Kitchen W8

Isn't it nice to make the most of something? New Year's Eve started early for us with a bacon sandwich (true celebration food!) then a shopping trip for the gent, to include some 78's for the 'grandmaphone' and a serendipitous suit from Hornets.

To end such a satisfactory morning in Kitchen W8 was truly fitting, and frankly if all lunches were like this I would be a whole lot more enthusiastic about shopping.

A mere moment of white table-clothed tranquility was enough to restore our senses, jangled as they were by the Portobello hoardes. And then the feasting began. My starter satiated the senses with rich, extravagant flavours: fried egg with truffle soldiers felt terribly sophisticated and was accompanied by baked squash, chanterelle mushrooms and hazelnut gnocchi. Indeed, gnocchi so full of flavour that we almost mistook them for morsels of something meaty! The gent enjoyed an elegant marriage of beetroot, mackerel rillettes, smoked eel and ham.

Let us pause between courses to note that the Qupe 2009 Chardonnay / Viognier from the new world was a beautiful choice, and entirely worth the gamble. The gent's notes: "powerful full-bodied Chardonnay with the floral qualities of Viognier". But much, much nicer.

We continued with halibut, which came with pumpkin purée, Jerusalem artichoke, fricassee of winter veg (spinach and roast shallots, in this instance). If we were being po-faced and picky we might mention that the fish was just a tiny smidge more cooked then we personally would have chosen... but it was still a beautiful dish which we really enjoyed.

The deserts almost defeated us, despite their wondrousness, and we limped through the finish line, the last to leave the restaurant. If the staff minded they hid it well. To cement my budding love for this restaurant, the maitre d' dropped the espressi from our bill, to compensate for any disappointment for not being able to serve my first-choice of dessert. It is that level of charm that really hits my weak spot: people who understand what a blow it can be to miss out on a poached pear! Happily the desert menu was rare in having several puds I would say yes to, and I was most content with my passion fruit posset. And some of the gent's melting chocolate pudding.

Given that 'Kitchen W8' earned a Michelin star in 2011 I am perhaps being too easily impressed. But I care not: I had a super experience and would visit again at the drop of a hat. I would even contemplate Portobello road again, if this is the treasure at the foot of the rainbow!

Happy new year, I hope it brings you delicious food!

food the enemy

The first meal after 3 days of (literally) bread and water, is most certainly the silver lining to food poisoning.

I have rarely seen food as the enemy: always it is the stuff of celebrations, feast-days and a way to everyday happiness. To look at it with suspicion and associate it with making you feel terrible is an awful way to live. It was a stern prompt to value my health much more: I really do appreciate that for some people food is a daily battle.

But, to my point: ham. Roast ham, to be specific. After 3 days with a spoon of porridge here, some dry spaghetti there, marmite toast was my gateway substance back into experiencing taste. What a world of colour after so much bland! And then on Christmas Eve I had a couple of slices of roast ham, pushed into unbuttered bread. An explosion of savoury taste sensations! Never has a slice of ham tasted so strong, so salty, so powerful. It was like tasting anew - I felt like Frankenstein's created man experiencing sensations for the first time.

My relief was great: not only did the sandwich avoid disagreeing with my stomach, but it meant I could, after all, have Christmas lunch the next day. What an alarming prospect to have been facing!

What caused the illness? I have no idea, thank goodness: as I don't know, I can't have bad associations with anything I ate the previous day. I would be loathe to make an enemy of any foodstuff for longer than 3 days. I do so hate to feud.

the walrus and the carpenter

Well I think those are the fellows I mean: they who wept over the fate of the oysters until they were all eaten. Well I wept only with pleasure, this evening at Les Deux Salons. These three were sublime and my only regret was not eating six. Or a dozen.

leon + stroganoff

Leon saved the day with its ham, lentil and chunky vegetable soup. I had a flat bread to dip in, too, and somehow it felt completely different to the soup-and-bread I can get so bored of. Top marks, too, for making swede, celery and lentils into something so very tasty: to me the epitome of skilled cooking is to take something wholesome (and perhaps somewhat boring) and make you want seconds! My grumpy mood lifted like a sea mist in the sun.

Last night I dashed together a mushroom stroganoff to use up left-overs, which turned out better than expected. Shallot, garlic, celery softened in a pan, then I added a sliced brown cup mushrooms and a field mushroom or two and a teaspoon and a half of spicy smoked paprika. We really must get some sweet paprika in! After it had cooked a bit, I added just a little vegetable stock (about 100ml) and let it bubble away. Lastly in went some double cream, a squeeze of lemon and some seasoning... and we had it over rice.

Actually the 'proper' or classic recipe escapes me: I have made or eaten so many variations that I am only certain that it is supposed to contain beef and sour cream! In my top three remains the delightful kidney and mushroom, from Delia's 'Frugal Food'. I must re-visit that before I even pick up Larousse to find out how a proper cook would create it...

never were there such devoted sisters

And this is why.

It is hard to be grumpy after raspberry pancakes with yogurt and extra raspberries. Or watercress soup with buttered, toasted cheese scones from 'Ginger two' in Winchester.

Or a supper of smoked salmon on rye and cream cheese, with gherkins; pigs in blankets; devils on horsebacks and rocket salad. And a great cava.

I really love our almost-annual sister weekend: thank you Andy, Alex, gingers and the gent for giving up your wimminfolk! x

sobrasada

Most wonderful breakfast EVER!

Despite a late night of dvds I bounced out of bed, keen to get in the kitchen.

Anun gifted us a pot of sobrasada, that bright orange paste from Spanish heaven. Or Garcia & sons, as it is otherwise known.

Spread over toast and topped with a poached or fried egg you will want for nothing more bar a cup of tea.

home alone

Two days off work - a mid-week weekend, if you will - and I am having a wonderful time. You see here that I made the best of a guilty scoot round H&M's home department. The pseudo-rustic little bags charmed themselves home with me and it didn't take me long to put them to a good use, to whit: holding 4 or 5 different bags of flour on the top shelf (the naughty shelf, as in a newsagent, dedicated here to baking goods), and containing a several half-finished bags of rice and pulses on the bottom shelf.

After a shuffle-tidy I felt as if this had actually been a virtuous move. Note the famous nutmeg enjoying its bamboo throne on the middle shelf!

Oh dear, and here is evidence of my less-virtuous side when home alone: lunch for one. I was ravenous after a morning swim so had an early lunch. Broccoli and stilton soup straight from the saucepan with some bread; the extra delicacy you espy is a cold sausage with mustard. If I'm to be honest, a completely blasted, burnt stump of a sausage. I know it is a bad craftsman who blames his tools, but before this oven I'm sure I never managed to burn a sausage: I couldn't have done that if I had tried!

I won't be snobbish about shop-bought soup as it is really handy and I just love the pea and ham from *ahem* Waitrose. This broccoli and stilton soup reminded me how very lovely my own version is, too: I'll add a note to my 'foods to cook' list and make it soon.

oven: conquered

Finally! After 8 cross months, a half decent cake.

I used to bake frequently, however since moving to this flat I have wrestled with this oven. This Freakin' Temperamental Stupid Oven, to give its full name. Cakes are either blasted in 30 mins or completely raw inside with a hardy crust outwith.

The gent's family are in town this weekend and I thought a cake would be cheering for anyone stopping by. By happy coincidence my favourite cake is easy to tweak, to make it gluten-free so everyone can have it: I hate having separate foods for different people, it feels so mean spirited. And anyway this is such a wonderful cake I would have this over a sponge any day. It is Nigella's 'damp lemon & almond' with adjustments. Easy, easy:

cream together 225g butter and sugar (I always use the unrefined, or golden, caster sugar. It is mad how set in your ways you can get with ingredients). Add in 4 big, free range eggs, one at a time; after each egg shake in a little brown rice flour. Just a scant tablespoon or so. At this point I was cross-eyed with love for my food mixer: hands free to work while someone else stirs!

Now add 250g ground almonds (if you grind them yourself the quantities will be a bit different); zest and juice of two unwaxed lemons; a little almond extract. Nigella uses almond essence, so Im not sure on measurements for essence: I used 'a tiny splash' then tasted to check.

50 mins in an unreliable oven, or whenever a knife comes out clean.

Very unfortunately trains seem to have major problems today so the gent's aunt & uncle are delayed for tea. This photo is evidence that, although a bit scorched, the cake did all right. We are sitting on our hands so there is some left for tomorrow.

rainy days and thursdays

And November begins! Rain and wind and gloom. Luckily my friend Deb really inspired me and autumnal breakfasts in this tiny thimble of a flat now consist of porridge. Warming, blanketing porridge. Podge, as a sister calls it.

I like it best with fruit - maybe plums or apple thrown in at the start - but more cupboard-friendly for the busy, is jam. Home made in Cornwall, Sussex, Hammersmith or Hampshire, if you have productive and generous relatives!

And here is my fabulous coffee, the beans ground in my new grinder a moment before brewing.

I think I am ready to face the day now!

kate and sidney

What with the weather finally turning autumnal, my thoughts have turned to stew. I will shortly be making THAT beef and anchovy stew, however I am currently enjoying a frugal streak and am trying to continue it.

In the frugal larder recently there has been carrot smudge for lunch (made regularly from the Moro cookbook, as in my June 2009 blog). At 90p per kg, carrots are easily the cheapest thing for supermarket-bound urban folks right now. And at the farmer's market we found sweetcorn cobs 4-for-a-pound - and I just can't get enough cauliflower and cabbage. All British, all wonderful.

So maximum deliciousness and minimum expense really leads me to steak and kidney. You can probably use delicious cuts of steak, but I rather think the point is to use the scraggy, sinewey ends which turn out so well after a gentle 4 hours of transformation. Offal may be getting more expensive the more that it is used in restaurants and in weekend-magazine recipes, however it is still wonderfully (if relatively) cheap: around 60 pence for two lamb kidneys at Waitrose this morning.

There are many delicious recipes and one day I will get through them all; however when I want to really enjoy a steak and kidney then my mother's recipe comes out. Only knowing how few people will read this will entice me to part with this treasured piece of my family cooking history. Brace yourself: 4 ingredients. 10 minutes to assemble; 4 hours to cook.

The butcher at the Ginger Pig goaded me into taking more meat than I needed: it really did look paltry, but I didn't explain it was only for two people. And supposed to be FRUGAL! So I took 12 oz of chuck steak (they were out of skirt) and 8 oz kidneys (5 oz lamb's kidney and 3 oz of pig's kidney - due to shortage in the shop rather than from preference). At home I carefully cubed the kidney to exclude sinew and tube, and tossed it in seasoned flour with the diced beef.

This went into a plastic pudding bowl and a china pie-blackbird nestled in the middle, in lieu of the upturned egg cup my mother always uses: this keeps the pastry from sinking soggily into the stew in the centre. I poured in cold water to almost cover the meat, then sat on top a layer of closed cap mushrooms, de-stalked and the right way up to look like floating pebbles: these also help the pastry stay above the stew.

The suet pastry is a marvel in its own right: so speedy to make! 4oz flour, 2 oz suet, seasoning and cold water to bind. This was plopped on top of the mushrooms and spread about to the edges so it covered the stew like a dimpled lid, sealing in the steam. I fitted on the plastic pudding basin lid, lashed around a helping of cling film and then foil (standing the bowl in the centre of a large square, pulling the corners up to meet over the top: to keep the water out), and boiled away for 4 hours, topping up the water to make sure it didn't dry out.

One thing that foxed me was the lack of trivet: I have no idea if anyone else even uses these, and if my teaspoons are ok as an alternative? It's how I usually do it, but I really must check up on this. It completely ruined the coating on my spoons, so if you also don't have a trivet, please use something you don't love.


A word on the plastic pudding basin: I used this as I haven't yet inherited a china pudding basin. Naturally I will never be a stern matriarch-type until I possess such a thing, but I do have two muslin cloths in amongst my aprons, for the day when I tie up a pudding with paper, cloth and string, like a proper ruler of the hearth and home. Until then, the plastic one is actually jolly fine.

After 4 steamy hours, what was the result? My best, most favourite taste-memory. Soft soft meats, a thin, inimitable gravy and a doughy, almost gluey pastry. Sprouts and boiled potato are the supreme companions but we spotted a delicious cabbage for this time. The gent was appreciative, as he always is, but was a little bemused at my delight. For me the pleasure lies not only in the lovely meal, but also in the alchemy: four basic ingredients transformed whilst I read the paper. What's not to love?

23.10.11

My kingdom for a nutmeg

My mother told me something so fascinating, so revolutionary, that I have been reeling ever since. Put it this way: do you know where mace comes from?

Years ago I accidentally bought blade mace instead of powdered (for a beef + anchovy stew I rave about every 6 months; next rave due shortly). The blade mace was brown and rigid and shard-like and I had no idea how to render it into a powder. I inevitably tried the pestle 'n' mortar with poor results. But even then, with a curious lack of inquisitiveness, I didn't think to look up what mace actually was.

I guessed it was probably a spice like nutmeg, on account of its smell, which was pretty good going for my untuned senses.

Then quite by chance, a few weeks ago, my mother offered me the bronzed ovoid you see in this picture. It is the outside shell of a nutmeg, with a partial, vine-like lace-work of mace attached. When you shake the nut you can feel the nutmeg inside rattle, and it looks as if the mace will be easy to just snap off... I just had to take some photos first, it is absolutely beautiful.

I still have no idea how to powder the resiney mace substance, but by hook or by crook it will be going in that beef stew!

the gent cooks too

Of course he does. The man is far more refined in his cooking than I.

Last week there was Butternut squash soup which was like a blanket of carbs and saved me from missing lunch the next day at work. Horror.

Then came a most amazing Coq au vin, the recipe an amalgam of various versions, and the taste halfway between bistro and Sunday night hearth. When he checks a recipe the starting place is the Larousse bible found in Oxfam. The bar is set high!

And when I was occupied with making pasta one evening, he returned home laden and set about marinere-ing some moules. Better than 'Aux moules' in Lille, better even than 'Les moules Zola' in Dijon: holiday in a bowl.

And for my part, I am a most appreciative eater. I can't wait for his next stint in the kitchen!

testing, testing...

I am typing - or perhaps I should say tapping - this out on a cute iphone and testing the blogger app.

If all goes to plan there will also be a photo of last nights supper. I knew even as I reached for the camera that this would be a rare case of the picture not telling a thousand words. In fact it tells you no more than three... but what a trio!

Carbonara, Spaghetti + Unctuous.

It also serves to remind me that I can actually make it quite well. It was a little heavy on nutmeg but I did it the Roy-patented-best-way; that is, with one egg + one egg yolk. Normally I forget about the yolk out of ingrained frugality (little-sister's theory is that this is a relic of our pseudo- 1950's upbringing) but being 9pm and hungry made me reckless. It was worth the angst.

The gent revived a delightful red wine from the previous night and we made merry, dissecting our evening watching a modern day 'animal vegetable, mineral'. Given this is the inaugural blog-by-app, I will push the techie boat out and give you the twitter hashtag: #museumsavm

I am not abandoning the big screen of computer just yet, but this app is a *very* handy alternative for a quick note to bloggy self.

pasta caring

I thought my cup could not overflow any more when I was given a KitchenAid mixer. All those recipes I have never cooked because I am too lazy to whip egg whites! All the times I made up a Madeleine recipe in order to circumnavigate the real recipe, as it requires 10 minutes of hand-beating! And all the times I have gnashed my teeth in frustration over fridge-cold butter that was too hard to mix... now all a thing of the past.

Well my cup overflowed just that little bit more when the gent gave me a pasta attachment for my birthday: more toy to play with, resulting in my favourite of carbs!

I once made pasta when I lived in Wimbledon, and spent a whole afternoon fighting a mean, uptight ball of dough. My hands were red raw from using a rolling pin to do all the rolling, and the resulting pasta fine to eat... if very chunky.

Yesterday I took no chances and bought the nicest '00' flour that John Lewis foodhall had to offer. The whole process took longer than I thought, given that I was using a machine, but this was down to a first-timer exploring how to do things.

I poured 440g of flour on the work surface, made a well in centre for 3 large eggs and threw over 1/2 teaspoon of salt. Using a fork initially, I scrambled the eggs, then began to draw in a little flour so that the central well slowly increased, as the egg mix turned more doughey. Eventually I gave up the fork and used my hands to pull in the last of the flour, kneading briefly before putting in the Kitchen Aid with a dough hook.

This is clearly a supremely lazy move, but I wanted to see how the hook worked. Brilliantly, is the answer. It didn't look as vigorous as hand-kneading, but the result was a nice, elastic dough: the kind I read about in recipes, but have never made!

The dough rested for 20 minutes whilst I cleared up (our kitchen is tiny) and added the pasta rolling attachment to the mixer. Dividing the dough into four, I worked on one piece at a time, dropping it through the roller on setting one. I fed it through, doubled it over then repeated until satisfied. Once all four pieces of dough had been rolled I repeated the process on settings 2 and 3 - incrementally thinner - until I seemed to have reams of pasta sheets! I dusted liberally with flour to prevent them sticking.

The cutting was the easiest part of all. Feeding each sheet of pasta through the cutter attachment was very quick, and I roughly shaped the tagliatelle into nests on a plate, or hung over a clothes drier.

How did it taste? Springy and firm. Delicious. It was too thick to be elegant, but I really liked it and it tasted good in the cream and salmon sauce that the gent put together. Next time I am going to experiment with rolling the pasta more finely, and also try making filled pasta: my absolute favourite.

pollen shirt social

There are so many positives about lilies that their only downside never occurs to me. Today I noticed the gent covered in orange and it did then come to mind that their pollen is particularly difficult to erase from garments. Especially shirts from expensive shirt-eries.

It is a shockingly bad pun, but we were headed to Pollen Street social that night, so as I brushed and soaked the shirt, I couldn't help but chuckle at my own joke (see title of this post if you can stomach it).

Having read AA Gill's review, aghast at being explained the 'concept' of this new restaurant, I did anticipate a little pretension. And having read about everything from the 'roasted squid juice' to the 'clam and cockle emulsion', I began to feel I had already eaten there - so I promptly gave up reading reviews and didn't even look at the menu beforehand.

All of which ended in a pleasantly surprising evening. Our dining companions were the delightful Mike and Alice who were on an amazing gastro-weekend, eating at four London foodie-havens (five Michelin stars between them) before heading home. We were honoured to be invited along to the Pollen stage of the tour.

There was a zingy, lemony shellfish-based paste to spread on bread. Then I had
Escabeche of quail, chicken liver cream, nuts & seeds. Or, as I typed a few hours later 'little hams of quail, toothpick-bone sticking out, chicken liver butter on wafer-thin toast, carrot, pickled onion shells, nutty something'. It was fantastic and I barely had time to stop and taste the gent's scallop ceviche. Which was also great.

I then focused my entire attention on ox cheek with tongue and sirloin. I chose this as (a) three meats on one plate sounded an excellent plan and (b) I don't like tongue and was hoping this would convert me (still not something I'd eat quantities of...). The surprise star was the cheek, slow-cooked until the connective tissue rendered gluey, the whole thing sweet and falling into dessication. There was a pureed horseradishy thing too, which was perfect. The wine - Côte-Rôtie La Viallièret - was heady: tobaccoey, and smelling like a gentleman's library*.

Sated, I was able to look about the room. The lighting reminded me of the recent 'Frankenstein' set at the National Theatre. Then I found the (transparent) cold-room for meats, and another floor-to-ceiling wall of wine bottles in storage, all on the way to plush-grade rest rooms. It was all so beautiful I almost asked for my desert to be served there, instead.

Back upstairs my 'ham, cheese and herb' dessert arrived: watermelon granita, a 'ham' of thin-sliced melon with gelatin 'fat' attached to look like a slice of ham, intense basil sorbet (like falling face-first in a herb bed) and soft cheese. Great fun, but the only dish I didn't quite finish. We enjoyed an after-dinner Armagnac at the bar, unwinding from the sensation assault and making a mental note to come back for a post-work drink another time.

It is hard not to mention the party bags, uncovered from a little locker to which we held the key, which contained 'Breakfast on us' mini cakes and a teabag. Funny, sweet. The most charming thing about the evening was the excitement and adventure in everything, but if I go back, the reason would be the really good food, cooked perfectly.


* the gent is verbally adding descriptions, but they are his views not mine, and also I don't have a oenophile dictionary to correct the spelling. So if you are interested, then I think it's best you follow him on Twitter. And then you can argue back, too! @jamesdoeser

Lesley's courgette and Bernadette's basil

I do sometimes get tired of thinking of what to eat: the natural ennui of someone who works full time and so is tempted to choose the same, quick meal, and who also has the unlimited choice of anything in the world that the supermarket provide.

Yes, I did just say there are too many option, and I do realise how spoilt that sounds, but I actually find it liberating to have restrictions. I remember my mother coping with the autumn apple glut with such imagination: just when we were at the improbable point of being sick of raw apples, apple crumble and baked apple, out would come the apple fritters. Magic!

This encouragement into creativity is one of the (many) reasons home produce delights me, and this week I was the happy recipient of garden-gifts from two colleagues. On Tuesday Lesley presented courgettes from her allotment, with the weary sigh of someone mid-glut and trying to prevent any turning into marrows! I was dining alone that night so I took just one, sliced it on the diagonal and quickly fried it in oil with some chopped garlic. Sharing the plate - but not the glory - were baby Jersey potatoes and a quick-fried salmon fillet, dusted with paprika and salt. Heavenly.

Due to good weather, Bernadette's basil plant had produced abundantly and today she brought in bags of delicate, aromatic leaves. I thanked my lucky stars that no one else got there before me and bagged a bag. Right now it lies chopped in a bowl with some toasted, chopped pine nuts, a little parmesan and a lot of extra virgin olive oil. I have made this into a proper paste before, using pestle and mortar, however I much prefer this rough, verdant version. I can't wait to put the pasta on: hurry home, gent!

These two ingredients have really whetted my appetite and I can't wait to get to the market at the weekend for more inspiration!

physic garden madness

It was the most perfect summer's day: sweltering at 10am, wall to wall sunshine, scandalously blue skies. Good only for lying, panting in the shade and for the sublime evening that follows.

The dying day was cooler, the breeze balmy, and the proximity to midsummer stretched the evening to romantic proportions. Perfect for a surprise trip to the ‘Rambulance’ pop up supper club by Rambling Restaurant, hosted in the Urban Physic Garden.

A derelict site next to a train line, it looked an anxious, infertile spot. But once we had been admitted through the gates we found an oasis – never has the word been better employed – of herbs, trees, flowers and shrubs, each organised, tidy as a librarian, into the ailments they are said to alleviate.

To one side long table was set for supper, the rather home-made white awning, happily redundant on this cloudless evening. We dropped our bag next to our camping cutlery and jam jars (for water, of course – and a plastic measuring beaker for the gent) then headed into the garden. We looked at the beds of greenage to cure gastric problems, eye health and such. An imaginative irrigation system dripped water from pipes rigged above the plant beds, lending a lush, rain forest feeling.

Behind the ‘treatment room’ we found a skip-cum-ping pong table, and tried our hand. Then played on a complex three-part, jointed see-saw. Just as we were exploring the dispensary of pills, we felt it was probably time for supper. We sat down to sautéed mushrooms on lightly toasted ciabatta with salad leaves including various healing herbs. The salad dressing was reverently passed around in its huge plastic syringe.

The table was full and communal and we discovered we were seated with the most fun, interesting and lovely people: so lucky! Three lived nearby, one had an acquaintance in common with the gent, and conversation moved between teaching art, parking Borris bikes and London.

Next we had barbeque pork with a herb chimichurri, with a lovely sharp, vinegary mix of roast cherry tomatoes and cannellini beans, and potatoes. The generous rim of fat on my pork was well judged and much appreciated. Wine was byo and the gent matched the food brilliantly with a light, strawberry Fleurie which, after an afternoon refrigerating, came to a perfect coolish temperature by the time it was welcomed into our glasses.

The cooking was undertaken inside, and next to, an ex-ambulance. I took a good look on my way to the compost loo (which promised to turn our poo into gas to fuel the ovens): washing my hands outside in a free-standing china sink I couldn’t help but think what an unusual set up it all was!

A finale of cheesecake and crème brulee finished the evening. By now the sky had deepened but not quite reached full night. Still warm, we took the tube to Green park and opted to walk from there: it seemed a pity to not be outside.

If I were to be picky then there were inconsistencies in the meal: crispy charred pork to my left, rather less cooked to my right; lipstick on the wine glass. But the whole evening was so generous and entertaining that criticism feels out of place.

The gent and I agreed that were we to cater such an event, it would be easier to do a pork belly rather than chops. Belly is far more forgiving on timing so it wouldn’t matter if proceedings were delayed – it couldn’t be overcooked – and it would require no last-minute attention, except in carving.

The evening left the warm impression of an inventive use of neglected land, some delicious food and good company. And more herbal knowledge than I expected to come home with.

Dehesa

And so after a long 8 days of perfect slog from the gent, the revised version of his phd was produced. He was like Daisy in that episode of Spaced* where she suddenly, after much procrastination, pings into action and types all her articles (including one about ‘bogling’) to the theme tune of Miss Maple (?). Anyway, he was focussed, stuck to his timetable and completed in time to join me at an excellent talk on the History of wine, given by Kathleen Burk.

I do love wine, but don’t have the whole oenophile obsession where it verges on academic endeavour. Despite this, I just love Prof Burk’s book ‘Is this bottle corked’ (written with Michael Bywater) which doesn’t so much have chapters as concise dollops of anecdotes, history, myth and facts. A complete treat to dip into.

The gent also had the luxury of a housekeeper for his busy 8 days, who cooked inventive meals to spur him on. There can be few sentences more exciting to read than the one that says ‘I will take you out for dinner’, but that is just what he did, to say thank you.

Sister to the sublime Salt Yard, Dehesa is definitely similar, but fits its area by being speedier and snackier. Where Salt yard is quiet and mellow, encouraging you to linger and order just another plate of cheese or jamon, Dehesa is energetic with fidgety music, tall bar-like tables and chairs, and - perhaps - a slightly different menu.

Our table was booked late and there was definitely a Friday night, post-office feel to the surrounding streets, where customers proliferated onto the pavement outside pubs. We eased ourselves into the meal with a jamon de teruel and charred, oily, soft-crispy bread. Enlivened by this, we continued with pork belly on white beans, megrim sole with broad bean puree and tortilla.

The pork belly was as heavenly as it could be – perfect, oozing, fatty chunks with perfect, teeth-alarming crackling. But the white beans beneath were a masterpiece! They could have been a dish by themselves, really creamy-tasting and heavily scented with herbs - we thought perhaps thyme and rosemary. I positively ignored the megim sole dish which also arrived, just so I could fill up on these beans, incidentally breaking all the Roy Rules of eating.

With the tortilla I set a challenge for the gent: was this tortilla as good as, or better than, the one Guy made at his and Debora’s party. The gent stared. “Guy MADE that tortilla?!”. We paid a moment’s silence to his genius, then ploughed on with the one in front of us. Answer: they were completely different, both I would love to eat again, but Guy’s might have the edge. Given my extreme chaos around Spanish tortilla I won’t ask for the recipe. We don’t need our new kitchen decorated in raw egg. Some things you have to admit defeat to in life and let the experts do it for you.

Knowing my weakness, and enjoying it himself, the gent mooted the three manchego platter. Scooping membrillo paste onto each cheese (he favoured the mid-matured, I the oldest) I pretended to be in Spain and poured more wine. How lucky we are to have Spain on the doorstep!

*'Ends', series 1, for completists.

interim report

From this side of a wobbling, eggy, choc-chip-brioche-and-butter-pudding, the like of which I hope to make every day forever more, I have news.

I redeemed my 30th birthday voucher, a gift from my parents, a mere three years after the event. The gent - as ever - saved my sanity with a metaphorical shake out of the logistical nightmare of deliveries, instead offering some manly muscle. Yes yes, horribly sexist, but I was never going to be able to carry a Kitchenaid mixer from the shop to our flat. And, as he proved, he really can.

Did I just say Kitchenaid mixer? Well dang me if the first thing I don't do tomorrow is source some eggs and butter and set to it. Thank you parents, thank you! I hope you soon experience the fruits of your generosity combined with my idle down-time.


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Tear up remaining choc-chip brioche - today, about 4 - into an oven-proof dish. Mix together double cream, full fat milk (together about 300ml), 2 eggs, a slug of Marsala and a modest dash of vanilla essence. And 3 dessertspoons of sugar (the measuring spoons and scales were out of my effort-range). Slop it over the brioches and pop in oven for 30-40 mins on about 170 degrees. Don't burn your tongue on it and do pour more cream over.

Easter eating

By happy accident I mis-typed 'Easter' as 'Eater'. Less seasonal, but just as appropriate.

I love spending Easter with my family but, with the aim of taking it easy, decided to holiday in London. In order to make the most of our location, we plan to eat in a local establishment at least once a month: cue Andrew Edmonds (Lexington Street, no website) on Maundy Thursday. A mellow atmosphere, we ate well and enjoyed watching an eatery which was clearly so well-established that it leaned twoards the old school of charm - that which can turn new custom away brusquely, when not needed.

Good Friday saw us take Boris Bikes (or Barclays bikes, as they are properly known) to London Bridge. The cycling was fine, but after 25 minutes of scouring every last street for a bike station to leave our bikes, I was largely fuming. Happily we were there for Borough Market and a brisk round the vegetables, picking the most pillowy cauliflower, muddiest Jersey potatoes and most sexy asparagus spears, soon chilled us out again.

On Easter Saturday we lunched on asparagus - steamed, butter slid over - and also chicken liver pate and crackers. We drank a half bottle of Domaines Ott Bandol rose (2008) from the wonderful Philglas and Swiggot. Supper was roast poussin (rubbed about with garlic and chilli) and fennel salad - raw, sliced thinly with lime juice, oil and perhaps a little mint.

Breakfast on Easter day was somewhat shoddily carried out, but the idea was so very lovely that I forgive myself. A soft-boiled egg sitting on toast, pulled open to let the yolk run, in which to dip steamed, buttered asparagus. I must admit that technically I broke my fast with a cup of tea in bed and some ver elegant Prestat chocolates from the gent.

That evening we roasted a half-shoulder of lamb. Recipes varied in advice, from high heat for 1 hour, to slow-cooking for 4 hours: it didn't help with the decision on how to cook it, but it did make me relax as it looked hard to get wrong! I scored the fat on top, pushed garlic slivers into little stabs, and perched the joint atop halved parsnips. Two hours at a high-ish temperature rendered it perfect, and the parsnips soggy/crispy in the most heart-fluttering way. Minted new potatoes and broccoli filled the rest of the plate. It was terribly simple but we could have eaten it twice over. Actually, we did that too...

I am trying for brevity here, but may I just add how surprisingly decent the cold lamb was the next day, with the mint potatoes now transformed into potato salad, with a few crisp leaves?

Recipes for Boynton in 5 fits

I have had my first taste of being an archaeologist. It wasn't intentional, but I had terrific fun!

I had actually started out trying to cater for an archaeological dig, but after some confusion - it was on, then off, several times - it finally turned out to be very much on. A pity I hadn't prepared anything, but my panic immediately subsided when there were four, then three... then just us two! Like babes in the wood, the gent and I were left in charge of a dig.

Fit the first: sausages and sweet potato mash

By the evening on Sunday there were three of us in the country house: the gent, myself, and an Historian with archaeological sympathies who is writing about the house and grounds. Needing something quick and hearty, I planned to roast sausages with sweet potatoes and onion, with some lovely savoy cabbage alongside.

Unfortunately the lack of baking tray (or anything, whatsoever, that might fit that role) made me realise I would have to fry the sausages. In a saucepan. In fact, due to size of the pans, in two saucepans. The potatoes I could roast in foil with garlic... however, when no foil materialised I instead baked the potatoes and scooped the flesh into some hastily-made garlic oil, and mashed.

In short, after 1.5 hours I emerged from the kitchen with just sausages and mash!

Still, every last scrap was eaten, there was some warming wine, and my two companions made me laugh so much that I soon cheered up. The night was very black and we slept a long time in our huge, wonderful room.

thaied in knots

Last night's triumphant red Thai curry came with the premier of my coconut rice. I have always wanted to make this and am now kicking myself that I took so long to find a recipe: it is so devilishly easy I could do it every day.

I decided to make enough for four as (a) I hate having a skerrick of something left in a packet in the cupboard and (b) I always have uses for fridge left-overs.

This was the happiest of choices.

Today was so beautifully hot, and the coconut rice was on my mind, that I came to crave some Thai salads. Larb moo took over my head around lunchtime and immediately I thought of a comment I had read last night about Som Tam.

A quick search revealed several Thai restaurants near our flat, and the gent and I went to check out the menus. I rejected one outright ("No Larb!" "Let's just ask inside" "But... no Larb!") then caved to the gent's pained patient-face at the second. There was indeed no Larb moo as they had no pork, but they offered to make a duck version instead "is it still ... (rubbing my fingers to suggest mince, in a strange improvised sign-language).... spicy?" I asked anxiously. They made sure it was.

So Som tam - for those at the back - is a green papaya salad, shredded up with a few other vegetables to look no more exciting than coleslaw. The taste-nirvana lies in the astringent, spicy, aromatic, fresh dressing. It has the exotic 'otherness' of an un-English flavour: something one has never tasted before, which is so rare in adulthood*. A few years back, fish sauce took me a little while to become accustomed to, and right after, I became addicted. Som tam is an extension of that addiction.

The Larb is heaven-on-a-plate for similar reasons: the same fresh, spicy, aromatic taste in pork or chicken mince, then served in lettuce leaves. I was bursting with pride over how good the coconut rice tasted with these two salads (and a little re-vamped red curry on the side), but the real treat was seeing how excited the gent was by these flavours, too.

I fully accept (ahem, Mother) that saying 'lettuce with mince' gives a somewhat cold and creepy image if you haven't quite got your tongue round the idea. But give it a go: if I can be converted from my ingrained, peasanty suet pudding ways, then I am sure anyone can.




*I will concede: maybe this only applies to a late starter like me. But heck, I'm having more fun because of it!

French Friday

Friday evening is one of the best in the week. The whole weekend stretches ahead: perhaps a lie-in, or the promise of a good newspaper (and some time to read it in), and of course a superb coffee, taken at leisure.

Last Friday the balmy spring day made me yearn for Florence and a table outside our favourite enoteca - bliss! I proposed to the gent we meet for a glass of wine and he immediately suggested La Trouvaille in Soho. Please don't go. It is wonderful and I want to always get a table.

I arrived first so took a seat inside along a little wooden bench and spent my time choosing - and enjoying - a glass of Les Greilles (Domaine Causse Marines, 2008). La Trouvaille only buy from independent companies in the South of France and have good-egg policies about no pesticides and chemicals. They also seem interested in biodynamic methods of farming - about which there is quite some trendy hoo-ha at the moment - but I was more interested in drinking the honeyed deliciousness.

The gent went in for something like the Picpoul de Pinet (Domaine Coustellier, 2009) which he found 'minerally'. In a good way. We soon unwound and began to feel somewhat continental... which turned out to be only a short hop to hungry.

Not moving from our seats we took a look at the bar menu, ordered two portions of cassoulet, then had a heated debate about whether the meat should be confit or not. It was, and it was divine and filling. So we had a glass of Cahors (Domaine Cosse Maisonneuve. Le Combal, 2007) to celebrate. I haven't even looked at the restaurant menu but I would wager a glass of Picpoul that it would make for a blissful evening.

Really there is nothing like Florence - however for a spot of French atmosphere on the doorstep this is the place I will return to.

ploughmans jacket

Last weekend the gent and I built a bed, shifted furniture and generally moved forward a step in transforming space and boxes into a home. We also purchased the most beautiful saucepan ever to grace a kitchen, about which I am still thoroughly excited!

We have had coffee at Sacred and Canela: the former has free wifi and the latter, a free Portuguese custard tart (at certain times). But the real hot tip is the cheese bread in Canela - a heavenly bread-like ball that seems 90% gently molten cheese on the inside. No, don't take my word for it: go and eat. Next time I am having the chorizo version...

Recycling bags were collected from our local - fantastic - library; and a secret gig attended at the Westminster Reference Library. With tables and computers pushed to the edges of the room, and Copyright notices still on the pillars, 'British Sea Power' created a fantastic atmosphere and a brilliant sound. Walking home through Chinatown afterwards made me wonder if four meals a day might be the way to make the most of living in the heart of London...

The bare cupboards and minimal utensils mean cooking is rather low on the agenda, however a mid-week 'Ploughman's jacket' cheered us up considerably. With a table in place, and a cloth to make it look less like the workbench it is, I laid out a hastily-dressed salad, apple and walnut pickle, and a plate of ham, Stilton and tangy Emmental slices. Jacket potatoes were halved and slices of butter pushed into furrows to melt. A rough, but heavenly meal. Quite the best meal of the past week: in fact, the best meal since the farewell Allen road extravaganza. But then, it would be very hard to live up to rabit ragu on pasta, champagne and home made panna cotta -!

I look forward to planning a welcome meal for friends very soon... something worthy enough for our new, beautiful saucepan!

onion soup for two

My last night in the beautiful flat I have been living in for the past 3 years. I hadn't even thought about what to eat tonight as I rushed from work to charity shop to finishing the packing: very luckily for me, my flatmate Jo made some onion soup.

It is funny how something can be so simple that it quite gets forgotten. But when revived, what a tasty treat! The soft onions were so sweet and the stock so savoury, and on a chilly, mean February night like this, the warmth spread right through us, fortifying me for the final leg of packing.

Tomorrow I will be making a dishonest man of the gent as we move in together, and I am very excited about the adventures ahead of us. But I will never forget my memories of Jo, Ruby and Rocket. And our last evening of girl talk and onion soup!

sage sauce for house-moving wisdom

It is funny how rarely things pan out in an even, measured fashion. I usually enjoy a very quiet January / February, over-wintering as I think most civilised, with any non-work time spent under a duvet, or eating stew / curry / pudding in rotation. This year, between birthdays, birth-days, and gorgeous friends visiting, I have been tempted out of hibernation and into a social whirl, so it was inevitable that the gent and I should somehow, by accident, find a cute new nest to move into. 6 months early and at a ridiculously busy time.

Hence, there has been little energy spent on cooking or writing. A plus side has been discovering which fast food is a sublime joy (an 'Adana kebab' from Cirrick on Green Lanes); which fast foods I will be very happy to leave behind forever (supermarket ready meals: ready for being discontinued, I hope); and how long I can keep going without getting scurvy (longer than you would think).

The house-move is mere days away and yesterday, after an emotional evening of forcing 4 paperbacks into the 'charity' pile - and forcing the other 400 into boxes to move - I decided enough was enough. A girl needs carbs. And to feel the weight of a saucepan in her hands once more.

I cubed and roasted a butternut squash and tumbled these together with some cooked gnocchi, then covered these with an aromatic sage sauce. This was kept company by steamed leeks alongside, cut into pleasingly plump logs.

To make the sage sauce: fry chopped sage leaves in butter: this smells heavenly, so enjoy it for a full minute or more - but don't let the butter burn. Turn up heat, splash in white wine and let bubble down to half its volume. Add double cream and heat through, then finish off with a squeeze of lime, parmesan and seasoning. I also fried small sage leaves in butter until crispy for decoration, and I would do more of these next time, they tasted so good.

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To keep me awake during the day, I continue with my favoured past time of seeking new coffee haunts. The latest Roy-award goes to 'Store Street Espresso' (no website but they are @StoreStEspresso on Twitter) which has a really wonderful, light space, minimally decorated with allusion to the building site (in a good way) and serving all the coffees a choosy girl could hope for.

I am torn between anxiety that these lovely Aussie-inspired coffee spots are in danger of becoming generic, and being delighted that the dots are linking up on my 'coffee map'. I enjoy the safety of knowing places where each cup of coffee will be, without a doubt, extremely good. So thank you Store Street Espresso, and the Department of Coffee and Social Affairs, for making my life just that little bit better.

menu by search engine

I am fascinated with internet traffic and what takes someone to a website. I can sometimes see on my blog stats where traffic has come from and it is often a google search. As a librarian I am interested in which search terms are used: as a food lovin' lady, I am intrigued by which foods are most sought after. A recent cursory look shows that, very unsurprisingly, everyone is looking for ways to eat two things right now: pheasant and Seville orange. Or, as one poor soul in Spain put it 'what else can I make with Seville oranges?' - you can just hear the fatigue!

I notice that Hugh F-W answered the latter with his usual enthusiasm in the Saturday Guardian magazine: Seville-orange meringue pie and orange curd were such wonderful ideas, I can't wait to give them a go. Just as soon as I can find some oranges! I also recommend - no, I URGE - you to make the ice cream in 'Nigella Bites'. Don't frown like that, it isn't at all like making ice cream: no churning or time involved. One merely whips cream then adds sugar and orange zest/juice, then stow into freezer. I once converted a non-ice cream lover to it, which is surely the best recommendation?

The pheasant shooting season is coming to its end: soon the birds will be raising chicks, during which time they are off-limits to us preying on them. Time for a last game-bird hurrah of the year - and a good time to know what to do with leftover pheasant bits.

I can't believe I didn't mention my new year's day meal sooner! My parents gave me a post-Christmas pheasant-present, which they had plucked, singed and done all the gruesome and boring bits of preparation to. The bird was given a streaky bacon blanket and roasted, then served on a bed of bacony, herby lentils. It followed a chicory salad in a Dijon mustard and honey dressing, and the whole thing was hearty, earthy and ever so wintry.

After, I stripped the carcass of its few scraps of meat and made stock with the bones: this makes a lovely winter risotto if you have some flavoursome mushrooms, and add the meat in at the end. Delicious with buttered chard or cabbage. End-of-season heaven!

ingredients for a weekend

What a perfectly social, London weekend. It is like living someone else's life!

There was the fabulous party in the wonderful Princess Victoria; a tasty vegetarian fry up, followed by a visit to the painfully cool 'Tina, we salute you'; thence to Canteen, so conveniently situated for a night at the Festival Hall, listening to those short-listed for the T. S. Eliot poetry prize - where we caught up with some more charming acquaintances. The gent commented that I'd probably met all his friends, intentionally or by chance, over the weekend! And eaten good food, I murmured into my scarf.

My tasty veggie fry: diced, par-boiled potatoes, drained and rinsed in cold water - then fried in hot oil until crunchy outwith; a rattle of maldon salt over the top. Tip onto a plate to keep hot in the oven to make room in the pan for: mushrooms and tomato. Fried eggs, over-easy (I finally found out that this just means turning them over to cook the top too!) but still completely runny inside. If you are a decent sort, then you won't be able to help but put the egg on the crispy potatoes and let the yolk drip over.

'Tina, we salute you': the website is tres stylish, but kind of hard to find anything useful on - like opening times - so I've given a link to the Time Out review instead. That's what happens when you deal with a librarian rather than a hipster Dalstonite. Here we had fabulous coffee (from Square Mile) and enjoyed a slice of nicely judged blueberry and lemon loaf cake. So good that the gent brushed the crumbs from his trousers, strode over to the bar and ordered another slice with a further two flat whites. Good man. A gorgeous place to read the papers and lose your head over coffee.

Canteen, on the South Bank, was chosen for its convenient location, but had a lot to recommend it. The house wine was really great - coming in a 25cl carafe was even better: the booths were sweet and sociable and the menu was spot on for what we needed. One of us had pie, the other a salad: both polished off. Next time we would definitely stop at the bar for another glass or two of the wine and maybe a fish finger sandwich, or pate and piccalilli on toast. Everywhere seems to be upping the ante with their bar menu at the moment!

It is not my remit, but Simon Armitage and Sam Willetts really rocked, poet-wise.

scotched dinner plans

That was shoe-horning the pun in, really. The fact is the gent and I were not hungry as we left the flat yesterday evening, as we had enjoyed a late afternoon lunch of roast butternut squash and chorizo sausage, with savoy cabbage. Spicy and sweet and sunshine on a plate.

We were headed to the Princess Victoria in Shepherd's Bush, to celebrate the wedding of friends. A few bus stops away from the tube stop, one wouldn't stumble across it accidentally, however it is more than worth the effort. Inside is spacious, charming; the wine list is somewhat vast and the snack board... lured us into stopping at the bar when we fully intended to head upstairs to the party.

A little 25cl carafe of um... a 2008 Montepulchiano? ... was a tasty start to the evening, and a middlewhite pork scotch egg was the absolute most heavenly scotch egg I have ever eaten. And yes, that includes the divine example in the pub-near-Farringdon whose name I will come back and insert, when I remember it. A whole different league of scotch egg - it probably even deserves a different name!

Also on the Princess Vic menu were pork scratchings, scotch quails egg in oxtail meat and, probably, ambrosia. And another time I will go and try them all: instead, we tore ourselves away and had a wonderful time in the be-chandeliered room upstairs. What glittering surroundings for a party!

second feast of Christmas

If Christmas evening is the best sandwich of the year - ham and turkey with cranberry sauce, stuffing and anything else we can cram in (including sprouts if I can get away with it) - then Boxing day is most certainly the best bubble and squeak.

Christmas is one of the few roasts when there are actually leftovers - though sometimes, shamefully, not. For me, there has to be potato and there has to be sprouts. Any additional swede, parsnip, cabbage, carrot or peas are a bonus, but the sprouts are the finest part. At home alone I make squeak for one, a crispy messy lump, and top it with a fried egg. For boxing day bubble though, this is the centrepiece to the second feast of Christmas.

Bubble and squeak go onto plates alongside slices of ham, turkey, any left over cold sausages-in-bacon and stuffing. Depending on quantities, sometimes a separate bowl of mashed potato or some steamed greens are on the table; the only other feature is pickle. Pickled walnuts, piccalilli, pickled red cabbage - the queen of Christmas pickles - gherkins, onions, beetroot, branston pickle... almost no limit. The remaining space on one's plate is heaped with the astringent, vinegary crunch, and devoured.

Exception: people who are not me indulge in a spoon of turkey jelly, in addition. I am not yet quite that sophisticated.

The meal is rounded off with further slices of Christmas pudding, denuded of charms to be heated in the microwave, then re-charmed and doused in leftover custard and further clotted cream. Coffee and mints follow this as naturally as retiring to beside the fire for a snooze, or to write thank you letters.

Chocolates may make an appearance, but only a few: it is only a few hours until supper, after all.

yuletide feasting

If you don't like Christmas, look away now. This post is one long, unashamed description of a traditional Christmas lunch. Which I love.

My wider family agreed to discontinue the million-way gift giving we formerly went in for, whilst my immediate family had a challenge to buy gifts only from charity shops. Both were most successful ventures with some ingenious gifts - and one or two naughty aunts transgressing, with the excuse that hand-made gifts don't count. My store cupboard consequently benefits from a small Christmas pudding and pots of jam, whilst my toes are now toasty in bed thanks to a delightful hand-sewn hot water bottle cover!

Mrs I invented a new Christmas Eve tradition some years back, whereby we have smoked salmon on wholemeal bread, with wedges of lemon to squeeze over. A grown up luxury which marked us young ones moving from childhood into the realm of adults. This year we also indulged in the local church's nativity (in which my goddaughter charmed as one of the three Kings) and games of charades and home-bingo.

Christmas morning breakfast is an even more ingrained tradition of chocolate coins followed by a wrestle in the street (don't ask). Lunchtime prosecco makes things more civilised and lunch follows shortly after. This year was Mrs I's most favoured option: ham cooked the day before so that we could have slices of ham and turkey together - in addition to the usual pigs in blankets (chipolatas wrapped in bacon) and fabulous apricot, lemon and walnut stuffing.

We never stint on sauces. There was bread sauce cooked with an onion and cloves; cranberry sauce made with the easy additions of orange zest and juice, and a shake of sugar (not too much, we like it tart); and some hearty gravy.

Vegetables abounded. Roast potatoes and parsnips, mashed swede, sprouts... all the favourites. It seems paradoxical to wait until the largest meal of the year to follow it with the heaviest pudding, however tradition is tradition and I can never say no to Christmas pudding. I adore it. Incredibly rich as it is, it is always paired with custard and clotted cream - and an instruction from Mrs I to watch for the silver charms!

I love the ceremony, the anticipation and the feast itself: the leftovers are just a continuation of the joy. Never will you hear family I complain about cold turkey, except to bemoan it being finished!