It certainly didn’t become a watch-watching, finger-drumming issue, or anywhere near.

By the time the night was over – their third preview night – Polpo had been visited by 5 restaurant critics. When they open their doors for real, on 30 September, I think they can expect a good few more, along with several legions of the food-loving public. So go now before it becomes impossible to get a table. I, for one, will be amongst those you’ll have to scrap with for the rights to a seat.

Actually, that wasn’t a quick review at all, was it? Oh well. Better luck next time.

review: Easy Tasty Italian, by Laura Santtini

2009-09-23T11:56:00.003+01:00

There are recipe books, and then there are recipe books which set out to transform our expectations of a ‘recipe book’. Laura Santtini’s new publication drives with a turbo-boosted charge straight through the former category, and parks itself – with a natty handbrake turn – straight into the latter. But then, Ms Santtini is Italian (or half Italian, as she’s keen to explain in the preface). And Italians have, of course, always set the standard when it comes to driving. But is that standard a force for good or bad?

There’s no doubt that, visually, the book is as appealing as a shiny new Ferrari. It goes for the ‘food as porn’ appeal, with a black and gold cover, with a rich spectrum of full, glossy colours splashed across the interior, and lots of lavish photography. But the content, I hear you ask – what about the actual content, nay, the performance? Well, so long as you can suspend any thoughts about what you might expect of a ‘normal’ recipe book, the performance is as beguiling as the flashy exterior.

Even the opening section, which at first glance seems to be broadly conformist, serves up twists on old themes. It’s divided in two: kitchen tools, and basic procedures and preparations. So far, so ho-hum. But look closer, and ‘Tools’ reveals not only kitchen equipment details, but pages on ‘the umami larder’ (complete with full explanation for the uninitiated) and ‘the alchemic larder’(which, in case you’re wondering, should ideally contain edible gold, silver, dried florals, various elixirs, beetroot powder, 100% Venezuelan Black... the list goes on).

Similarly, ‘Basic Procedures and Preparations’ opens with a paragraph headed ‘flavour bombs’. Move over, Heston - Ms Santtini has been busy with the alchemy, too. And I quote:

For years I have been plotting to extract and combine power-packed glutamates with igniting inosinates to build The U (for umami)-BOMB, the ultimate taste explosion and a culinary force to be reckoned with...

(Don’t say you haven’t been warned.)

This sets the tone for all that follows – for most recipes, you have the option of sticking with the ‘basic’ recipe, or of making things distinctly more interesting for your tastebuds by adding a flavour bomb. For example, there are instructions for preparing a ‘basic red wine marinade’ – completely fine and dandy in itself. But if you want to jolly or umami it along, Santtini suggests 7 variations on the theme, including such enticing prospects as ‘orange, anchovy, and cinnamon marinade’ and ‘mocha chilli barbecue marinade’. Whatever else this book is, it’s certainly not your ordinary ‘Easy, Tasty, Italian’ recipe collection.

The slightly fantastical theme permeates the rest of the book. Not for Santtini the more conventional ways of dividing recipe books into sections. You won’t find ‘Starters’ here, any more than you’ll find ‘Desserts’. Instead, you’ll be given a tour of the elements: Air, Water, Fire, Earth, Spirit (and Ether).

‘Air’ turns out to comprise recipes ‘using only truly raw ingredients’, and the key to success here will surely rely on you being able to get your hands on the best, uber-fresh ingredients. Flavour/umami bombs abound. You can have good old ‘basic’, i.e. beef, carpaccio, or you can have any of 4 variations including, for example, salmon and rose carpaccio. You want dips? You can have ricotta. Or, if you want to go fancy, aubergine and lavender.

‘Water’ unsurprisingly features soups. You’ve no doubt come across sweet potato soup. But have you topped it with lemon mascarpone and scorched almonds before? Or thrown a bomb into it of tomato, pepper, orange, and cinnamon paste? Well, have you? If not, now’s your chance. But ‘Water’ also covers pasta (with a useful guide on how to best cook the stuff), an exposé of tomato sauces, ‘the top 10 classic pasta sauces of all time’, risotto, and then 2 poached fish recipes, a recipe for bagna cauda, and a page on meatloaf.

‘Fire’ takes us into the realms of grilling – including techniques, rubs/seasonings, toppings, and bits to have on the side. There are some mind-boggling recipes in this section, and I only wish I’d had the time to try them before writing this review. Consider, for example, ‘Beef Tagliata with Radicchio and Black Chocolate Elixir’ or ‘Martino’s Coppiette Skewers Al Modo Romano with Bitter Orange and Renaissance Stardust’. Failing that, you can always choose from recipes from the ‘Roll, Wrap, and Splash’ pages (rolling the main ingredient in a coating of some sort, wrapping the whole thing with another ingredient, e.g. prosciutto, and then splashing with say, olive oil and grappa). Another part of ‘Fire’ deals with ‘Rub and Roast’ – ideal for that Sunday ‘what-shall-I-do-with-the-roast?’ dilemma. Roast never looked like this when I was a kid – beef fillet with mascarpone and rose horseradish, I ask you? Some children are going to have quite a childhood.

‘Earth’ opens with slow cooking, swiftly followed by the ‘Top 10 Italian Vegetable Dishes’. The latter includes ‘Magic Pink Broccoli, and ‘Sweet Lavender Parsnips’. Clearly I’ve been missing something in my Italian vegetable sampling to date. Then we’re into ‘12 Quick and Easy Desserts’. These really live up to the billing – none will take you more than about 10 minutes to prepare, if that. Perhaps the most enticing is the parmesan ice cream with balsamic strawberries and black pepper – sure to be a hit with the umami-seekers. The ‘Earth’ section ends with suggestions as to how to ‘pimp your plate’. If making your food look dressy isn’t your forte, this short and snappy guide will give you some handy pointers.

‘Spirit and Ether’ opens with a bedazzling photo of ‘Aqua degli Angeli’ – a gorgeous, clear, artisan-type bottle filled with a clear spirit of choice (vodka, grappa, eau-de-vie), jazzed up with a bright red chilli and swirling gold flakes. Also included are ‘Rhubarbcello’, the more classic ‘Sgroppino’, and a ‘botanic’ cocktail comprising vodka, rosemary syrup, and prosecco.

As bewitching as the book is (I defy you not to feel like you’re in middle of a Venetian masked ball while you’re reading it), there are niggles. The font is a tad on the small side, and the division of some pages into columns of recipes means that the recipes themselves aren’t the easiest to read. The categorisation of some of the recipes isn’t always intuitive or user-friendly (although a comprehensive index helps). Oh, and unless I’m mistaken (I stand to be corrected here), I couldn’t find indications as to how many servings each recipe will make.

The final verdict? It certainly fulfils the brief. Easy? Check. Tasty? I confess to not having tried the recipes, but they look as though they’ll deliver, particularly on the all-important umami taste experiences. Italian? Well, yes, albeit in ways you might not always recognise.

Overall, this is a book which will amuse, entertain, educate, enthrall, and possibly frustrate (if you don’t stockpile edible metals, florals, etc , in your larder), depending on the reader. One thing you’ll never be able to accuse it of being, though, is dull. To revisit my initial metaphor, Ms Santtini’s book is what Ferraris are to Fords. It’s bold, beautiful, and daring.

If you like your kitchen a little on the zippy side, then zoom to your nearest bookshop and get yourself a copy now. Even if you’d rather stay in the slow lane, you’d do well to take a look – the basics are given plenty of coverage, and you’ll have some fun along the way, too. You never know, you might even want to use the throttle from time to time. Just don’t let Nonna catch you.

Further information:
Easy Tasty Italian, by Laura Santtini
Published by Quadrille, 2009.
Hardback, full colour photographs, 192 pages.
ISBN-10: 1844007553
ISBN-13: 978-1844007554
Price: £20.00
Available now.

if you like salads...

2009-09-22T11:14:00.000+01:00

...Chop’d, London’s leading gourmet salad bar chain, is bringing its seasonal salads to the West End with the launch of a limited edition Selfridges Salad into Selfridges Food Hall. Until 2 October 2009, the luxury salad packed full of fresh ingredients like smoked salmon, crayfish and caviar is available for £8.50 only at Chop’d Selfridges.

review: Simple Cooking, by Antonio Carluccio

2009-09-18T09:25:00.003+01:00

As we approach the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century, nothing is as it used to be. The last couple of years have brought with them public panic, uncertainty, and anger as the world’s financial institutions have crumbled in front of our eyes, plunging us all into an economic and social maelstrom of the kind no one has seen before.

No wonder, then, that we seem to be casting around for something to hang our hats on - something cheering and comforting amidst the gloom, and capable of transporting us back to supposedly happier, more innocent times.

Cookbook publishers, like everyone else, have picked up on the zeitgeist. Hardly a week goes by at the moment without a new recipe book appearing with words like ‘simple’ or ‘cheap’ or ‘100 ways with...’, in the title. Yes, we’re going back to basics (haven’t we been there before?), and shunning over-priced restaurants and over-exposed celeb chefs in favour of good, nourishing home-cooked food, preferably conjured up from vegetables we’ve grown in our own veg patch or allotment. Generations brought up on fast food and ready meals are now doing it for themselves. Eating in is the new going out, and thrift is the new handbag spend.

Amidst the crop of current new cookbooks is one by a character who, reassuringly, seems always to have been around. Antonio Carluccio, he of all things fungi and the originator of the popular Carluccio’s caffé chain, is ‘back’ if, indeed, he can ever be considered to have been away.

His latest offering, Simple Cooking (could there be a simpler title?), is a little different from the rest out there. First of all, while it chimes with the times, that’s as much by accident as by design. Anyone who has been to the cafés will know that Carluccio’s ‘signature’ has always been relatively simple food, big on flavour and strong on ingredient sourcing. Here, then, is the book which marries that ethos with suitably appealing print and pictures.

Second, the book represents a genuine wish by Carluccio to distill some of his vast experience and his extensive recipe list into one volume. Thus he calls up long-cherished recipes and fond memories of meals past. And what idyllic recollections they are – of a childhood spent helping his mother to forage and then prepare food for the family, and later student days spent in Vienna, when pretty girls and friends flocked to his kitchen as he developed his cooking skills.

Running through it all is a common theme, Carluccio’s love of sharing – his love of food, his culinary knowledge, and meals with friends and family. And this, in short, is what the book captures so well.

It is not, then, for aspiring chefs who want to slave away in the kitchen for hours on end, in pursuit of perfecting a complex recipe. It is, instead, for those who want simple, tasty, and fuss-free meals which they can share readily with others over a good glass of wine. At the same time, though, there are hints and tips at the end of most recipes so that you can try variations, or make a dish more special, if you so wish. And, in true keeping with the times, suggestions for ways of using leftovers (not that you’ll have any) so as to make another meal are also included. Novices and more experienced cooks alike should therefore be appeased.

The publication quality of the book admirably serves the purpose. The recipes are easy to read, with lots of white space on the page, and are printed in a good size font. Most recipes (though not all) are accompanied by lavish, saliva-inducing photographs. And – a sure sign that the publisher knows what it’s doing – the book is bound so that it can be laid out flat on your worktop.

As for the content, well, it’s all in here. An introduction from the man himself is followed by short but useful sections on how to produce the best flavours (‘Savouring the Flavour’), how to create an Italian store cupboard (‘The Italian Larder’), and which kitchen utensils work well for Italian cooking (‘Tools and Cooking Utensils’). The rest of the book is given over to familiar divisions – Starters and Salads; Soups; Pasta; Gnocchi, Polenta and Rice; Meat; Fish; Vegetables; and Desserts. Each division is given a brief explanation by Carluccio, although ‘Pasta’ merits a full three pages. If you ever wanted to know what pasta shape should go with which sauce, whether you should add oil to the cooking water, or even how to eat your spaghetti Italian-style, this is where you’ll find your answer.

And the recipes? Well, they’re short, sweet, and they WORK (not least because they are so straightforward). Second, if you know the Carluccio caffé chain at all, you’ll find quite a few recipes in here for familiar dishes. My personal favourites include the caponata, spinach balls (invented by Carluccio for a friend, over a quarter of a century ago), the arancini di riso, linguine vongole, and the ever-wonderful tagliatelle con funghi. I could list several more. But there are also a number of arguably more surprising, but still suitably simple and homely entries, too: cabbage and onion pasta, egg broth with chicken dumplings, Florentine-style veal tripe, beef olive stew, Sardinian pasta with lamb sauce, to give but a few examples. Carluccio’s own favourite might surprise you, too, not only for its simplicity, but also for its slightly unusual combination of ingredients – giant spaghetti (bigoli) with onion (not garlic, as you might expect) and anchovy sauce.

But as well as recipes for the more thrift-minded, there are others that allow you to indulge, too – recipes which, for instance, include truffles, scallops, shrimps, saffron, duck, and parma ham amongst their ingredients (but not all at the same time, I hasten to add). ‘Simple’ certainly doesn’t have to mean ‘boring’ or frugal.

There are several options for desserts, too, although as Carluccio explains, they’re not such a big thing for the Italians, who often prefer to finish a meal with some fresh fruit. Hence they don't occupy many pages of this book. Nevertheless, the emphasis is again largely on familiarity, comfort, and trusty old favourites – zabaglione, tiramisu (Carluccio’s special MOF MOF version – Minimum of Fuss, Maximum of Flavour), and ricotta tart all appear here, as do polenta biscuits.

A word about the index. Indices are all too often omitted altogether or scrimped on these days. To do either is false economy - a poor index can render a book instantly frustrating, while a good one can make a book a pleasure to use. Thankfully (and again, a testament to the publisher’s production standards), the index to ‘Simple Cooking’ falls into the latter category. Recipes are listed in their Italian, English, and even ‘inbetween’ versions, so you should always be able to find what you’re after. What you and I might refer to as ‘mushroom pasta’ is therefore indexed variously under ‘mushrooms’ (‘mushroom noodles’), tagliatelle (‘tagliatelle con funghi’), and ‘pasta’ (‘mushroom noodles’ again).

Perhaps best of all, the book really does magic Carluccio into your home. If you’ve ever watched his programmes, or heard him speak, you’ll ‘hear’ him again in these pages. You can hear his passion for food, his enthusiasm for robust flavours, and his keenness to convey the pleasure of cooking and eating, particularly with others. Occasionally, you can even hear his infectious chuckle.

Why should you buy this book, then? As the title says, it’s about the simple delights of cooking. It’s about the love of food and the food of love. It’s a joy to read and a joy to use. Every home should make room for it.

(Thanks to Quadrille Publishing for sending me this book to review. A big thank you, too, to the maestro himself, who very kindly took time out of his busy schedule to talk to me.)

Further information:
Simple Cooking, by Antonio Carluccio
Published by Quadrille, 2009.
Hardback, full colour photographs, 176 pages.
ISBN 978 184400 734 9
Price £20.00
Available to buy now.

a rather splendid afternoon tea with Bella and Crumb

2009-08-30T12:14:00.008+01:00

So-called 'underground'/'pop-up' restaurants are taking over London at the moment, but during the summer there's been a small and welcome twist on the theme - afternoon tea. To my knowledge (please correct me if I'm wrong, someone), the first was the Hidden Tea Room, but a more recent addition to the scene popped up for the first time in August - provided by the wonderfully-named Bella and Crumb.

Since the pair responsible for this latest foodie venture have more than a passing connection with Rococo chocolates, it was perhaps no surprise that the chosen venue was the gorgeous 'Marococo' garden at the Motcomb Street branch.

And since the menu was as tempting as it was long, it perhaps comes as no less surprise that I had to get myself along there. Oh, and also because it was for a good cause. All money raised goes to the BeatBullying charity. An admirable scheme. And so, with three other friends, I booked in to the first available date, on 13 August.

And at 2.30 on the dot, there we were. In the glorious garden. Which itself was the most amazing suntrap on what was already proving to be a rather lovely summer's day.

a north African oasis in the middle of London

A truly splendid setting. Made immediately all the more splendid by the addition of some rather good Prosecco.

if I said I only had one glass, would you believe me? No, I thought not.

Oh, and tea. Not just yer standard pot to be getting on with, but a list of 5 loose leaf teas and endless tea bags (particularly if you like fruit and herb teas) from which to choose. After some serious debate, we opted for Fortnum & Mason's Royal Blend and Darjeeling Broken Orange Pekoe, and very fine they were, too.

And then - to business. First up, leek and gruyere tart, finger sandwiches, cheesy feet biscuits with throat-tickling spiced tomato jam.

hot damn hot jam. And cheesy feet. Not traditional, but we don't care

Sticklers for tradition might well take umbrage at the cheesy feet and spiced tomato jam - hardly your standard afternoon tea fare. But to get uppity about such things and refuse to partake would be to miss a trick. Let me tell you - they were VERY good, especially that jam, which had several tea-goers begging Bella and Crumb for the recipe. So - ner to all the nay-sayers, and good on Bella and Crumb for going a bit left field. 'Twas a bold move which more than paid off.

But really, when you have an afternoon tea, it's all about the scones, isn't it? So, as tasty as our little amuse-foots were, we were eager for our next 'course' listed on the menu - 'fresh scones with clotted cream and raspberry jam'. Clotted cream. Be still, oh my beating heart.

Or rather - bring it on...

Loading up... (cream on jam? or jam on cream? we spent quite a while discussing the issue. Inbetween mouthfuls of the stuff, naturally.)

cream on jam, or jam on cream? You decide. Amazing how heated the arguments became. Or would have, had we really been that bothered. Which we weren't because we were all too busy scarfing the lot.

Whatever the technically or historically correct cream/jam order, let it be said that the scones, cream and jam were superb. Fresh from the oven, the scones were light, tasty, and wholly moreish. The clotted cream was all that. And there was plentiful, quality jam.

Of course we had seconds. It would have been tremendously rude not to.

By now, it should be said, we were approaching satiation levels. And our arteries were no doubt approaching saturation levels.

But Bella and Crumb hadn't finished with us yet. Oh, no. If you're going to do tea here, you're here to do it hardcore.

And so you have to have cakes next. Cakes, and brownies, and biscuits, and sweets, and chocolates, no less.

Crikey me, as Sarah Beeny would say. Crikey me, indeed.

We gave it our best shot. We demolished the cupcakes (lemon with raspberries; vanilla), attacked the brownies, wolfed the chocolates (Rococo's own rose, lychee, and raspberry ganache), and... then somewhat gave up. As lovely as the personalised biscuits looked, and as comically redolent of sweet-stuffing childhood days as the lovehearts were, we really just could not cope with any more.

All that was left was to quench our sugar-induced thirsts with more tea and zingy homemade lemonade...

... and to sit and wait a while until we felt like we could actually move again. Which probably took another hour.

And the cost of all this - this sun-filled, food-stuffed, vintage-crockery adorned, tea-fuelled afternoon of gastronomic jollity? A mere £15.00 a head. And all for charity, remember.

In short - it's for a great cause, is in a beautiful location, provides all the food and drink you'll ever manage for a tea time, and is all laid on by two very generous hostesses who do a very good job of spotting empty Prosecco glasses at twenty paces. And there are more dates coming up soon: check here for details.

Go, or miss a real treat and a rather fun afternoon out.

the simplest summer supper - squid and samphire. And a warning about Twitter.

2009-08-19T08:14:00.008+01:00

First, a word of apology. I should have blogged about this a couple of weeks ago when samphire was still available. It might still be available now, if you're very lucky (I got mine from Moxon's in Clapham), but the chances are that it will be a bit woody, which takes the edge off the pleasure of eating it a little. But only a very little.

But I didn't blog about it then because, as some of you will know, I've been acutely afflicted by a shocking I.T. disease called Twitter.

You want to watch out for it. You can try, as I did, to resist it for as long as possible. But from the moment you succumb, your life might never be the same again. Be warned. Be prepared for a period of adjustment. During that time, my top tips are: remember to breathe, eat, and sleep. Be prepared for strange looks from your friends, family, and partner/hanger-on/one-night stand. Also be prepared to respond to the question: 'Why are you writing to someone called hollowlegs?' I can tell you now - any answer you come up with will sound hopelessly dodgy.

So briefly and finally - but hopefully better late than never - a word about samphire and squid.

It's quite simple. Samphire rocks. It is one of the most lush foodie expressions of summer. Green, succulent, salty, and with a whiff of the sea about it, it's the perfect answer to a hot day. If you haven't tried it, put it on your list of things to do next summer. To cook it: steam it for 2 or 3 minutes, then serve with a generous shake of pepper and a generous knob of butter. That's really all there is to it.

And squid is hardly any more effort. Personally, I like to marinade it (it = opened out tubes + tentacles) for a few minutes in some olive oil, chilli, basil, garlic and a little lemon or lime juice. And then just throw it on the grill or into a hot pan. Cook for no more than a couple of minutes each side, and preferably less - you don't want it to go rubbery.

Wash down with a bottle of a super-chilled Pinot Grigio. There are few meals simpler, tastier, or more summery.

This is, of course, the 'before' photo. By the time I'd cooked the stuff, daylight had vanished under a storm cloud, and the 'after' photo suffered somewhat from being taken under artificial light. Trust me, it looked mighty fine to the naked eye, but rather off-puttingly lurid in the photo. Since I want to encourage rather than deter you, I've therefore left the 'after' version to your imagination. The important thing to remember is that it tastes completely fab.

an identity crisis... help!

2009-08-09T14:37:00.006+01:00

A couple of months ago I bought 2 little chilli plants from a new local market stall run by start-up company, Inner Green. Their stall looked cool, and the guys who ran it were friendly and engaging, so - like the sucker I am - I picked out the plants and bought them on the spot. I was told they 'should be producing by around mid-July'.

Fine.

And with the labels in the pots each declaring 'hot red conical chillis', that's exactly what I was looking forward to.Mid-July came around. We had signs of a chilli, but it was green.

No matter, thought the optimist in me. A bit of sun, continuing TLC, and we can look forward to hot days and chilli nights.

Except that now, heading into the second week of August, this is what we've got:

Now, this chilli may be many things, but red and conical it ain't.

So we have a little identity crisis on our hands. Can you solve the mystery?*

*I know you don't have much to go on, but the plant itself is about 8 inches high, and the chilli itself, about an inch or so in all dimensions. Since I have no idea at all, you are bound to have a better guess than me. All suggestions gratefully received. Who knows, I may even send you the chilli itself as a prize.

online food hygiene course, anyone?

2009-08-04T17:22:00.003+01:00

Something I've been thinking about doing in preparation for starting a small food business. (No, I'm not committing myself, but watch this space. Weirder things have happened.)

For those who don't like turning up to classes, this one might do the trick - click here for details. (Safe link, BTW - no funny stuff.)

Right, that's the end of my public service announcement for now.

Back to the kitchen, everyone...

more signs of summer...

2009-08-02T13:36:00.001+01:00

The first blueberries from the garden! Yay!

the best cherries in the world...

2009-07-31T17:29:00.003+01:00

... from my native county of Kent. 100% lusciousness in every cherry. Procured from the beautiful village of Sissinghurst - once home to Vita Sackville-West, for the literary types amongst you.

this twitter thang...

2009-07-31T13:59:00.002+01:00

... I've signed up.

Think I might be able to manage 140 characters more often than I seem to manage posting on this blog. We'll see.

Anyway, I'm new to all this, so please be gentle with me. And do say 'hi' on twitter if you've got a moment. I need friends to hold my hands... ;-)

the next best meal in Scotland...

2009-07-20T15:23:00.005+01:00

There are times, when you're on the road and travelling around, when you need sustenance. Nothing fancy or adorned with Michelin stars, just something that fills the belly and puts a smile on your face.

There was such a day when The Other Diner and I were in Scotland. We'd been driving around a while on a hot day, were thirsty and hungry, and not a little scratchy with each other as a result. Glucose levels needed restoring, and fast.

Luckily, we wound up in a little town called Aberdour, just a few miles from Edinburgh, but across the Forth bridge.

And there, in Aberdour, we hit upon the Cedar Inn. Better still, on the lunch specials menu, was something we couldn't resist.

Reader, I bring you...

Chips and cheese!

A venerable Scottish favourite this, as is chips and curry sauce (the choice of The Other Diner, and which lurks in the background of the photo).

Forget fancy cooking - this had everything I needed. The chips were fresh as you like, homemade, and fried to perfection. The cheese was just the right amount, tasty, but not overwhelming. And all washed down with a half pint of real ale. NOTHING could have been better. NOTHING.

a Provencal dessert MADE FROM CHARD...

2009-07-09T14:43:00.005+01:00

Excuse the shouting. I just wanted to make sure you sat up.

It's a dessert.

And it's made from chard. Well, and pastry, too, and a few other things. But it's the chard that makes it.

It turns out like this:

And you can move in for that all-important close-up here:

actually, that's less close up than the first photo. Darn it. Anyway, moving on...

But. A dessert?

No, I couldn't decide whether someone was having me on or not, either. So the only thing to do was to have a go at it and decide for myself.

And you know what? It's actually very good. It IS a dessert. A pretty amazing one, too. And I reckon that with all that chard in it, you can claim that it's healthy as well.

So here you have it - one healthy tart for dessert. Make it and amaze your friends and mother-in-law. I was given the recipe from the cat-sitter, who got it from a magazine, but I don't know which one because the photocopy I've got has cut off the bottom of the page... If anyone recognises the recipe, please let me know and I'll be happy to give proper credit. Absolutely no copyright infringement intended.

Provencal swiss chard tart (serves 6)

Olive oil pastry
380g plain flour
sea salt
150ml olive oil
2 med egg yolks

Filling
Slug of cider or white wine vinegar
400g swiss chard
2tbsp olive oil
40g pine nuts
30g caster sugar
200g young creamy goat's cheese or curd
1 tbsp lemon juice
40g raisins
optional icing sugar for dusting

Egg glaze
I med egg yolk
1 tbsp milk

For the pastry:
Place flour and pinch of salt in the bowl of a food processor, trickle in the olive oil with the motor running, and then add the 2 yolks. Give the dough a stir - it will be crumbly at this point. Now trickle in enough cold water to bring the dough together (about 70 ml), stopping the motor when it starts to cling together in lumps. Wrap dough in clingfilm and chill for at least an hour.

At the same time, prepare filling. Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil and add a slug of vinegar. Trim the ends of the chard stalks and thinly slice the stems and leaves. Add both to the pan, bring back to the boil, and simmer for 3 mins. Drain into a colander, gently press out excess water + set aside to steam dry for a few mins.

Heat 2tbsp oil in a large frying pan over a medium heat, add pine nuts and fry until lightly coloured, then remove to a bowl. Add the chard to the pan and fry for a couple of minutes until starting to colour. Stir in the sugar and a pinch of salt, blend in the goat's cheese, then add the lemon juice and mix in the pine nuts and raisins. Leave to cool.

Preheat oven to 180C/160C fan/350F/gas 4. Have ready a large baking sheet.

Roll out 2/3rds of the pastry on a lightly floured worktop and cut out a circle 27cm in diameter. Roll our the remaining third of the pastry and cut a circle 20cm in diameter.

Place the large circle on a baking sheet. Spread the filling to within 3-4cm of the rim (to cover the same area as the smaller circle). Score the smaller circel with a few cuts radiating from the centre and lay it on top of the filling. To finish, combine egg yolk + milk. Brush the edge of the bottom circle with the egg glaze and fold the edge over the top circle to seal the pie. Brush pie all over with more glaze and bake for 30 mins. Serve at room temperature, dusted with icing sugar if wished.

EAT IT!!

the best meal in Scotland... and Scottish wine

2009-07-02T13:53:00.005+01:00

Well, I'm back from holiday - 2 weeks amidst the most stunning scenery by Loch Tay in Perthshire, and the East Neuk coastline in Fife. Scotland is such a gem, it really is. Andy Murray's not bad, either. ;-)

And there are some real food highlights, too. If you wander (well, ok then - if you drive) along the East Neuk coast, you'll come to the pretty little fishing village of Anstruther.

It looks something like this...

... and this...

And in amongst the shops on the shoreline, you'll find this:

You might not be able to make out the wording on the white sign on the left there, but it says "Winner. Fish and Chip Shop of the Year, 2008-09, United Kingdom". Yes, really. The UK's best fish and chips in this wee little corner of Scotland.

So it had to be done, didn't it?

And, oh my, they were VERY GOOD indeed. The fish was haddock - a unique type which is found only off the coast here, and which is smaller, sweeter, and altogether more succulent than other haddock fished and served up elsewhere in the UK. The batter was so light, it was almost tempura-like. Fantastic. The Other Diner and I agreed - this really was The Best Fish and Chips Ever. And we've had a few.

What's even better is that you can wash it all down with some wine. Scottish wine. Yes, you read that right:

It's one of those other Scottish gems. Little known, but certainly worth knowing. The oak leaf wine bears a passing resemblance to retsina, but is more, well, winey, and less piney.

All in all, a damn fine meal on a gorgeous day (see, it doesn't always rain in Scotland; and the temperature that day was about 25C), in a beautiful part of the world.

So where will you be going on your holiday next year, hmm???

For the avoidance of doubt, the Scottish Tourist Board are not paying me to write this. Although I'm open to offers. ;-)

a little piggy... and a special bar of chocolate

2009-06-13T14:30:00.003+01:00

I have always loved food. I was especially known for it at university, where my passion for puddings in particular was, erm, legendary. (Perhaps I should rename this blog?) As a result, the p-i-g word was sometimes bandied around by my dear friends from time to time. I exacted my revenge by swiping their desserts. And no, nobody took offence. Those were the days. Happy, innocent, student days.

These days, I can't eat the quantities I used to, so I focus on the quality instead. (No sniggering at the back there, please.) And for those of you who have been following this blog for a while (thank you, btw), you'll know that great chocolate has been my most recent obsession.

So it won't come as any surprise to you to learn that I've been back to lovely Rococo again, this time for a 'learn how to make the best chocolate mousse ever' workshop. And I did.

The stupid thing is that I didn't take my camera. Which was all the more stupid given that Rococo's owner, and goddess of all things chocolate, Chantal Coady, and I got into a conversation about pocket digital cameras and macro lenses.

But anyway...

I came away, having had another great time, with 2 tubs full of mousse - one made with dark chocolate and eggs, and the other made with milk chocolate and cream. Both delicious in their different ways, with very different textures to boot. I also got a quick lesson from Laurent (Prof Choc) in how to make accompanying almond tuiles, and took a tub of my tuile 'mix' from the day home, too. At some point in the next few weeks, I shall organise a chocolate-pudding guzzling party, and get the whole lot out. I shall, of course, be the only invitee. ;-)

But no visit to Rococo is complete without taking away some chocolate.

So, to fit the mood, I bought...

Apt, no?

And the bar in the foreground? Well, that's something very special indeed. Let me show you just how special...

Arguably more appropriate at Christmas, but some things just aren't worth being pedantic about.

I should really add a rave review at this point, but I haven't had the chance to try it yet. But I will, I promise. Soon. And I'll let you know.

In the meantime, there'll be a slight pause here. I'm off on holiday for a couple of weeks, and won't have access to technology.

But I'll be back as soon as I'm back. If you see what I mean.

AFoS xx

warm broad bean, chorizo and courgette salad - the stuff of summer...

2009-06-07T11:58:00.004+01:00

I keep getting this seasonal food stuff wrong. I get out salad - it rains. I make curry - it's blazing hot.

And so it proved again with this dish.

'It's June', I thought. 'Time for warm salads, packed with my favourite summer veg and herbs! And a bottle of chilled white boozy stuff! Hell, we might even eat al fresco!'

But whoever decideth the weather said NO. You shalt not have sun. You shall not even have warmth. You shalt have a typical English summer's day. Damp, cold, and windy. But you're going to have to go ahead with your salad now anyway, 'cos you've bought the stuff for it.

'Fine', I said. So I madeth my warm salad. And lo, it was good.

It's one of my not-really-a-recipe 'recipes', but more a put-some-yummy-things-together ensemble.

So - saute some courgettes on a very low heat for about 20 mins until softened and slightly caramlised. Meanwhile, in a separate pan, fry off some chorizo (no need to add oil for this - the chorizo has plenty of its own) until cooked through and beginning to catch. Put to one side.

When the courgettes are nearly ready, add a couple of cloves of garlic to the pan, and continue sauteeing until the garlic is cooked through. Next, throw some new season broad beans into some hot water, bring to boil, and keep them on a rolling boil for about 3 minutes. Drain. There's really no need to skin them when they're this young and small.

Chop a generous handful of mint, basil, and lemon thyme. Add to the courgettes. Finally, add the broad beans and chorizo to the courgettes and garlic. Season. Add a glug of your best olive oil.

Serve with anything you like. On this occasion, I opted for buttered and minted Jersey royals, plus tomatoes and lettuce from the garden (yay!). Not necessarily a classic combo, but it was all very tasty anyhow (even if we did have to eat it inside), so who cares?

yes, that IS a bottle of chilled white.

mmm... chorizo and broad beans...

Who says it isn't summer?

a tour of the garden... and the first leaves of summer

2009-06-01T15:09:00.003+01:00

I will get over myself soon, I promise. But I'm just loving watching all the herbs and veggies grow in the meantime. If there's one big tangible positive from all the credit crunch stuff, it's that lots of people, like me, are rediscovering the joys of growing your own. Long may it continue. The joys of growing your own, that is - not the credit crunch, obvy.

You've seen the veggies. Now, enter stage left - the herbs:

a mess of thyme, nasturtiums, rosemary, and lovage. More about the lovage soon.

And right on their tail, (l-r), the invisible (as yet) spring onions, radishes, and sorrel:

For the keen-eyed, behind are (l-r) lemon thyme, straggly chives, and mint.

And while we're at it, a quick check on the monster courgettes/aspiring triffids:

I swear they're growing about 10cm a day. Mostly when I'm not looking.

And a glance at the veg patch again, 'cos I'm just showing off now:

(l-r) lettuce, lollo rosso, chard, cauliflower, leeks, parsnips, more lettuce (don't ask), and calabrese

And then, at last, the first leaves of summer, with some vine tomatoes, and topped very simply with a cold roast leg of chicken:

No, the chicken didn't come from the garden.

Yes, I know - nothing flash at all about that. I just wanted to properly taste the lettuce. And you know what? It was bl**dy good, even though I say so myself. Young, succulent leaves - from soil to plate in less than five minutes. Served with a bowl of home-made, home-baked chips (yes, I forgot to put them in the picture. I was in a hurry, ok?). What could be more perfect?

Bottle of chilled white, anyone?

it really IS summer...

2009-05-24T15:49:00.005+01:00

... and things are going a bit nuts in the garden...

A couple of weeks ago, just puny little seedlings. Now, a bit of warmth, sunshine, and the odd watering later...

l-r: lollo rosso, chard, unnamed (I forget) lettuce, calabrese. Somewhere in the middle, but somehow managing to avoid being snapped on camera, is some cauliflower. Oh, and some leeks. Honest.

l-r: parsnips, courgettes

tomatoes and chilli plants

For someone who's never grown anything since mustard and cress in primary school, this is all a bit of a revelation to me. Slow learner, y'see.

And now, suddenly, I find myself looking forward to the prospect of home-grown salads, and various other seasonal veg, plus endless herbs (another photo, another time), and chillis. Fab. I can hardly wait.

The only blot on the horizon is that we booked to go away for 2 weeks in the middle of June. Which is usually a good thing. Now, I'm worrying that there won't be anything worth eating by the time we get back, and that weeds and triffids will have taken over in our absence....

when only chocolate will do...

2009-05-19T14:28:00.004+01:00

Y'know, we were promised a hot summer. Really. The Meteorological Office said so.

And I quote:

"The coming summer is 'odds on for a barbecue summer', according to long-range forecasts. Summer temperatures across the UK are likely to be warmer than average and rainfall near or below average for the three months of summer.... Chief Meteorologist at the Met Office, Ewen McCallum, said: "After two disappointingly-wet summers, the signs are much more promising this year. We can expect times when temperatures will be above 30 °C, something we hardly saw at all last year."

Which would be why, outside my window, it's throwing it down with rain and blowing an absolute gale. I'm not exactly sitting here in my bikini, either.

Pah.

So - what to do?

Chocolate. A big whopper of a cup of the hot liquid stuff. That'll do for now. Preferably this one:

I had this during my trip to Deal, on the Kent coast. It was, simply, the best cup of hot chocolate or cocoa I've ever tasted. Fabulous, wonderful, lovely, unctuous stuff.

And served at one of the loveliest chocolate shops I've ever been to - Sara's Chocolates, on Middle Street. It's cute, quaint, quirky and homely all in one. And run by the bundle of gregarious energy, Sara herself, who will happily tell you all you want to know, and more, about chocolate.

If you're ever down that way, do pop in. It'll be good for your soul and your sanity, though not necessarily for your waistline or arteries. But when chocolate is this good, who the hell cares?

signs of life...

2009-05-12T13:21:00.002+01:00

Not only here, but in my garden - in my very first veg patch...

itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny lettuce seedlings

Yes, I'm on my way back, folks.

More coming VERY soon.

AFoS xx

knocked for six...

2009-03-26T14:40:00.003Z

... and not in a good way.

The death of a beloved uncle of mine is the main reason for not posting recently.

I am still here, though, and I will be back.

Take care of yourselves in the meantime, and keep me amused with your blogs, too.

AFoS x

a poorly computer... and - coming very soon...

2009-03-06T10:13:00.003Z

Just got the PC back from computer hospital. The bad news was that the RAM had failed which, apparently, is very rare. The good news was that it was fixable, and I didn't lose any data or anything else of any importance. The other not-so-good news is that my bank account is now rather emptier than it was a few days ago.

But I digress...

I owe you a post on THAT veg box and the amazing chicken, another post on Deal, and probably another one just for good measure. Oh, and I can also tell you about an evening spent at that bastion of old-fashioned Englishness, Simpson's in the Strand. And then I've got some more chocolate to tell you about, too.

But first, I have to go to lunch. Second, I have to cook a huge Indian meal for friends tomorrow - sorry, no pics, won't have time. For the interested, my guru for all things Indian is Madhur Jaffrey, and I'll be making her amazing lamb rogan josh, with tarka dal and a mushroom and pea curry. With naans. And some kind of a tart to follow. Of the edible kind.

And then, finally, I might actually get around to writing a post or two.

Honest.

the big deal about Deal...

2009-02-19T12:34:00.003Z

Yes, I know I owe you a post about that veg box (which was fab by the way - thank you Abel & Cole peeps), and about a hundred and one other things. I'm getting there.

In the meantime, I thought I'd let you into a secret.

The quaint little town of Deal, on the east coast of Kent (near Dover), is a very special place, even in the bitter depths of winter. Great place for a weekend away. It's quite a place for foodies, too (add that to the list of posts I owe you), but more on that later. For now, here are some pics for you to be going on with... And yes, throughout the weekend, the light and the sky and the sea seemed to change with every moment... Nature at its best.

a box of treats...

2009-01-30T12:00:00.006Z

Hmmm.... what have we here, then? Looks like a box, smells like a box...

I have to get into it. I just have to. Maybe if I tackle it from the other side... Maybe it won't see me coming...

A-ha! Take THAT, you infernal swede!

And so an otherwise ordinary Friday morning has been transformed into something rather more, well, interesting for both feline and non-feline members of my household.

The good people of Abel and Cole have delivered to my door a rather lovely mixed organic fruit and veg box for me to try, together with a plump fella of a free-range chicken. Needless to say, I'm happy to oblige... ;-)

Initial impressions are good. The fruit - bananas, apples, and blood oranges (a particular treat) are positively bountiful. The veg - mushrooms, swede, potatoes, red cabbage, parsnips, carrots, and onions - are also looking good, if a tad on the earthy side. A no-holds-barred roast dinner at the weekend seems like a shoo-in. I'll keep you posted.

I just have to get the cat out of the box first.