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!

mincing one's words

Last week I - belatedly - made my mincemeat.

I absolutely adore suet and would never say a word against it, however I think a mince pie only really benefits from suet when eaten hot. Perhaps I imagine it, but when cold I feel there is a slightly claggy, mouth-coating sensation that I don't think necessarily enhances my enjoyment. It should also be added that I have never said no to a mince pie, so my pedantry is merely whim-shaped; for the sake of doing something *exactly* as I like it. And as I librarian, I don't feel the need to apologise for this.

Well, there are my prejudices - for this year at least - and the justification for a wonderful suet-free version. Nigella's, in fact.

Having rather poo-pooed* the idea of making mince pies in 'How to eat'**, Nigella then does a volte face in her next book, ('Domestic goddess') putting the mincemeat recipe second as "I thought I'd make you want to have it". Interestingly, the pastry recipe is the same in her later 'Feast' - so good it needs no update. I agree.

(For completists: despite having devoured every book the lady has written, I drew the line at her Christmas book so can't vouch for any mince pie polemic therein.)

I thoroughly enjoyed making the pastry - no doubt unconsciously looking every bit like my mother, Mrs I., as I banged about with flour and rolling pin - feeling like a woman fulfilled as I used the homemade mincemeat. And I hope my lovely colleagues enjoy the rich, nutty, alcohol-tinted result, in their raggedy carriage of pastry.

In other culinary Christmas news, here is a link to an article about deep fried Christmas cake, courtesy of Bertie Blue. Would I eat this? Absolutely!
Would you?



*this term looks strange typed out: if it is the spelling that is wrong, please correct me - however, the word itself stays. It feels both comedic and appropriate.

** "Mince pies, I feel, are a bit like Christmas pudding: you may as well buy in." p.68 'How to eat'.

soho dreams

There are a couple of coffee shops on my soho-places-to-visit list. And I like nothing better than striking items off a list.

Milk bar (sister to flat white - excuse me feminising the inanimate) on Bateman street calls its siren song.

One of my Soho fantasies is taking breakfast at Maison Bertaux on Greek Street - possibly wearing a cloche hat, certainly reading something by one of the Bloomsbury set. Yes, I mock; no, I repent not.

With less romance, Fernandez and Wells on Beak street is also luring me in with its sweet coffee arms and the tidy, clean lines of its decor. There are three establishments in all: may I suggest that the completists amongst us visit the full set?

And as if Soho wasn't full enough already, now Ottolenghi is opening an eaterie there. It is their fifth, due to debut early next year and sounds excitingly concept-heavy and lacking in finer detail. Exciting for us, perhaps fairly terrifying for those working to complete it right now! Take a look at the delicious foods they are testing:
http://ottolenghi.tumblr.com/

North road

The wonders of modern technology means that sometimes you don't have to follow hot new restaurants... they follow you.

Having visited Fig in the summer, the gent was added to their email list. A couple of weeks ago they emailed the news that they were opening a new restaurant in Farringdon / Clerkenwell: we went to a drinks reception in the paint-fresh new venue. Then came a missive bearing the irresistible news of 50% off food and wine for their opening week.

The North road menu wasn't online when we booked, but a few days later we were able to peep at the Scandinavian-inspired list of deliciousness - although we questioned just how 'Nordic' it really was. We were accompanied by a couple of friends who had also experienced Fig and were keen to see the bigger, shinier brother.

I gorged on wonderful ox cheeks with pear, Jerusalem artichoke and endive. Then launched into mutton: I will confess my ignorance and admit I thought mutton would only be good in a long, slow-cooked situation. I was wrong. This was mutton loin cooked outside, dark velvety red within and utterly... utterly. To give the full description it came with 'onions in textures, wild cabbage and broth'. It was at the fancy-pantsy end of the scale but cor lummy was it tasty.

I paused, briefly, to taste the gent's scallops and very much enjoyed his 'Norfolk deer' - plus the ensuing, inconclusive debate over why it wasn't called venison. The only complaint around the table was that the food was very slow coming out of the kitchen: we were there about an hour and a half before the main meals arrived (did I get that right, gent?!).

Despite the deliciousness, and the sophisticated tastebuds of our dining companions, we were all frankly frightened by the dessert menu. Paul spoke for us all when he declared he wanted neither another vegetable course, nor breakfast*, and so three rounds of B&BP** and the caramel and liquorice 'in textures' were ordered. Next time I would be braver, or order the cheeses, which were wonderful at Fig.

The decor was fresh and minimal, the lights a bit mesmerising; the bathrooms trendily uni-sex cubicles. I know, it's uncouth to mention such things, but you can tell how far from Hoxton you are by the uni-sexness of things.

I was reminded of Texture in the (slight) Nordic influence; the crisp skin starting nibbles, and of course the all those 'textures' in the menu! Fancy-pantsy would be my final word. Perhaps a little too much 'burnt hay' and 'texture' for my personal liking, and for this reason I preferred the little sister Fig Bistro. But each to their own, and now there is more Fig to go round.

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After all that talk of rich food, you might be in need of a digestif. And to go with your post-prandial coffee how about a peruse of the latest edition of Fire and Knives? I just spotted Tim Hayward tweeting about this - what a social media day it has been! - and now I am trying to find out where I can get my hands on a copy...



Unnecessary notes:
* Jerusalem artichoke and sunflower seeds; organic sheep milk yogurt, scent of fir pine and muesli. There was also 'flavours of woodland'

**as dear Agnes used to call it, in my youth. Bread and butter pudding to those less familiar with my grandmother's household.