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
Sunday, 31 July 2011
Thursday, 28 July 2011
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!
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!
Monday, 4 July 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, 19 June 2011
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.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
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.
*****************************************************
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.
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.
*****************************************************
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.
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
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?
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?
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
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.
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.
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