Coco

Cookbooks for me fall into two categories. There are the filthy ones, veritably Pollocked in grease and thumbprints with gossamer whispers of ancient garlic skin embedded in their very vertebrae. Lovingly frayed around the edges, these are the ones you want to cook from time and time again; or at least until they fall apart.

Then there are the beautiful coffee table tomes, the more pristine creatures you carry into the bedroom rather than the kitchen and lazily leaf through, inspired by the recipes but knowing deep down you’re not really ever going to traipse all over town looking for loquats and teal.

Coco manages to cleverly bridge that tricky gap between the two; it’s a handsome, meaty globe-spanning tome. It showcases the work of future chefs, chosen by the likes of Fergus Henderson, Alain Ducasse and Mario Batali. Alongside the requisite mmmm-inducing photography are recipes from these talented protégés; some of which I cannot wait to try (Skye Gyngell’s Carpaccio of salt cod with preserved lemon, chilli, capers and mixed cress for example). and some of which I know I will never, ever attempt (i.e. petit-pois millefeuille with Ibaiona ventreche, black radish vacherin and foie gras Mamia – whatever that is). Thankfully, it features a lot more of the former. There’s a section at the beginning on “world-leading masters” and a fantastic but sadly limited section at the back listing “classic dishes by master chefs” including Fergus Henderson’s roast bone marrow and parsley salad and Alain Ducasse’s Provencal garden vegetables simmered with truffle.

My only real criticism of the book is the use of terms like “arugula” or  “cilantro” or spelling “pitta” with only one T. The measurements at least, are all in grams and tablespoons, and not cups. Other than that I found much to like about it.

So when Sauce PR contacted me to ask if I could let them know of five other food bloggers to come along on a gourmet jaunt around some of the featured restaurants I was delighted.

We kicked off the evening at the fantastically revamped House of St Barnabas in Soho. The canapés were by Lyndy Redding and included intensely flavoured pea, feta and mint tartlets and beef skewers with horseradish cream, parmesan haddock goujons with a caper aioli, tuna tataki with radish, apple and mustard, steak tartare served on a game chip and extra long cheese straws. All very tasty, apart from the cheese straws which were a little under-seasoned.

Then onto the minibus to Maze for the starter of Cornish red mullet, rabbit Bolognese, cuttlefish tagliatelle, squid paint and asparagus. I really wanted to love this dish. I’ve been to Maze before, the chefs table when it first opened was a groaning table of plenty and Jason Atherton is a very smart and likeable guy. However, this just didn’t curry my goat. I found the bunny ragu jarred rather aggressively with the seafood. We then went to Theo Randalls which was markedly different. The monkfish with prosciutto, artichokes, capers, parsley and charlotte potatoes was a gorgeous dish, well executed and deftly balanced.

Finally to Launceston Place for afters. I was particularly excited about this as I’ve been meaning to try their lunch menu for some time now. I was not disappointed, we were all fairly gobsmacked when presented with  a stunning  platter of desserts including a rice pudding soufflé with raspberry ripple ice cream, lavender cream with violets and raspberry, apple parfait with toffee and walnut, dark chocolate, iced milk crumble, set custard cream, caramel and praline, malt ice cream, apple tart with home made clotted cream and banana sticky toffee pudding with Guinness ice cream. All washed down with a 2004 Jurancon “Syphonie de Novembre” Domaine Cauhape, rich with the essence of peach, apricot and ripe Comice. A  perfect end to a gastro-fabulous evening.

(Thanks to Jenny from Phaidon and Danielle and Laura from Sauce for organising)

Filed under: good times

Mouthing off : Eating and Utterance – A talk by Simon Schama

Most days are the same. Those twenty four hour increments that ooze and bleed into weeks, into months, into clotted slabs of time. And of course I love it, snuggling under that comforting duvet of the familiar, the mesmerisingly routine. However, every once in a while, I come across one of those gorgeous sparklers of encounter, those precious acts of fate that completely snow storms the mind. You know the sort. And once the soothing fallout of hindsight resettles; the surrounding world refigures into a brilliant and alien landscape.

I had this particular epiphany about a month ago. I was sat there on the 205, shuddering and jolting down the Pentonville Road, leafing through the OFM without really absorbing any of it, my mind abuzz with little neon surges of excitement. I had just seen Simon Schama talking at King’s Place as part of the London Restaurant Festival you see, and it was quite easily up there as one of the best things I have been to since starting this blog. Jet lagged but on fantastic form he led us on a vivid jaunt through the history of food.

Filed under: good times

Slow cooked lamb curry with kitchuri

Nothing says welcome home to me as much as the heady perfume of a languidly cooked lamb curry, one that’s been muttering and grumbling away on the back burner for several hours. The scent immediately reminds me of eyeballing Mr Taj and his blood stained apron from behind the folds of my mother’s sari. I’d watch him, with the vaguely comforting smell of raw flesh in my nostrils as he’d casually feed a carefully selected leg through the electric saw, the searing whine of bone on metal a distant echo of the abattoir.

Several hours later my brother and I would relish the yielding velvet of garlicky flesh disintegrating beneath our tiny, greedy fingers, scooped up with hot flaky parathas. We’d fight over the precious pieces of rich bone marrow left in the pot, teasing them out with the ends of teaspoons and feasting on the spicy, buttery rewards.

I’ve made this with lamb but the spicing lends itself equally well to beef or mutton. Kitchuri (the origin of “kedgeree”) is a fantastic foil, a lightly spiced lentil and rice dish, it’s the ultimate comfort dish in Bengali cuisine, however it’s also one that I’ve never come across on any restaurant menu.

Filed under: good times, lunch, tea , Bengali

Bacchanalian Times

I fear the gout.

It all starts on Tuesday. One of those swan song days of summer when the sun drips golden Tate & Lyle tendrils and the air shimmers above the juddering road works in its glittering, maudlin way. I slip into Racine and am transported to Parisian bistro chic. The staff are kind and pretend not to notice that I have a man’s tartan tie in lieu of a proper belt for my Oxfam coat. PR and publishing women beam at one another in the private dining area and the air tinkles with light, pleasant conversation, as bubbly and sanguine as the citrus peel-infused champagne we delicately sip upon. I talk to Clotilde Dusoulier who has recently updated Ginette Mathiot’s tome “I Know How to Cook”. She is utterly lovely, and without a smidge of the jealous measuring up, so prolific in some of the more seasoned British food bloggers I have had the vile misfortune to come across. As we sit around the table Henry Harris talks us through what we are about to receive. I’ve heard much of his culinary prowess but this is the first time I’ve had the honour. As he describes veal bones simmered for long meaty days, I get the impression that eating here could well be the culinary equivalent of reading an Ian McEwan novel, i.e. I know I’m in safe and capable hands. He is reassuringly spattered with caramel sauce. There are ten of us – an assortment of broadsheet journalists and the fabulous women from Sauce and Phaidon. I am sat opposite Tim Hayward and next to Susan Smillie from the Guardian; I haven’t seen Susan for yonks and I suddenly realise half way through the meal how incredibly loud we are being compared to everyone else. At one point I am vaguely horrified to hear my own braying Sid James-esque laugh booming above the polite murmurs of conversation around me. As gout winks at me from the opposite table I blank him and eagerly sup down the most intense fish soup, deep, briny and a fine burnt orange hue. The bourguignon is served and as I spoon the soft, wine-blackened flesh into my cosseted cakehole I swear I can feel the purine begin its stealthy calcification in my joints. I finish with crème caramel and someone else’s apple tart – I’m a firm believer in rushing selflessly to the aide of my fellow diners when they appear to be struggling (I’m nice like that). My requests to take my leftover stew home (Susan’s encouragement fuels me on) are met with bafflement and “why not?” smiles, but I brazen it out as I cannot abide waste; especially not when the pickings are this rich. Gout grins at me as I leave, waggles his crystalline fingers.

Filed under: good times

Tequila lunch at Hix Oyster and Chop house

A fresh email plops into the inbox. You are invited to a tequila lunch with Mark Hix on Thursday it casually says. I re-read it a few times. The words “Hix” “lunch” and “tequila” reverberate in my nosh-addled mind like strobe lighting. I call my mates, but this is no wind up. Apparently there is a God. I feel awash with happiness, like I’ve won the culinary lottery.

It’s an Inspirit Brands event  and strolling through the City sunshine to the Oyster and Chop House, even the suits emit thin-lipped smiles at one another, like vicious little paper cuts. It’s one of those days when you fall all over in love again with this skanky old town. It’s one of those days, when all you want to do is stand outside and drink chilled lemon verbena cocktails mixed by a world champion bartender, the citrusy leaves plucked fresh from his garden that morning. Which is precisely what we do.

I try not to gawp at Cleo Rocos wobbling exotically around on her crutches like the ornithological walking wounded (she’s suffering from a brutally agonising knee injury, but laughs and jokes throughout our lunch). I’m introduced to Sam Galsworthy of Sipsmith, Alice Lascelles of Imbibe Magazine, Stuart Ekins of Inspirit Brands, Peter Prescott and Nick Strangeway amongst others. They ask me what I do. I feel vaguely embarrassed – not everyone gets blogging. I have another cocktail, it slips down dangerously easily with its non-alcoholic tang, every little gulpful a fizz of lemon sherbet. They’re all so warm and it’s so luxuriously hot I feel relaxed and as if I’m amongst friends, rather than feeling like the unexpected item in the bagging area.

Filed under: good times

L’Anima

1 Snowden Street, London EC2

www.lanima.co.uk

When I approach Signore Mazzei for an interview I expect to be offered a rushed half hour between service slots, or a phone call even. Instead he warmly and casually invites me to have lunch with him at his restaurant L’Anima just four days later. This is a bit of a Charlie Bucket moment for me, having never had lunch with a chef before, let alone a proper at-the-top-of-his-game one.

However, Francesco is the antithesis of the clichéd kitchen dragon. Instead he’s down to earth and approachable (and he’s a chef?!). While others were sweating and stressing at the Taste London fest, he was clowning around with his staff and openly having a ball. However, as I was about to discover, talk to him about food and he becomes deadly serious.

When I rock up at his packed restaurant (“credit crunch, what credit crunch?” he breezes) tucked away on a little side street near Liverpool Street, I have no inkling that this is going to be one of those meals you remember for the rest of your life, the kind you tell your grandchildren about and maybe shed a rheumy tear of nostalgia over whilst dribbling reconstituted pap in the old folk’s home. I’ve eaten at the chef’s table at Maze, dined at the Fat Duck, at Le Caprice and at Nobu and yes these were great, but I couldn’t tell you half of what on earth I ate (and yes, I was sober) except that some of them left a faintly dodgy after-taste of money and fear.

Walking into the restaurant I am immediately dazzled by the light, the suits and the white leather sofas (by Claudio Silvestrin no less, designer to Anish Kapoor and Armani). There are beautiful clean lines; it’s all porphyry, limestone and glass. However, it’s far from intimidating and has managed to unite those tricky frenemies of class and welcome with proper, understated taste. I feel strangely at home, perched at the bar sipping deliciously cold Prosecco. The focus on detail is everywhere; even the cocktail sticks I spear my enormous olives with are stylish slivers of carved Perspex. The staff wear genuine smiles and there’s no sense of stress or attitude after what was clearly a manic lunch-time rush. This place is very, very cool.

Filed under: good times

Kudos!

Am still slightly gobsmacked at being called a “future blogging star” in the Independent Newspaper how utterly amazing is that?! As the article mentions I’ll be manning the stall at Covent Garden’s Real Food Market on the 13th August, along with the excellent Sig of Scandelicious. Between us we’ll be dishing up all manner of treats. Feel free to drop by and say hello if you’re around!

Filed under: good times