Get stuffed

I have two very good friends who I sometimes refer to as the Dream Team in an ironic fashion. I never thought they would feature in these pages because a) they’re annoying and b) they can’t cook.  One of them hasn’t even read any of my oeuvre yet, if you can believe it – that’s the kind of hands off friendship that I appreciate…

Off the top of my head, their culinary heights include Tesco Finest spaghetti carbonara covered in chilli death sauce, Super noodles covered in chilli death sauce, fire rum (which caused the demise of a cheese grater), blue milk, protein shakes and dismissing the present of a 'Quick Easy Suppers' style cookbook on the basis that some of the recipes took (gasp) a whole 30 minutes. So it was with some trepidation that I accepted an offer to go over to their flat and eat turkey donated by a bank in honour of the recently passed Christmas weekend. My fear was not allayed by the increasingly bewildered texts I received throughout the day from the one who had been designated as in charge of the cooking (we’ll call him the house husband) due to having the day off work. I transcribe a few below:

“We are planning to have it ready by about 7 or 8 but given we have never cooked a turkey before I have no idea when that will actually be”

“Can you show us how to cook the turkey?”

“If you put max heat does it cook faster?”

“Where does the beer/orange go?”

“What’s basting?”

Meanwhile, the other one (think Richard O'Brien), in response to a simple query about whether any accompanying dishes had been prepared or even thought about, replied with “No trimmings. No sides. Just Turkey”.

Needless to say, I was mega excited.

Imagine my surprise when I turned up to find a scene of touching and festive domestic bliss. Two young(ish) men slaving over a hot stove in perfect harmony. The turkey appeared to have survived its ordeal and was resting on the side whilst I was poured a drink and we laughed and joked and ate great food and had a lovely evening, like some kind of heartwarming Christmas film.

Aha, I thought, maybe they’ve grown up.

At that point I hadn't noticed the stuffing had been made in the shape of penises.

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, ho ho ho and a bottle of rum to everyone who reads this blog x

Another kind of penis.

Gauthier Soho - review

My mother once cooked minestrone for Alexis Gauthier. If you are an avid follower, or even a casual visitor (please be an avid follower), of this blog, you will realise that this is potentially quite an awful state of affairs. My mother, the non-cook (I thought she’d invented cheese stew the other day. Turns out it was meant to be carbonara), serving soup to the Michelin starred French chef, previously of Roussillon (which is excellent), and now chef at his own venture, Gauthier Soho. Hilarious.

Anyway, slightly in honour of the end of the London Restaurant Festival, but primarily because my friend had a last minute cancellation, off I popped to Romilly Street on a Monday evening. The restaurant is a narrow townhouse on two or three floors and lovely in a kind of French beige way. It seemed very cosy to be sipping g&ts in what was essentially someone’s sitting room. Choosing from a set menu, we opted for foie gras and open lobster ravioli for starters, following on with magret and sweetbreads. Yes, I double ducked it. A bottle of Pinot Noir also seemed like a sensible idea.

The foie gras had been seared and had that slightly crunchy outside that helps you forget that you are literally eating an exploded fat liver. I can’t remember anything standout in the smears of puree on the plate, but that’s often the way. The bread was exceptional. The lobster ravioli (raviolo? It was only one and it wasn’t even shut properly) was pronounced ‘mushroomy’ which I imagine is a good thing but possibly quite a surprise. Main courses were not the most inventive of dishes, but I don’t mean that in a bad way because the French are fantastic at the classics and these were both perfect.

Pudding was a Louis XV – ‘tastes a bit like a Kit Kat’ - and some cheese. The cheeses were good but mean spirited. Seriously, a 2 millimetre slice did not cost you or anyone else on the planet seven pounds. Even if you painted it gold and studded it with diamonds it should still only have been a fiver. Probably.

A lovely evening, and exceptional value at £30 for three courses. Definitely worth a (return) visit.

Viennese whirls

This was it. My first trip abroad since July. My first trip abroad without my family since March. My first trip abroad with this particular friend EVER. As you can see, it was a momentous occasion.

So, quite why I was sitting in the Wetherspoons at Gatwick South Terminal drinking Strongbow at 11am on a Friday morning is unclear. My friend was eating a cheeseburger smuggled in from the McDonald’s next door.   She is amazing.

For a variety of reasons, October has been a bit rubbish for both of us. Hers for actually valid reasons, and mine because I’m in a funk. I’m not going to lay all the blame on the Autumn equinox, but it certainly didn’t help.  So it was with a huge sigh of relief that we boarded the plane, passed out, and woke up in Vienna.
Having made our way into the city, the first thing we saw was a roadsign to Budapest and the second was some graffiti that said ‘tourist are terrorist’.  Whilst this would have been much more intimidating had the grammar been correct, we did noticeably pick up the pace after that and found our hotel pretty sharpish. It turned out I had inadvertently booked a mini suite, with a redundant little seating area wedged between the bathroom and bedroom. I say redundant, it did come in handy when I woke up the next morning at 7am and needed somewhere to go and hang out so I wouldn’t disturb my friend. You could also do yoga in it, probably. I didn't try. The major plus point of this hotel was that they put cava out at breakfast and appeared to operate a no judgement policy.

Anyway, Friday evening.  A quick face wash, some more eyeliner and we were good to go for the evening.  We walked through the centre in the early evening light and found a little beer house (pub seems so unromantic) that served lard on bread and small glasses of beer from about 40 taps around the bar. We opted out of the lard and into the beer, which was lovely.  We then made our way to a ‘traditional Austrian Gasthaus serving classic Viennese dishes in a charming atmosphere’. I quote from the guidebook. All I can say is, someone took a hefty backhand of cash for that review. My goodness. Arriving in an empty room blazing with light, the waiter greeted us with all the enthusiasm of an interrogator.  (I mean nothing by that beyond this causal observation. I am casting no aspersions re. history). 2 extremely small glasses of wine later (warning: they serve wine in 0.8cl measures. That’s almost literally a shot), we decided to have a go at the menu. Apologetically, and bear in mind I am a) fluent in at least 2.5 languages and b) naturally very polite, we signalled that German wasn’t a strong point and we might need some help with ordering. The man rolled his eyes and bought out a pile of flashcards. You may remember these from when you were being taught to read in kindergarten. These had a German word and an English word on each. For example: ‘schnitzel’ and ‘pointlessly thin, greasy, breaded piece of meat’. Unfortunately, not many of the German words were even on the menu. We eventually opted to share a house special, which we thought was schnitzel and in fact turned out to be goulash. After some desultory conversation in which the waiter seemed to warm up a bit (probably excited about how much spit we’d just eaten) we escaped into the night, found a busy bar, met some new friends and drank a lot of vodka.

On Saturday, we did a lot of sightseeing and walking, which was nice and almost all entirely purposeful, given that we ended up at an Irish pub. That evening, we struck gold. Ignoring all alarm bells about going into an Austrian cellar (sorry) we crossed the threshold of the oldest wine hall (or Heuriger) in Vienna and descended in an intrepid manner. It was full of locals, smoking and drinking. Result. We ordered a bottle of red and a starter of liptauer to share. We only ordered one because the descriptions of it, when I googled traditional Austrian cooking, were alarming and it appeared to be bright orange. It was bright orange, but it was a delicious spicy cream cheese dip thing that was very nice with some dark rye bread. For our main course, both of us picked the house speciality: pork knuckle with dumplings and sauerkraut. Two huge knuckles (how big were the pigs, one wonders idly) duly arrived, together with two dumplings the size of my fist (or, actually, my friend’s fist, and she has quite big hands) and a heap of cabbage. It was incredible. In terms of ‘things that intrinsically don’t have a lot of flavour’, dumplings have got to be pretty high on the list, but they were the perfect carrier for the eye wateringly sharp sauerkraut and the fatty meat. Which was clever, because normally I don’t like eating mouthfuls of vinegar. (Un)comfortably full, it was all we could do to stagger home via a nightcap of a 10 euro glass of port and fall asleep.

By Sunday, the consistent eating and drinking had taken their toll somewhat. We were liverish and could barely force down the breakfast cava. We did however, make use of their ham and cheese selection to avail ourselves of some free sandwiches, which came in very handy when we arrived at Vienna airport, found our second wind (and a pub) and drank quite a lot of wine before our plane home.

All in all, an excellent weekend.

Massive dumpling alert: far left

We no speak americano

Last week, I had some friends over for an American movie night. We didn’t end up watching any films and the person I devised the themed menu for couldn’t actually make it, so on many levels it was a non-starter. What we did instead was get astoundingly drunk and play strip Bolivian snap. The menu was as follows, but these don’t really require recipes:

Southern chicken (chicken, flour, paprika, bake in oven)
Coleslaw (veg, mayo)
Barbecue beans (baked beans, butter beans, barbecue sauce)
Sweetcorn fritters (batter, sweetcorn, fry)
Salad (lettuce)
Salsa (tomatoes, red onions, chilli, coriander)
Blue cheese dip (blue cheese, sour cream)

And that was it. I followed these with some easy – peasy 20 minute blueberry muffins, courtesy of my new burning obsession love, Paul Hollywood from the Great British Bake Off. The only bit of these that is remotely tricky is that you have to let the batter (or is it dough) rest, ideally overnight.

Blueberry muffins
Makes about 12.

110g plain flour
110g butter
65g sugar
2 eggs
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
125g blueberries
Pinch of nutmeg

-cream the butter and the sugar together.
-add the eggs slowly
-add the flour, baking powder and nutmeg, combine
-chill overnight.
-the next day, spoon the mix (which will be very stiff) into 12 muffin cases, filling to just about half way.
-stud the tops with blueberries (See picture below. Paul says 8, but as you will see I went conservative)
-Bake for 20 minutes at 200 degrees.

One of my friends ate 4 and said they were disgusting. I'm assuming this was an hilarious joke. Which would be a first from him.

i'm not bluffin with my muffin

My culinary heritage

I have always suspected that I’d be really good at cooking if I ever bothered to try.  I feel the same about the flute.   

My Granny is a good cook.  In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, my mother is somewhat less adept in the culinary arts.  She has a repertoire of nine dishes that feature mince, and a roast chicken. Any experiments away from these often result in disaster, but what can you expect from a woman whose ideal supper is a bottle of red and a Fray Bentos steak and kidney pie? Has anyone ever tried one of these? I doubt it. She introduced me to them as soon as I was old enough for it not to be her fault as a negligent parent if I got a spongy brain or a necrotizing bug from the delightful offal and connective tissue combo.  Admittedly they are delicious (if a little challenging to get down once you realise what you’re eating) but they are so obviously, dangerously disgusting as a concept that they were promptly given the nickname ‘Bad Pies’. She bought me one when I moved into my flat, as a housewarming present. The Bad Pie sits in one of my cupboards in its tin (yes, tin. Pastry in a tin, sell by date 2018) daring me to eat it.

Anyway, Mum’s triumphs, such as they are, often involve rice. Chilli and rice, meatballs and rice, leftover chicken and rice… you get the idea. She really can cook rice. I don’t say this lightly because many people can’t. I’d always admired the perfect fluffiness and how she managers to get so much flavour into it. It was only a few months ago that I caught her adding a stock cube to a packet of Uncle Ben’s. Several dreams died that day.

So yes, home was never really a place of culinary adventure or experimentation, unless you count that time that my sister blended a carton of double cream with a chocolate bar and some vodka and declared that it tasted ‘just like baileys’.  Or the occasion when Mum made the now infamous ‘hockey puck pork’…“Oh. Oh. Mine’s a bit dry. Is anyone else’s?” Cue her children staring at her in bewilderment as they tried to extricate the twisted lumps of metal that had once been knives and forks from the rock hard chops.

It doesn’t help that a number of my sisters are naturally extremely conservative in their attitudes to food. You should have heard the response when it was posited that we had dauphinoise instead of roast potatoes at our Easter lunch this year. ‘You caaaaan’t have a roast lunch without roast potatoes, you just can’t, it’s wrong, we won’t have enough to eeeeeeeat. How can you possibly suggest this you BITCH, you just want to take over Eeeeeasterrr’. So the mothership and I gave in and served both kinds. Cue my Granny turning up and demanding to know why there were two types of potato on the table and did we all want to get fat.

Seriously, between my sisters the problems range from tomatoes (which are fine cooked in a sauce but raw makes one of them cry), to mushrooms, to fish (all – there’s a blanket ban), to anything that looks like it came from an animal, to most vegetables (the 16 year old still has to be made to count out individual peas on her plate), and so on and so forth.

Obviously I have my own weirdness too. My worst worst worst thing is milk. The thought of it is enough to make me shudder. Did you know we are the only animals who drink the baby food from ANOTHER SPECIES when we’re adults? Disclaimer: I haven't checked that fact. My Dad was (probably still is, but we’re too big to be sent to the naughty step now) one of those parents who believed in the ‘glass of milk a day for children’ thing. I used to sit, Paddington Bear hard stare fixed on my face, in front of these endless glasses of milk for what seemed like hours whilst my sisters (the freaks) necked pints of semi-skimmed disgustingness and ran off, laughing, into the sunset. Or playroom. I genuinely don’t believe I’ve drunk a glass of milk, eaten a milk based dish *rice pudding heave* or even had milk in the fridge of my own volition in my adult life. If you’re round at mine, the coffee is black. And decaffeinated, but that’s a whole other story.

Dukkah

Occasionally, when doing one of my new obsessive Sunday afternoon tidy ups, I come across scraps of paper on which I have jotted something which was going to become a life changing social commentary or possibly even a blog post. These were tucked into the back of the plastic folder which my MA certificate came in (thanks for framing that, parents):

23 March

Day uneventful, just tidying up loose ends prior to the long weekend. Went out for a lovely meal with the ex-housemates at 11 Park Walk. Decided to have spaghetti with bottarga as I always see Giles Coren writing about it and have never tried it. Delicious – more granular than I had expected (was maybe thinking of caviar due to the fact it’s roe too?) but tasted exactly of the sea. As I bent to pick up my handbag, I was nearly blinded by a halogen bulb that had been implanted into the floor. Why? God knows. I ended up putting my bag on top of it and burning the leather. That aside, amazing food and lovely to see the girls.

24 March

Woke up late, packed in 10 mins, ran (taxi) to Kings Cross, ran on to the train and my MA graduation weekend had officially begun. C and I met as planned at the station (Emotional Train Station Reunions being ‘our thing’ ever since she moved to the Continent). Particularly emotional this time; an awkward wave and a back pat. We wandered around for some time, drinking Pimms. Later on we met J and Y for dinner. Nice food. Tried something new called dukkah. Appears to be seeds.

And there you have it, a little snapshot of my life back in March. Presumably I didn’t continue this charming vignette because the next four days of entries would have been ‘Drunk. Hateful people everywhere. Unhappy’.  It wasn’t a classic weekend.

Of course, the food related purpose to all of this is dukkah (or dukka/duqqa). It’s an Egyptian side dish or dip that is a mixture of herbs, nuts and spices. Everyone is going to think I only found out about it because  someone made dukkah bread on the Great British Bake Off the other week, but I PROMISE I knew about it in March. I seem to remember the one I had being used effectively as a kind of crunchy topping for a cheese platter.

Basically, get a whole load of nuts and spices of your choice, in whatever proportion you think will be nice (choose things that go together, obviously – hazelnuts, sesame seeds, cumin, peppercorns, coriander and fennel seeds, salt…) toast all the components, crush them up, and dip bread and olive oil into the resulting crunchy mess. Looks impressive, as mentioned earlier, on the side of a cheese board (and you get the pleasure of saying ‘oh, that? it’s just dukkah darling. Have you never heard of it?’) but make sure the cheeses you’ve chosen can stand up to the strong flavours.

Birdfood?

Seafood, eat

So, I invited friends for Sunday lunch and then had a total panic about it which involved only getting 2 hours sleep on Saturday night. I was forced to abandon the fantastic idea of a big convivial paella after realising (at 2am) that I didn’t have a pan big enough to make it in, but I had a bag of mixed seafood to use up urgently and was determined to think of something similar. Rick Stein’s Spain came up trumps (at 5am) with several soupy rice and fish recipes which I adapted until I ended up with the below (at 1pm).  It is definitely Spanish-y but is also a bit like a bouillabaisse in that it doesn’t have any rice in it and it’s the colour of rust.

Everyone seemed to enjoy it. I served it with big croutons, aioli (mayonnaise, lemon, salt, lots and lots of garlic, a bit of turmeric to make it yellow…) and a token salad.

There are no pictures because I forgot before lunch and then after lunch I was drunk.

Seafood Stew (serves 4-6)

You will need.
-Butter/oil
-2 onions
-1 carrot
-1 stick of celery
- 2 cans of chopped tomatoes
- 2tbsp of tomoto puree
-White wine
-2 anchovies
-750ml fish or chicken stock (see below for difference)
-150ml double cream
-6 coley fillets (SUSTAINABLE FISHING)
-approx 400g of mixed seafood of your choice. I went with a handy 400g bag of frozen mixed seafood from Waitrose (funny that) which was prawns, squid and mussels.
-Big handful of chopped parsley
-2 lemons
-Pinch Cayenne/smoked paprika/pimento (I know they’re different, but basically whatever you can get your hands on that gives it a bit of a kick).
-Salt and pepper

Method.
-Put the onions, carrot and celery (the mirepoix, if you’re being a dick) in a big pot with butter and oil (good things happen to burning temperatures when you use both), season and sweat them down until soft. Should be about 10 minutes.

-Add the tins of tomatoes, 2 tablespoons of tomato puree and a good slug of wine (a large glass or about a quarter of the bottle).

-Finely chop the two anchovies and drop them in. You won’t taste them as anchovies (so put them in even if you know someone who hates them; just keep quiet about it) – they’ll dissolve and leave behind a good depth of flavour for everything else.

-Wait for this to reduce to about half and then add the stock, cream, and check seasoning.

A note about stock.I had a friend coming who was not a particular fan of shellfish (I know, how great am I, cooking his favourite thing for him?) so I was conscious of not making the whole event too fishy. I therefore used chicken stock. I think it lent a nice meaty background to the finished soup, and it definitely made the bits of seafood themselves quite distinct, but you should traditionally (and for a more homogenous whole) use fish stock.

-Whichever stock you use, make sure everything reduces by about half again. Taste it now. If you’re doing it right it should taste pretty much exactly the same as Heinz Tomato Soup. I know, you’ve spent half an hour on this and you could have opened a can. To jazz it up, now put in the spice. I used a good few shakes of cayenne, until there was a definite bite, but obviously do it to your taste.

(at this point, you can leave the base to go cold overnight or during the day, and just reheat to finish off when your guests arrive. I had to do this because all of my friends were late).

-Cut the coley into small chunks and drop into the soup. They should only take a couple of minutes to cook. I was worried about the lack of flavour in coley (sorry, I know you’re not allowed to say that but it is basically the cod’s poor relation. Albeit his relation who isn’t about to become extinct) so I actually wrapped the fillets in some foil with a bit of butter and roasted them in the oven for 10 minutes. This is anal and you don’t need to do it.

-Throw the seafood in – it only needs warming through so keep an eye on it to watch out for overcooking (especially from the squid rings, which are cagey little brutes and prone to spontaneous rubberization).

-Add a squeeze of lemon and all the parsley, give it a final stir and serve with lots of wine.

(Apologies for the pun in the title)

Happy hour

And you thought tiny designer basil was useless

Cocktails! Today we take a whistle stop tour through some of my favourites. I invented these, so feel free to experiment. All measures approximate. And very approximate after 3 or 4. It’s called freepouring folks. Enjoy.

Pop my cherry

Spring 2010 - Invented for my sister M, with love. She drank 9 and threw up.

Glass: highball

3 parts vodka

2 parts cherry cordial (a morello syrup if you’re impressing someone, and a cheapo squash one if you want it to be BRIGHT PINK)

Top up with soda water

Garnish with fresh mint.

The Passion of Christ the oven’s switched off again

Easter 2011 - The natural response to my mother’s temperamental oven nearly ruining the shoulder of pork.

Glass: ‘whatever hasn’t already been set on the table, for god’s sake, can’t you see I’m busy’.

2 parts vodka

1 part amaretto

Top up with ginger ale

Garnish with a slice of lime.

Hammer of Death

Summer 2009 - a reunion with a friend who lives abroad necessitated a light afternoon cocktail. This wasn’t it.

Glass: tumbler

2 parts gin

2 parts blue curacao

Top up with bitter lemon

La Vie en Rose

Paris 2007 - Bittersweet, like my memories of France. Let’s not go into it.

Glass: champagne

2 parts vodka

1 part rose syrup

Top up with ultra brut champagne.

Basil and Elderflower Martini

Summer 2011 – things got a little out of hand with these and 3 sisters in the room.

Glass: martini

3 parts vodka

1 part elderflower cordial

Shake together with some bruised Greek basil over ice. Strain and serve. See picture above.

Other things I love but didn’t invent: Classic Champagne Cocktails, Martinis (straight up, with a twist), Whisky Sours and Singapore Slings.

I would love to drink Old Fashioneds and be like Don Draper but they’re too strong. If anyone knows a take on these that doesn’t resemble paint stripper, please let me know.

What a Woman!

It has come to my attention that there exists in the world a cookbook called ‘How to Feed your Man’. No, this is not one of those faux retro pamphlets on ‘How to be a Perfect Wife’, nor is it a 50s Oxo cube advert cunningly reproduced as a fridge magnet. It’s a real, actual book, published in 2010 by a woman who has chosen to call herself ‘Stasha Butterfly’. Which is the kind of name usually reserved for 6 year olds making themselves the centre of attention at family parties or, you know, adult entertainment artistes.

I couldn’t bring myself to part with £15 for this execrable creation, but luckily there are several reviews, a website and some lovely pictures of the recipes themselves on the internet.

Firstly, the whole concept is just monstrous. Yes, cook for your partner- it’s fun, it’s convivial, you learn stuff, and you probably won’t have to do the washing up.  Of course, if your partner has no interest in cooking, you may find yourself doing the lion’s share by default. Equally though, if you have no interest in cooking, fair enough; they might cook for you. Live and let live. You can always get a take away.

The below, on the subject of making extra pasta sauce and freezing it, made me particularly irate:

“you never know when your fella might just cancel the party and want a quiet night in … this way you can be the perfect woman, and say: 'No problem darling, I'll just rustle something up'."

What. The. F**k. Yes, obviously, freeze your sauces, but do it because it makes economic sense, not because it may at some point in the future give you the opportunity to behave like some kind of demented Iceland chiller cabinet with breasts.

The idea that to keep your partner interested you have to be in the kitchen serving them ‘man food’ disgusts me.  In fact, on occasions when I have thrown down the culinary gauntlet and cooked something fantastic for a man in order to um…whet their appetite (sorry), I have ended up so full and sleepy that it’s difficult to summon up the energy to see them to the door.  Admittedly, that may say more about me than Ms. Butterfly.

The recipes in the book itself….well. Let’s just say this, I wouldn’t be surprised if the full title was ‘How to Feed a Man so that he Dies of a Heart Attack at 45 and you get His Money’. It’s all fat and stodge (see my earlier comment about falling asleep after romantic meals). However, Stasha’s man does seem to appreciate this. At a dinner party where she served something masculine to lots of masculine men (whatever), he was seen to:

..“walk around with an ear-to-ear grin muttering the words 'What a woman!’”

I just hate him.

Last but not least, the recipes are just…not recipes. Have a look at this musing on TOAST (so simple, even a man could probably work it out):

"It's just a matter of copious amounts of white bread into a toaster buttered to the edges".

But what do you butter? The toaster? The bread, pre-toasting? It isn’t clear, and if you ask me this is just a recipe for an electrical fire.

Yours,

Disgruntled from Tunbridge Wells.

ps. don’t worry, they appear to have changed the cover for the published edition…

You should see a gynae about that yeast infection dear

Green eggs and ham

Baked eggs are, for me, the ultimate easy comfort food. They're for when you can't even be bothered to make an omelette. Nutritious and delicious, as a certain doughnut shaped breakfast cereal would have it.

I made mine with 3 eggs because I was starving, but feel free to minimise. Serves one, perfectly.

Baked eggs

You will need:
- 3 eggs
- 2 slices of nice ham
-parmesan
-chopped chives

Method:
-Grease a large ramekin or small oven proof dish
-Tear up the ham and layer it at the bottom of the dish
-Crack the eggs in
-Sprinkle parmesan and chives on the top
-Season
-Bake in the oven at 200 for 10-15 minutes depending on how you like your eggs. 
-Eat with a glass of wine in front of some great Tuesday night TV (Great British Bake Off starts tonight).

'Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple' - Dr. Seuss

Feeling crabby

I had arranged for a friend to come over for supper this evening, however as it got later and later and I still hadn't left work, I thought that I'd probably be cancelling and decided against doing a food shop on my way back to the flat.

So, when I found myself at home at 7.30 with my friend arriving in half an hour, I was in a bit of pickle.  The cupboards were pretty bare but I managed to find 2 tins of crabmeat that I had bought on a whim (hey, it's cheaper than shoes) some time earlier.  Rest assured this is quality, 100% crab meat, unlike so called 'crab sticks', which I was disgusted to discover were made from 'pressed white fish'. Gross. However, if you're not ok with tinned things, and you have managed to plan ahead, fresh picked white crab meat would obviously be ideal.

I tipped 300g (2 tins) of the crab meat into a bowl and assembled some ingredients.

Ignore the spring onions, I didn't use them

Basically, I smushed up the crab (you can see it's in large chunks at the moment) and added mayonnaise (not too much please), lime juice, chilli flakes, salt and white pepper to taste  This created a pleasingly snowy white mousse with the occasional dash of red chilli. I moulded it into sort of round shapes and chilled it in the fridge for 30 minutes.

Avocado would have been an obvious choice with this, but miine was rock hard and in fact I broke a knife trying to prise it apart. Hmmm. Back to the drawing board. In the end I tossed a mixed salad with a mustard vinaigrette, plonked the crab mix on top in attractive blobs, sprinkled with chives and served with some small toasts for my guest, who is not currently in an emotionally abusive relationship with carbs.

Delicious. Phew.

Afternoon delight

West London - field of dreams

The sunny weather has got me thinking about pubs. Is there anything better than spending a Saturday afternoon in a beer garden with friends? The answer is no, apart from a million pounds, tax free. Even if I had a million pounds, I’d still go to these places with my friends. Probably.

Without further ado - Laura’s favourite pubs with gardens (in West London):

The White Horse.

Hopefully no introduction needed, it’s a classic summer drinking spot, even if the beer garden is on the corner of a three way junction.  Hey, if you want grass, live in the country. It’s always crowded and sometimes covered in barbecue smoke, but the atmosphere is second to none. My sisters and I are convinced that it exists in a time space continuum vortex, because if you turn up at 12, there’s no way you’re out before 8. Word to the wise: cancel your evening plans.

To drink: Delirium Tremens or Mort Subite (10% beers that will have amusing effects on your macho male companions), anything from the very interesting wine list, and the jugs of Pimms are pleasingly potent.

To eat: burgers from the barbecue are a cut above, and anything from the menu proper will be delicious. Fish and chips are a classic, and watch out for a changing specials board. I still dream about the ham hock.

 http://www.whitehorsesw6.com/

The Crabtree.

First trip here was a result of a walk by the river in Fulham with a friend, having taken the day off work (legitimately, before anyone sees this and I get fired). We stayed all afternoon. The Crabtree easily wins my ‘prettiest beer garden’ award. It has wisteria all over it - lovely. Suits evenings after work and sunny Sundays.

To drink: Great Pinot Grigio and generous vodka tonics.

To eat: The barbecue is really something (and priced accordingly…). Try the half chicken with harissa.

 http://thecrabtreew6.co.uk/

The Old Ship.

Scene of countless teenage antics. Ok, not strictly true given that we could never get served, but the grassy area outside saw many a White Lightening fuelled escapade. Once inside, you’ll find a really lovely old pub right on the river as it winds through Chiswick. Benches by the water’s edge, two levels of balconies and a conservatory eating area add to the charm.

To drink: cider, shandies, anything in a plastic cup so you can take it outside and sit on the river wall.

To eat: burgers with bloody mary ketchup and a great help yourself salad bar.

 http://www.oldshipw6.com/

The Ship.

This classic Sunday afternoon hangout is just south of the river (gasp) in Wandsworth. I find the seating area overhanging the water a bit scary because all that separates you from an impromptu swim and a tetanus injection is some plexi-glass. But still, fantastic atmosphere and a nice glassed in area for those sunny-but-actually-freezing moments.

To drink: Sauvignon Blanc. Lots.

To eat: I’ve never actually eaten here but am reliably informed it’s ‘fine’.

http://www.theship.co.uk/

Benares - review

With riots on the streets and revolting people everywhere it would have been foolish, perhaps even dangerous, to venture too far for supper on Wednesday night. Benares was therefore chosen both for its convenient location right next to the office, and its convenient donation of a membership card to my friend, which meant we could get free champagne and a 15% discount. Win.

We started the evening with an inoffensive bottle of white and some light conversation outside a local pub. My friend is currently a Dukan-er and was looking fabulous. By 7pm, we were ready to leave the mean streets and move across Berkeley Square to Atul Kochhar’s (‘the nice Indian man from Great British Menu’) restaurant. Having been approved by the silent man-mountain at the door (which personally I find offputting enough in nightclubs, let alone when I just want a curry), we passed into the inner sanctum and were greeted effusively by a lot of people before ascending some fairly serious stairs (super tight skirts would be/were tricky) and arriving in the bar. Lulled into a false sense of security by the 15% discount, a margarita and a lemon thyme martini were ordered. A yoghurt based drink was not, despite assurances that it was delicious. I hate yoghurt, and on Dukan you have to eat a lot of it anyway. The cocktails we did order were delicious and got an A* from both of us, as did the lovely water feature pond thing. Very pretty.

The dining room itself is square, low ceilinged and windowless. This doesn’t bother me, but it did have *whisper* a slight hint of the corporate hotel about it.  It is fashionably brown and beige with white linen…I’m sure you can already picture it almost exactly (if not, look at the picture below). The lighting is seductively dim and very flattering. This would be a great, discreet place for a dangerous liaison, if anyone is that way inclined.

A glass of champagne helped us make our way through the menu.  I have to say, the first thing I noticed was the price. It’s…expensive.  But hey, this is London in 2011. The economy’s gone to pot, the youths are fighting in the streets, and £30 for a tandoori chicken is NFM. Normal for Mayfair. The real question is, was it worth it?

Yes, it was. Unequivocally some of the best food I’ve eaten all year, Indian or otherwise. As we sat down, we were given tiny melt in the mouth poppadums with pineapple, tomato and green apple chutneys. Delicious. See you later, Dukan.  

To start, I had spice crusted scallops and my friend had a soft shell crab. The menu required something more subtle to drink than a Cobra, so we went for a Viognier, chosen with help from the sommelier. Very dry. Excellent.

When the food arrived, I was told to eat the scallops from left to right, as their flavours intensified across the plate.  I don’t like this. I always want to point out that I’ve managed to convey food to my mouth in an order that hasn’t killed me or harmed anyone around me for 25 years now. But that would make me a bit of an arse, so I nodded politely and did what he said. Guess what? He was right. The first scallop was mild and, I thought initially, underseasoned. I was prepared to be slightly, but politely, disappointed.  But the next one had a punch of coriander seed that very cleverly picked up the first scallop too. The last one had a chilli and garlic sauce on top that was really strong. Amazingly, I could still taste all three scallops, individually, through the spices and the mango dressing. My friend’s soft shell crab with peanut salad also went down with rave reviews.

Main courses were the aforementioned £30 Tandoori Murgh for my friend, and a sea trout with Kerala curry sauce and ‘tempered yoghurt rice’ for me.  This was a showstopper. The fish was perfectly cooked (and didn’t have the desperate ‘I’m trying to be salmon’ attitude that sometimes affects sea trout), the sauce was just....beyond words. Ok, that’s a cop out. It was red and lightly spiced and didn’t overpower the fish. The stroke of absolute genius was the cold rice stirred through with a little yoghurt (bear in mind I hate yoghurt).  It added a sharp, lactic quality to the fatty fish and the thick sauce and rounded it all out perfectly.

The Tandoori murgh was a supreme of chicken with various spiced veg and a tomato and fenugreek sauce. The chicken had a good heat to it and was very smoky. Another winner.

Neither of us are really pudding people, so we skipped it and went to espressos.  At this point, a charming Frenchman appeared to ask us how our evening had gone and was treated to a rambling 10 minute conversation with two stunningly attractive (remember the lighting), happily full, slightly tipsy young women about the disenfranchisement of youth in the suburbs of Paris and London, and its contribution to aggression. I believe the word ‘ghetto’ was used. To his eternal credit, he appeared to enjoy it.

It was… expensive. £152 for two. But here’s the thing, we paid without hesitation and would both go back tomorrow.  If we could put it on a credit card.

Study in beige

http://www.benaresrestaurant.com/

Good mood food

Just a quick recommendation if you ever fancy a burrito – http://www.poncho8.com/

Their appearance in my office today caused widespread lunchtime happiness. Delivered piping hot by one of the founders themselves (riding a very fetching bicycle) with free nachos to boot, this is true good mood food.

Recommendation: barbacoa burrito with EVERYTHING. They also do frozen margaritas.
Prices: c.£6.50

"What do you call cheese that isn't yours?"
"Nacho cheese"

Lobster Festival

Having eaten (conservative estimate) 15 baguettes in the 10 days I spent on holiday, I decided to do a couple of days of intense carbohydrate avoidance in order to be able to show off my glorious tan to my many lovers, without looking like one of those giant cured pig legs that you get hanging up in tapas bars. Needless to say, after a breakfast of smoked salmon, a lunch of skinned chopped chicken breast, three litres of water and a decaf espresso I was dangerously bored and I foolishly arranged to meet friends for a drink after work. I was going to have a soda water *wry laugh*.  To cut a long story short, by midnight I was knocking back whisky sours having eaten lobster thermidor and chips. I am going to gloss over this lapse and go off on a tangent about lobsters.

Lobster thermidor is an interesting one. You don’t see it on menus much and, truth be told, I’d never tried it. In my head, it fits into a food box with prawn cocktail, steak Diane and black forest gateau. I guess that’s the 70s swingers dinner party box then. Even so, it was delicious.

According to Wikipedia, it was invented in 1894, is named after the summer month of the same name in the French Revolutionary Calendar, and is a creamy mixture of cooked lobster meat, egg yolks, mustard and cognac with gruyere crust. The one I had was definitely a white wine béchamel with parmesan, which shows how much you can trust Wikipedia. And all of this brings us neatly to the proudest moment of my adult life, which involves both Wikipedia and lobsters. Fancy that.

Picture the scene:

First year at university, and my friend C and I were struggling through Nerval’s ‘Les Chimeres’ as part of our French literature course. Do not read this book. The language was antiquated and the poetry opaque; it was difficult to read and even worse to write about. Nerval was the bane of my life for two solid weeks. When I later moved to Paris I went to the cemetery where he is buried and took a photo of myself doing a thumbs up sign. Anyway, back to Autumn 2004, sitting in a concrete bedroom desperately trying to make sense of the writings of a man who was, by any standard you care to put on it, insane.

Academic research obviously came in the form of google, and it was here that I first found a reference to Nerval’s lobster. He had said, in a discussion with a friend, that he couldn’t understand why people didn’t have lobsters as pets instead of dogs.  It’s not actually that funny, but when you’re trying to work out why exactly the recurring motif of a black sun in his poems means that he’s scared of women, you take what you can get.

I decided to bring Nerval’s pet lobster into the 21^st century, by launching it on that byword for truth and reliability – Wikipedia. C and I set about constructing an elaborate story that provided concrete ‘proof’ of the existence of the pet lobster, which according to us, and now the Wikipedia entry, some scholars doubted. The story revolved around a supposedly recently discovered letter that Nerval had written to his ‘childhood friend’, Laura LeBeau. You may have noticed that my name is Laura and ‘beau’ means handsome. I am quite vain... The letter does actually exist, but only because C and I wrote it.  In it, Nerval confessed that he had been in trouble with the police in La Rochelle (aka ‘where people go in French textbooks’) for stealing from the lobster nets. Having paid a fine, Nerval was allowed to keep the lobster he had stolen, name it ‘Thibault’ (I believe I had recently watched the classic Leonardo DiCaprio/Claire Danes reworking of Romeo and Juliet) and bring it back to the city.

We uploaded the story to Wikipedia, wrote our essays and thought no more about it.  Apart from occasional night terrors. About 3 months later, we checked back and were surprised to find that the entry had not been deleted for obvious lunacy and lack of supporting evidence. It became something of a private joke.

Fast forward 4 years and we are about to graduate. In the course of reminiscing about some of the crazy fun times we’d had, Nerval’s lobster came up. We decided to check up on the entry. Imagine our surprise when, not only had our story been embellished, but it had a footnoted reference link to a recently printed article in Harpers Magazine. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G%C3%A9rard_de_Nerval#Pet_lobster

Sure enough that esteemed publication had used the long lost letter (© me, 2004)

as the basis of proof in its article on Nerval, here: http://www.harpers.org/archive/2008/10/hbc-90003665

There is no real point to this story except, perhaps, don’t use Wikipedia as a source if you’re a journalist, but I do feel a huge sense of pride in this achievement.

Ps. Buy the t-shirt! http://www.etsy.com/listing/34315681/nerval-lobster-tee-ladies-pink-small-or

Holidays

10 days ago, I  jetted off to the South of France for some family downtime, and have returned bronzed and slightly more relaxed after some great food, wine, sunshine and swimming. Being a family holiday, there were hoards of ravenous people between the ages of 6 and 60 who needed to be fed at least twice daily (I am ambivalent about breakfast, especially in the heat). I grabbed a sister, and we headed for the kitchen.

After several days in which we explored every possible incarnation of salades composées we were ready for something more substantial and decided to try making saltimbocca. Well, we were pretty close to the Italian border after all. Saltimbocca means ‘jumps in the mouth’, which is nice, and would be a talking point for our captive diners if nothing else.  It is traditionally made with veal, and the meat is lined and rolled with prosciutto and sage before being fried in butter and marsala wine. Yummy. Obviously, as happens with the best laid plans (and even slightly non-thought out plans) we couldn’t find sage anywhere and half of the family wouldn’t eat veal. We nailed the prosciutto though, it was on special offer. Replacing the veal with chicken and the sage with blue cheese (why not) we set to work.

Sort-of-saltimbocca (serves 6)

6 large chicken breasts

6 pieces of prosciutto

1 pack of St Agur cheese.

Important note: yes, we were in France and approximately 10 minutes away from an artisan cheese stall at the market, but I find that ‘good’ blue cheese, when heated, can quite easily become grainy, bitter, stringy and sour. So I will normally use a light commercial one, such as St Agur, for cooking purposes. Ok? Good. Onwards.

Some flour

Salt and pepper

Butter

Cocktail sticks

Method:

-Season some flour on plate and set aside.

-Bash the chicken breasts flat with any implement you have to hand. They need to be really quite flat. I find putting the breasts in sandwich bags first avoids all sorts of ‘flying raw meat’ type of issues.

-Lay a piece of prosciutto on each bashed breast

-Put some blobs of St Agur in the middle of each piece

-Carefully dip the back of each breast (i.e. not the side that has all the stuff on it, obviously) into the flour.

-Roll up the chicken. Tuck in any bits that stick out and secure the whole thing with cocktail sticks.

Important note: whilst it may feel more secure and indeed even really fun to go mental with the cocktail sticks, I would advise you, from bitter experience, to use the minimum necessary to achieve the effect of a sturdy parcel. The little suckers do not come out easily. We had to use pliers.

-In a large, heavy based frying pan, melt some butter and place the chicken rolls in to brown on all sides (as much as this is possible with the cocktail sticks poking out everywhere). Reduce the heat and leave, turning occasionally, until cooked. This should take around 20 minutes.

-Meanwhile, we threw the remainder of the St Agur, some odds and ends of slightly old Roquefort and a splash of milk into a pan and simmered it gently to form a thin sauce.

-Serve with a large green salad.

Aux armes citoyens

Last year, I decided to celebrate Bastille Day and due to popular demand (mine), I’ll be doing it again sometime soon. Not this year though, because I forgot to organise it.  

14^th July – A Bastille Day menu (serves 4)

Chicken liver pate on crostini

--

Minute steak with herb butter and green salad

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Tarte au citron

First of all, put a French maid’s outfit on. Not only will this add to the festivity of the occasion, but nobody will really mind if you cook them rubbish food. A bit of prep is required here, but it’s nothing too stressful so don’t panic. After that, it’s really just an assembly job prior to your guests arriving.

The night before the party, you have three jobs:

-make the pate

-make the crostini

-make the herb butter

Now, you could do this on the morning of the event but sometimes it’s nice to have the heavy lifting out of the way so you can wake up to a clean kitchen that just requires you to drift around looking calm and collected. Also, the longer you leave the pate and butter, the better the flavours. So, arrive home from work, unhook the phone, put on some Abba and get cooking for your spectacular dinner the following night.

First thing’s first. Pate.

Chicken liver pate

You will need:

-400g chicken livers

-Splash of brandy

-100ml double cream

-25g butter

-Pinch of nutmeg

Method:

Disclaimer: some of what follows is a bit icky.

-Tip all the livers out onto a clean plastic chopping board (hygiene people, hygiene).

- Pick them up individually and fiddle until you can see a tough white ‘core’ that is holding the bits together (a lot like a kidney, but obviously not quite the same). Cut this out. This prevents bitterness in the pate. Not to mention gross bits.

-Fry the livers in a pan with some/a lot of butter. They need to be pink in the middle still, or your pate will be grey.

-Let the livers cool and pat dry.

-Place in a blender with the brandy, cream and nutmeg. Blend to a thick paste. Taste for seasoning, adjust as necessary.

-Melt some butter in a small pan.

-Pour the pate mixture from the blender into one large container or individual ramekins.

-Smooth down the surface and pour a bit of the butter on top, to form a seal.

-Place in the fridge.

-If you can be bothered, a couple of peppercorns and an appropriate leaf or two placed in the solidifying butter looks nice.

-Chill overnight.

Next job:

-Cut a baguette into slices. Make the slices as thin as you can without driving yourself crazy.

-Spread them out on some foil, drizzle with olive oil and rock salt, and grill them for 2 minutes a side. Voila, you have crostini.

-Put them in an airtight container overnight so they stay crunchy.

Last but not least:

Herb butter

You will need:

-175g salted butter

- 2 cloves garlic, crushed

-large handful of chopped herbs of your preference. Parsley is the classic, but lemon thyme is an interesting addition.

-Soften the butter (leave it on the side whilst making the pate).

-Mash in the garlic and herbs.

-Put the mixture on a sheet of clingfilm and roll and shape into a cylinder.

-Chill in fridge overnight.

So, everything’s ready for the main event. Off you go to bed and enjoy your free day tomorrow.

On the evening of the party (before guests arrive, obviously):

Lemon Tart

You will need:

-1 roll of all butter shortcrust pastry

-250ml double cream

-175g caster sugar

-3 lemons, juice and zest.

Method:

-Roll the shortcrust pastry out into a tart/pie tin and blind bake in the oven at 200 for 10 minutes.

-Remove the pastry case and eggwash the insides. Bake for a further 5 minutes.

-Whisk the sugar and cream together.

-Add the lemon juice.

-Add the lemon zest.

-Pour into the pastry case and bake at 200 for 20 minutes, or until the filling is set but still slightly wobbly. It should not be coloured on the top.

-Leave to cool, set aside until ready to serve.

Simple salad dressing.

You will need:

1 clove crushed garlic

100ml olive oil

3 teaspoons of Dijon mustard

Splashes of lemon juice

Method:

-Mix the garlic, mustard and lemon juice in the bottom of the salad serving bowl.

-Add the oil by pouring in a thin, steady stream, whisking continuously. This should emulsify pretty much immediately.

-Season, taste and adjust accordingly.

-Put the salad leaves of your choice (butterhead or simple round lettuce works well here) into the bowl with some chopped walnuts, but don’t toss until you’re ready to serve.

-Set aside.

Now you’re all ready for the guests to arrive. Welcome them in, give them drinks, make enchanting conversation, hand around the pate on crostini.

When people are milling ominously near the fridge, it’s time to eat. Make sure the table is laid (with a checked cloth, obviously) and everything is to hand because this takes seconds.

Minute steak

You will need:

-4 thin frying steaks.

Method:

-Head a skillet or pan with some oil until smoking hot.

-Drop the steaks one at a time into the pan, almost immediately turn them over and remove to a warm serving plate. This, quite literally, takes a minute. Clever name hey?

Final steps

-Cut the herb butter into discs and dot strategically over the plate of steaks.

-Bring to the table and serve with the now tossed salad and some crusty bread. You can put the remainder of the herb butter on the table too.

-Drink lots of red wine.

-Eat the lemon tart.

-Sing the Marseillaise (optional).

NB. Since this dinner took place a year ago, I’m afraid I have no photos of the food. You know what a steak looks like. So here’s me in my maid’s outfit.

Je voudrais les escargots s'il vous plait