Corkscrews & Cutlery

A reprint of a great book with a mad name

2012-02-19T11:43:00.000-08:00

Rich spices of cumin and cinnamon, sharp notes of lemons,muted aromas of cardamom and rose, these are some of the smells that shouldcome from your store cupboard after reading the reprint of Diana Henry’s book “CrazyWater, Pickled Lemons” (2011, Octopus Books); a mosaic of wonderful recipesthat take you from Marrakesh to Istanbul and Catalonia to Sicily in the spaceof a chapter, only to get the mental jet lag all over again in the followingones.

Although I thought I was going to have difficulty withthe style and layout of the book, I barely realised how far into it I had gonebefore putting pen to paper, how much I really was enjoying it; nor, having putit down mid read to go shopping, had I consciously realised that I hadingredients for Moroccan style chicken in my basket. And that is what makesthis book so good. It grows on you, envelopes the senses, and makes you seeyour larder in a different light.

Each of its chapters have wonderfully beguiling names,like “Fruits of Longing” and “Fragrances of the Earth” that immediately drawthe reader in; each of the chapters dedicated to a set of flavours rather thanthe usual meat, eggs, poultry etc. Although that in itself could be a bitdiscomforting to the reader (see my earlier comment about the worry of gettinginto the flow) the joy is that given the cuisines that are written about, it isa sensible if not original way of doing it.

Familiar to me were the chutney recipe from Adam’s Cafe (whichI ate on a visit there recently) and the Persian restaurant in a Portakabin in acar park in Kensington (a real blast from the past. I wonder what happened tothat?) Unfamiliar were the exotic names: Ladies’ Navels; Pearl Diver’s Rice;Ottoman Lamb with Sultan’s Pleasure; Muhamara, and Crazy Water of the title,which intrigue as well as amuse.

Whilst Diana Henry provides a lot of Persian, Turkish andNorth African recipes these are balanced well with a collection of Spanish,Italian and French ones that remind the reader that the exotic, the delightfuland mouth-wateringly flavoursome isn’t that far from our own shores: Lemon andBasil Ice Cream; Catalan Chicken with Picada; Provencal Lamb stuffed with Figs,Goat’s Cheese and Walnuts; Socca and Sardine, Roasted Tomatoes, Olive andParsley Salad, and Ruby Grapefruit and Campari Granita (a particular eyecatcher for me!) All the more inspiring because they bring something new tofamiliar cuisine.

Scattered liberally amongst all these mouth wateringrecipes and mood lifting descriptions, like the herbs and spices in the book,are various quotes. These are delicious snippets to add more metaphoric flavourto the reader’s imaginings, Biblical writers and classic authors to writers ofnote and others in between.

The only real downside for me was the index at the back,which doesn’t reflect the names of the recipes, nor necessarily some of theingredients. Although it is a pleasure to flick through the book to findsomething and revisit some brilliant photographs (by Jason Lowe), it is a bitfrustrating to look for, as an example, the Socca and Sardine recipe and seeneither under ‘S’ but under ‘F’ for fish (that sort of helpfulness reminds meof a sign outside a restaurant in Cephalonia, which invited the guest to askthe owners what the fish of the day was, only to hear every time “very finefish”).

Part of me feels it a shame that it is merely a cookbookrather than something more for the coffee table. Each introduction evokesmemories of the past and imaginings of things that never happened but are justas palpable. Diana Henry’s descriptions of childhood trips to the South ofFrance for example had me subconsciously wafting my hand over imaginary lavenderwhilst sitting in bed. The descriptions inspire you to want to eat what comeslater before you have even read the recipes.

The final word should go to Claudia Roden, who says: “[Itis] A glorious and magical feast for the senses”, I would have to agree (andwish I said that myself!) I am so happy I have this book as part of my collection;Diana Henry has written something worth hunting down if you haven’t already gotit.

Spiced Pumpkin Cheesecake... a homage

2011-12-16T12:22:00.000-08:00

Chill winds channel themselves down the Bosphorus with eyewatering coldness as I stand to watch the darkening horizon, the saffronsunshine descend to pumpkin hues as the day dwindles and the night finallybegins; to see houses and streets light up across the straights from Europe toAsia; to hear the Muezzin’s fervent call to prayer. Here and there birdsflutter from minaret to minaret, shocked into flight by the speakers: chaos,confusion and organised prayer; beautiful, spiritual and magical... and gin,the irreverent glass of gin clasped to my freezing hand, a blessed shot ofwarmth (you had to go and spoil it Lou!)

Chinking wine glasses bring me out of my reverie. I amnot in the cold night air of Istanbul, I am in the warmth of Kopapa insimilarly chilly weather, but the complex flavours that flutter on my palatehave taken me somewhere else for a fleeting moment as one spice and the nextreveals itself, opens up. It is the Panna Cotta hinting at the mystic east:delicious memories, delicious food: so many subtleties and nuances. I decidethere and then to recreate this in my own way, to salute the chef, to payhomage in a... well, a cheesecake actually (...and again!)

The flavour I am looking for needs to reflect the ambersun, the blend of essences to take me back to that moment again, but at thesame time as this is cheesecake the spice needs to come through the cheesycreamy vanilla quite noticeably (topped with that you also have to think aboutthe base, gingery but not overwhelming, as ginger is).

I am taking my basic cheesecake mix from Leith’s Bible,changing it, adding to it, and then getting downgraded by my tutors at Leith’sfor it, but any well practiced recipe for a baked cheesecake will do (let meknow). Here’s what I have come up with:

12 digestives (6 ordinary and 6 Duchy Original Stemginger)

50g melted butter (more or less depending on how muchwill set your base/bases)

155g ricotta

100g marscapone cream
5 Tablespoons pumpkin puree (from a tin, or roasted withcaster sugar in chunks and forked)
1 egg plus 1 yolk
3 drops vanilla extract

1 Tablespoon caster sugar

3 Star Anise

2 Cloves

1-2 teaspoons grated orange

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Pre heat the oven to 150C.

Start with the base:

Get a pack of Duchy Original Stem Ginger biscuits 6should be fine, plus 6 ordinary digestives. Crush them in a bag with a rollingpin or the back of a pan until they form crumbs. Pour the crumbs into thebottom of your tin. I experimented with ginger snaps but these don’t crush welland you have to use a food processor, however, DON’T use a food processor inthis case as the digestives turn to a ‘dust’ and will create a greasy base.Also, try not to over crush as you want a textural mouthful when you bite intothis (am I demanding? Am I?!)

Next melt the butter and pour over the crumbs. The aim isto set the base without the ‘free radicals’ (to use a phrase) but to avoidgreasiness. Press the crumbs firmly into the base of your tin with the back ofa wooden spoon.

Put the tin in a preheated oven for 10-15 minutes untilcooked (and it starts smelling so good you want to wear it) and solid enoughnot to move, or fall apart when the cheese is poured on top of it.

Meanwhile, with a pestle and mortar, crush the dry spicesuntil powdery enough to pass through a sieve (guests and loved ones will thankyou for it if you do!) trying to ensure all the spices are used and that thereare no large lumps (hence the sieve).

In a separate bowl mix the cheeses, add the pumpkin, thevanilla, the spices and sugar. Taste again, as the pumpkin is light but shouldhave some flavour coming through. Adjust accordingly. Finally, add the egg andextra yolk.

Pour the mix onto the cooked biscuit base and return tothe oven to cook for a good 30 minutes or until it has the slightest wobblewhen shaken (this may take a bit longer as pumpkin is quite watery so bepatient).

Remove the cake from the tin and allow it to cool.

Freezer squashed but the idea is there... surely?

So, the result? Elements of vanilla, pumpkin and StarAnise teased the tongue; strong ginger flavours that might have overwhelmed hadI not frozen mine two weeks earlier and which mellowed it (I used 12 Duchybiscuits) gave a spicy kick to the softer, sweeter top. The lightness of thecake and the softness of the mousse meeting the crunch of the biscuit basedefinitely provided a contrast; the cake was rich but still foamy light to thepalate (a good vanilla ice cream definitely helps, maybe washed down with aCointreau!)

In all, did I get the full Bosphorus feeling, the sensethat I am back there, in Istanbul, watching the sun set and listening to thesounds of the exotic and mysterious? Well, perhaps not there exactly, moreairport terminal than full city experience I think, but it was fun. Thank youfor the inspiration Kopapa, I salute you... Merry Christmas

Unputdownably Unquenchable

2011-12-12T12:25:00.000-08:00

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire...” smells of pineand clove and dew, not forgetting apricots, benzene, berries and vanilla...sorry, Christmas was posted to me early this year with a book by internationalwine writer, Natalie MacLean and I have already got carried away.

When I was asked to review this book, it was in the heartof a tornado of chaos that is my life: moving house, Cordon Bleu course, exams,balancing friends with college, oh and being mugged (welcome to London!) Thiswas of course the past three weeks! However, I am so glad it waited. This bookis so unputdownable that it is a pity to finish it (I guess I can always readit again or wait for a new instalment).

I think Natalie would, justifiably, gouge my eyes out with a rusty old corkscrew and at best, replace them with crown caps like some Tales of the Vault wino snowman (did they do that programme?) if I start a review with the words “education can be fun”.However, the written style isso full of humour that it lends itself to teaching you new, relevant andinteresting facts without you realising you are being taught; a style that hasyou laughing at the quips, smirking at the observations and thinking‘interesting’ at the same time.

Aimed at the best bargains and value for money wines (and written by a self confessed 'cheapskate' - her words) it is divided into days, regions and grapes, as well as havingan index at the back that matches food with the discussed wines (an asteriskfor the best wine/food match to the chapter’s grape), and links to the recipes. Italso quirkily has additional reading (Jaws by Peter Benchley brought a sharklike cheesy grin to my face). This is brilliantly thought out. And just beforeyou can draw breath a new day and adventure take you to further into this book.

We start off in Australia, learning what kick started theindustry there. Wry comments such as describing Syrah as a “new sensation”bring a chuckle (as a grape it was first cultivated in Roman times even thoughit was introduced to Australia much later on). Insightful observations show herinterest in the makers as well as the subject. This she does withtongue-in-cheek humour, the bubbling energy of Wolf Blass (so non-PC you cansense his PR spokeswoman cringing and Natalie’s eyebrows going stellar), andwith genuine fondness, meeting the Penfolds and the Henksches make for amelodically whimsical ending in the starlit Southern Hemisphere over a supperthat, frankly, you wish you were eating with them.

A completely different environment but similar charactersand observations take you to the Mosel the next ‘day’. Here we start in a serenemanner, the descriptions as undulating as the river itself, the eccentric andhigh octane characters, however, bring a vitality to this section; Again, it isthe descriptive narrative that takes you to the moment that she tastes thewine, palpable or at least truly imaginable without doing a ‘me’ and throwingthe full dictionary of similes and metaphors at the description; like thetasting, just enough. And again, we have the personal observations which bringthe people to life as much as the wines: the elusive Prüm owner, blind tasting with hisglamorous daughter; the wildly enthusiastic Löosen’s discourse at fullthrottle, all bring us the delights of Riesling.

The whirlwind tour continues in a ‘whirlybird’ overNiagara and is a revelation for me having only ever drunk Canadian wine from Okanagan.Niagara on the Lake, just minutes from the top tourist spot, the precariousnature of the landscape, from blights of starlings (do they come in ‘blights’?)to the climate, to natural methods for cultivating the land and organics (enlightening).Words and observations flow like the falls themselves and like the Pinot Noirof the chapter this is bursting with facts and observations that leave youwanting to rush headlong into the next one.

Picture from Natalie MacLean's own website

Mack the Knife starts humming in my mind with the openingparagraphs of the next chapter, for obvious reasons. Natalie takes a slightlydifferent focus in South Africa, it is a more intense chapter as it covers thefull spectrum of wine, politics (apolitically), people and history in steadygulps; Syrah, Pinotage, Mourvedre , Grenache, Chenin, and Sauvignon Blanc inglassfuls; a rainbow of subjects and characters from the Rainbow Nation. Onelady stands out amongst the others as a truly inspirational wine ‘activist’:Carmen Stevens, a wonderful story of hard graft being rewarded with success. Again,the chapter ends in similar mood to its beginning, landscape, beauty, peace andgloriously described flavours to match the environment.

The smouldering slopes of Etna provide a look at a lesserknown wine growing area of Italy and perversely one of the oldest ones. Precariousheights match greater depth of flavours as she describes the local grapevarieties, although the concentration is on (an old favourite and much malignedgrape) Nero d’Avola. Laugh out loud moments come when she is seemingly leeredat by an overtly familiar wine maker and then shown the level of intensity byanother producer (“You should nevertalk to me during harvest”, to quote!) If the Sicilian’s philosophy ofacceptance to change and events, coming from the island’s history of invasionfrom the Phoenicians to the Normans, highlighted by references to The Leopard(one of my favourite books), then passion is the overriding sentiment of thegrowers in one of the most precarious wine growing regions in the world.

From fiery passions of Sicily we move to the moreseductive and darker rhythmic passions of Argentina. Contrast this with thenewness of Argentina. Here, Natalie battles with recalcitrant ponies (I wishthis book had been illustrated) in the foothills of the Andes. Vines importedby hardy immigrants from the old world to the new, battles with exports thanksto its history and politics, which caused Argentina’s wine market to stagnateand their volte face to keep up with competitors in the modern age, it’s allhere. We are introduced to Malbec, the black wine grape of Cahors, imported andtranslated into a palatable mouth pleaser by the likes of Nicolas Catena. Eachpoint in the chapter fascinates and with that comes the odd emotional twinge asyou read the beautifully described tastings of “I want some!”

Another chapter and another river; safely taking us tothe dark heart of the Douro Valley (no helicopters, Autobahns or horses on thisvoyage). From slate to granite and from light white Rieslings to rich ruby andtawny blends of Tourigas and Tintos, there is a “hurrah” for Port as thefortified wine, as opposed to the prevalence of growers to make wines from the ‘Port’grapes. There are suggestions for cocktails to invigorate the port market andagain, Natalie matches foods (quite unusually, but brilliantly) to the richplummy, mulberry fruited liquid. One seminal moment is being offered a drinkfrom an 1893 Port (which makes my 1952 champagne tasting seem like non-vintage,I have age envy!)

The final chapter takes us to the glamorous and overlychic Provence, tempered by colour not grape: rosé is another misunderstood winethat needs to be shouted about, its pastel colours not one for discerningpalates (I love it, but then again...) as highlighted in comments aboutteasingly labelled rosés from the Languedoc or New Zealand, though the mention ofmanly, Hemmingway and pink wine in one paragraph did raise my eyebrows (seeTruman Capote’s views on the great man). The view is that roséinspires a degree of irreverence in growers that other wines wouldn’t. The mealwith Nathalie Vautrin-Vacoillie of Domaine du Clos d’Alari based on Provençaleingredients has me salivating, and there is final visit to an ex-Pat Brit ofwell known best sellers. The appeal of the south of France and their Provençaleroséssadly brings the book more or less (Algonquin aside) to an end. Thankfully, Ihave a warm and comforting Barbera in my hand to get over it.

The book gives glass sized gulps of information that canbe put down and picked up. I challenge anyone to do that though, I racedthrough it. I have had such fun reading this book that I am loathe to saygoodbye to the author. As the front cover quote states “Natalie MacLean is anew force in wine writing”, I have to agree. It is, in short, brilliant.

Unquenchable: A Tipsy Quest for the World's Best Bargain Wines
by Natalie MacLean

Hardcover $24
Perigee/Penguin USA
978-0399537073
See also: www.nataliemaclean.com for wine updates and further information on parings and recipes and to download her app.

Teased and Tantalised at Kopapa.

2011-10-30T12:07:00.000-07:00

Coats, perhaps? Jackets maybe? Given the humid stickiness maybe just jumpers, or the full medallion look? These are the questions I ask myself as I head across London to meet L, my Canadian friend on a stopover in London and en route to sunnier climes.

Can this really be October? Here and there, evidence of seasonal changes; a weaker sun, a bone cutting chill to the wind, patchy skies and grey, damp streets, and a millefeuille of leaves that crunch and mulch under foot. A tall, leggy blonde vision stands before me looking, as the advertisement might say, like she has just stepped out of a salon, 36 hours up and not a sign of jet lag. I, on the other hand, 36 minutes into my journey, am dripping, agitated and in need of a shower, and a cool refreshing drink!

I suggested heading to Covent Garden: given the layers of foliage underfoot and the array of autumnal colours I wondered if an appropriate choice for the time of year, would be Kopapa; fusion food with contrasting textures, plates that give a spectrum of flavours that appeal to the taste buds as well as the eyes.

Sticking with the house Momo Sauvignon Blanc 2010 (Peter Gordon’s own label), a zesty, fruity and refreshing light wine, not totally compatible to our dishes (but that was our choice, rather than the Restaurant Festival Menu’s wine suggestions), we began our meal. L and I take a swig to cleanse the palate.

A dish of Scallop velouté with a tempura cod cheek comes our way. Small bites to get our palates warmed up. This had the lightest of light tempura shells, crisp to the tongue and tooth (though slightly salty for me). Inside, the white fleshed cod’s cheek released a spectral steam, and promised an intense and lovely flavour (slightly dry flesh). The scallop, in contrast was the lightest meltingly creamy bite, a comfort food richness to the velouté, a delicately light amuse bouche (I now realise exactly how Tom Hanks must have felt kissing Daryl Hannah in Splash...no, honestly!) A glorious shellfish stocky flavour, a saline smacker to get the palate aroused.

A swill, a glug, and enough time to digest some news before the tempura soft shell crab with pickled green mango and cucumber salad, with tamarind dressing arrived. Visually this had me green with envy, a perfect julienne of cucumber (my knife skills are more 19^th Century East End at the moment.... think about it!) and crunchy green vegetables sharply contradicted the earthier and muddy water flavours of the soft shell crab. The plum sauce was rich, soft unctuously plummily rich, contrasting nicely with the peppery rocket and crunchy and perfect tempura, its sweetness, with the spiciness of the chilli and tamarind. The acidulated mouth, the sweetened lips, the longer earthier finish to the palate: delicious (though all that lascivious lip licking, it’s a good thing we are old friends!)

A top up, a refresh, a glug, a swill: Yellow fin Tuna tartare with sesame and ginger, nori puree, yazu saffron tapioca. This was decidedly L’s favourite. A soy saucy fishy gingery ceviche- like tartare of tuna, strong on impact thanks in part to the ginger, but this appeared to be more of a textural dish; smooth, raw flesh-like tuna, rounded bubbles of tapioca, a greeny yellow ‘caviar’ gently popping on the tongue, real textural healing (didn’t Lionel Ritchie..? Er, no!) The sesame flavour so subtle it teased the tongue to find it. I have to admit, I really enjoyed it; truly delicious and refreshing, subtle flavours slowly coming out after the initial spicy impact has eased off.

Another glass? Why not?!

We had been teased and tempted, our tongues caressed by the flavours and aromas of the dishes so far, but here is where the relationship began: Pumpkin Panna Cotta with spiced Orange Jelly, chevre truffle toastie, salt’n’pepper pecans, a Turkish treat from the sous-chef.

The cheesy, cheese straws left a lickable scented buttery residue on the finger tips, the pastry was perfect, the truffle was not so apparent (the nutty and peppery black truffle perhaps?) Either way, who can resist the salty peppery pecans for added crunch?

But it is the panna cotta that plunges me into memories of the Bosphorus, of the Blue Mosque and the electric and electrifying call of the Muezzin over the rooftops of Istanbul. Vanilla, cinnamon, star anise are blended with the pumpkin each sweet and each savoury to create a truly exotic dish. Another bite and a saline kick breaks from the eggy sweetness of the panna cotta. Sharpness of orange spice cuts through the cream and in turn tempers the salt. Clever, and yet... This plate is the dance of the seven veils, layer upon layer of exotic and delightful, flirtatious aromas and flavours that are playful and frivolous, but sadly this is a one night stand not a lasting relationship...it is time to say adieu...

A gossip, a swill, a glug... And then comes the seductress... OMG! Braised beef cheeks, chilli and galangal consommé and garlic puree. A sublimely slow cooked, slow, slow, so very slowly cooked nugget of fibrous beauty (I could kiss the cow that died for this deliciousness, though Darryl Hannah would be better!) The meat is knife pressingly fall apart, so beefy, so stocky, so beautiful: the prize bull. (Was the beef wrapped in caul I wonder? I don’t care, I am in love) Hints of smoky lard melded with garlic puree tempt the tongue, the consommé to the side a warming chilli and electric galangal added zing to add spice to the refreshing soup. If the panna cotta was the one night stand this is the smouldering vamp, older, wiser. Rich, seductive subtle spices warm and caress the palate, and so, you want more... mmm... Why Mrs Robinson..!!

I put my hand over the glass, these flavour are staying with me for a bit longer. Well only a bit. The perry braised middle white pork belly on parsnip puree, preserved lemon and prune chutney, kale, cider jus arrives to take the beef’s place, and so, I have grown and have to find another love, but I am picky...

A refreshed palate (yes, a swill, a glug, but I thought you might have assumed...) and I start with the bit I least like; the kale. Soft but with the cabbage crunch that should be there, very irony, very nicely done, I am just not fully converted. Contrasting this brassica high is the natural sweetness, smoothness and glossiness of the parsnip puree (I bet they didn’t have to sieve it like I did the mash this week!) But wait! The chutney knocks me off my seat, it is so sexy, the salivatingly sharp preserved lemons balance against the rich and sweet velvety prunes in a sticky preserve (imagine Nigella saying ‘oooomahmee’, a licked finger, a pout, a wink - yes, you’ve got it!) Brine and acidity meets syrupy toffiness, sweet meets sour.

Now add that to the melt in the mouth pork, beautifully cooked, translucent fat just disappears on the tongue; a chunk, a dollop, a touch of the puree (ok I have a big mouth and people are looking!) This is bliss. I can just about mouth “oh!” as my best exclamation. I don’t really want to swallow but instead to just savour the flavours, though the strength of the lemons does slightly weaken the porky meatiness; either way, this is deliciousness to savour. I blush.

We slurp... (you know us by now).

The final dish comes: Pan Fried market fish on braised fennel, borlotti, cavolo nero, brown shrimp and yuzu dressing.

For me, this is the moment in the film “Oh What a Lovely War” when Maggie Smith, all legs and basque, flirtingly offers a kiss and a shilling to the recruits if they sign up, and when they get on stage for the kiss they wish they had not as she is not the sex bomb they were expecting? That was how I felt. Seductive sounding, fennel and fish always a winner, brown shrimp and yuzu dressing (well I have not been there before). So when this light and lovely sounding dish arrived, and the beans looked a bit grey and dull and the shrimp sauce a bit underwhelming in flavour, I only wish I had had this dish first so my food love-in could have ended on a Wagnerian crescendo.

Don’t get me wrong, the fish was beautifully cooked and melt in the mouth flaky, the fennel gave it that beautiful smoothness that the dish needed but after trying all the other plates I wanted a bit more contrast, a bit of a flavour slap then a tongue caressing taste bud kiss. This was in need of a bit of the same saline punch that the amuse bouche gave, only the skin had that.

L and I had another gulp and swill and slurp and gossip before we left, it was a heady evening of seduction on the part of the food and a marathon for the tongue, I needed to lie down with my thoughts (though before I left I managed to have a short gossip with Frith before whacking here with a request for work experience in April, so I apologise for being a cheeky beggar).

The chill outside required a night cap or two and then thankfully the jet lag had kicked in and L was keen to depart, the eventual shock of the night air bringing the evening to a sharp and cruel close, but then again, Kopapa is such a seductive place, the menu always evolving and yet, always managing to excite the senses and tease the palate as well as the mind. My next flirtation with flavours is very near.

PS Apologies for the lack of photos this time, my phone battery was flat.

Classic reading from Quadrille Publishing

2011-09-25T04:03:00.000-07:00

Shelves darkened by lines of books, heaped to block out much of what little light comes in through the window, piled to turn the path no more than a foots length and make you walk heel-to-toe, all of them waiting for some dust to be blown off if not deliberately then by a sneeze (asthmatics like me should beware!); the musty smell of the cotton and card or embossed waxy covers, the graininess of the creamy pages, made dark and brittle in parts by sunlight; the tactile pleasure, the joy of holding something by Elizabeth David or Jane Grigson, or others, that is fifty years old or more is one the internet can never provide. I love hunting down older, original (sometimes first edition) cook books. It is an occasional treat for me, the chaotic drive, then a leisurely pub lunch followed by the slow perusal of the second hand bookshops to find something new, well new to the collection.

So there was a frisson of excitement when I received two books from the Classic Voices range by Quadrille Publishing to review: “The Gentle Art of Cookery” and “Simple French Cooking for English Homes”. Both beautifully bound in the old style card and weave as if the post had been delayed for the decades or so since its first publication. The feel of the covers reminiscent of the old style books that represent a quality made to last. These are enjoyably tactile and the vibrant colour pleasing to the eyes, and smell as fresh as the dandelion on one of the covers. As Skye Gyngell is quoted as saying, they are indeed wonderful bedside readers to dip into and put down at leisure.

These are collectibles, but there is the rub. I WANT to use them, I want to be able to give the recipes a try, use their historical knowledge and encyclopaedic wisdom to help a food craving or an idea take shape, and that is my only disappointment (and I say ONLY). As beautiful as these are and collectible as they may become, the gilt edge of the Boulestin (and my own copy of Mme Prunier’s silvered pages) are not practical to use with greasy or flour covered hands. Rather like “Venezia” by Tessa Kiros (a beautiful if impractical book), I could be put off buying them if I didn’t feel I could actually use them in a practical sense without leaving sparkling traces in my pastry, for example, (though it may actually improve my offerings) but they are so well presented retro collectibles that I want to buy them. A shame but that is my only real dilemma, my only complaint; and that is, truthfully, it.

But to start, in chronological order, “Simple French Cookery for English Homes” (originally published in 1923) comes in a custard yellow cover printed with a pair of brown heifers on the front, gilt edged (see earlier comment) it is half the size of the other book I receive but just as practical and in some senses the more enjoyable to read.

X (Xavier) Marcel Boulestin was the original bon viveur having been a journalist and a translator, before doing the occasional stint as a private chef and wine advisor to the wealthy (which led him to get the commission for this, his first book) and finally, and more importantly, the original television chef in 1937.

Matthew Fort is quoted as saying the original modern cook book was due to Boulestin and it is clear why; here and there you can almost see his Gallic flare of the nostrils or a David Suchetian wag of the Poirot finger to warn us not to err down a certain culinary path, notably in his ‘Remarks’ section.

His raconteur character comes through in the almost romantic paragraph introducing soup, where the opening picture whisks the reader off to the rolling hills of the Auvergne or further south. Here he explains the North South divide (I guess they invented that one too!) telling us that soup and wine is the traditional peasant fare from the centre and south of France rather than poor coffee and bread in the north. Again, there is the tale master spinning his yarn to warm us to the traditional idea of French food.

First comes the chapter on Sauces with the caveat that all sauces are part of the dish mentioned in the subsequent meat or fish section. It is a really useful and easily readable chapter from the Courte Bouillon to the Hollandaise.

Whilst he cautions us (finger wagging) on the need to keep Egg recipes simple, and has no comment on the various fish dishes, the section on Meat opens with a small dig at the ‘perfidious’ Swiss getting in the way of our understanding of French Cuisine. (We should be at one, cooking from the same page but they got in the way; why did they do that to us? Why?) The least we can do therefore is to disguise their influence with a head of garlic in a leg of mutton.

On salads, the finger wagging goes ‘metronomical’ (tick, tick, tick), the iron fist in velvet glove comment “I cannot help wondering if an English salad is the result of ignorance or the aim of a curiously perverted taste” is a prime example. Ouch! And yet, you have to laugh. But the reader’s attention is grabbed and he goes on to explain why.

Ending the food section (following a good selection of deserts) is a suggested daily menu starting from Sunday and working its way through the week, a progression of dishes using leftovers for the following day with a page explaining his reasoning, and a late evening supper (suggested at 3am so not only the original TV Chef but also the original clubber?)

Finally, he flourishes with an exceedingly useful chapter on wine as if taking the amateur gently aside (in the same way as a Frenchman might take you gently aside at a wedding reception and say “your wife is having an affair with the Mayor but we have to be adult about it” type ‘gentle aside’, a Gallic shrug, a pat on the shoulder, an almost imperceptible shake of the head). He advises on storage and how we serve our whites (too cold – agreed) and our reds too warm, undecanted and cooked in the bottle by the fire (thank goodness the microwave hadn’t been invented then!)

In other chapters there is not so much commentary or introduction having already discussed most of his thoughts in his Remarks both General and Special, though there are quotes from Brillat Saverin, Meredith, Galsworthy and even Darwin add to the flavour.

“Simple French Cooking for English Homes” made me smile, laugh and fascinated me all at once; a rare gem.

“The Gentle Art of Cookery” on the other hand, is a collaboration of two ladies who sound like a pair of ex-debutantes or nannies than writers; Mrs C F (Hilda) Leyel, the wife of an theatrical impresario who used her dining menus as a basis for writing this book before going on to write others, and her assistant, Miss Olga Hartley who was a suffragette, journalist and noted author.

The rich herb green cover, silver spine and large dandelion pattern have a visually comforting appeal. Inside recipes are described in a matter of fact, no nonsense way. The writing has no fuss or frills, no nonsense, no delicious metaphors or gastro-prose verbage like, oh, my blog for example, just straight talking; an approach reminiscent of Fanny Craddock but without the harpyish, hand slapping bossiness. Most of the chapters have quotations and an introduction on the importance of the key ingredients such as eggs, mushrooms, and so forth.

Many things stand out in this book however, the flower chapter, to which the front cover alludes, starts with an introduction on the history of flower usage from ancient Sparta to medieval times and to the Far East with Orange Pekoe and Jasmine. Hilda Leyel’s knowledge as an herbalist really comes to the fore with examples of Dandelion Puree and Eggs with Marigold.

The chapter for Children’s recipes is as amusing as it is a revelation, listing some amazing things that the reader can do for children, ‘To Make an Ostrich Egg’ (using pig’s bladder and several ordinary eggs), or that children can do for themselves, ‘Omelettes in Saucers’ (although Boulestin in his Egg chapter says that an omelette is not the easiest thing to get right), Meringues and a Gingerbread House, for example. All done in a simple no nonsense way, but something that gets children excited about cooking (that can’t be bad).

The Egg chapter has an introduction including the historical significance of eggs both in food and in society which is almost worth buying the book for alone, and there is a potentially lifesaving section on mushrooms for the amateur forager. However, I could not understand the need for separate chapters on Almonds and Chestnuts when walnuts are mentioned in vegetables (that’s the author’s decision, who am I to question?)

For a themed party there is a chapter called Arabian Nights. Although the recipes are based on those in Burton’s book of ‘The Thousand Nights and a Night’ (also known as Arabian Nights) the release of the film ‘The Thief of Baghdad’ with Douglas Fairbanks (1924, when the book was probably being assembled) must surely have had a massive influence. In fact, at the time of writing the book (published in 1925) the Empire Exhibition had opened, Art Deco was arriving from Paris, Tutankhamen’s artefacts had done a whistle stop visit to Wembley, Kingdoms were emerging in the Middle East, and all things exotic were being produced. Having said all that, given her classic comments on ancient mythology and food history, Mrs Leyel perhaps failed to digest Leviticus in this particular chapter. LARD? BACON?! Or am I being too particular (though I am very much tempted to give Oeufs a la Constantinopolitaine a go)?

Despite a feeling of slight nanny knows best commentary and my occasional criticism I loved this book, it is a treasure trove of information, very much worth the cost to sit proudly anywhere, be it by the bed, on the coffee table, or, like mine, in the kitchen where it will be well thumbed and highly valued.

The Classic Voices series is an excellent collection brought together by Jill Norman, the series editor, who also writes a great introduction to each book. They bring an almost other worldliness to the present with mentions of taking food up to the nursery in the vegetable section of Leyel’s book and cellaring wines in Boulestin’s, phrases that have no place in the modern and instant world that we live in and yet although dated are not something that distract from the recipes and ideas themselves, in fact, are a pleasure to read: different worlds, different lives. Jill Norman has created a real joy and collectible pleasure for the buyer and whilst there are only a few books in the range (so far?)I cannot wait to get my hands on more editions.

A Yellow Cab in Paris

2011-08-17T06:30:00.000-07:00

Blinding sunlight like the flash of a camera’s bulb rushes through my mind. Blinding sunlight, searing heat and buildings of honey hued limestone, dusty and dry. A hot cityscape revealing itself, contrasting with the cool marble shaded concourse of Bordeaux station in the late 1980’s. Backpacking with two friends (I wonder what happened to them?) we arrived from an overnight trip hungry and unwashed. In front of us a fast food joint serving burgers; burgers, breakfast, station parade? I guess I was asking for it, but I was a gangly, skinny, spotty teenager who was starving and could have eaten a horse; and in part that is what I did, literally!

But this is July 2011 and I am sitting at a table in the Marais. I am older and wiser (no, really), and certainly not skinny having been on a gastro-ride through 60 years of Bollinger and several courses of delights from Alain Ducasse at the Jules Verne earlier in the day. It is late, and although it is dark, the heat resonating from the limestone landscape, buildings similar to Bordeaux, brings back the memories of my teens as well as the speciality of the chef I am reading on the menu. I need to spread out and relax.

The table is in Le Taxi Jaune, owned by Chef Otis Lebert, whose biography includes Tante Claire and l’Ortolan in Britain. This is to outward appearances, a traditional bistro, where the French cuisine is innovative; brought up to date. A menu that gives the impression of someone who enjoys the true elements of French cooking but with hints at the slightly alternative, the quirky sense of humour is demonstrated by the neon lights above the bar. So when he recommends his speciality, steak, then smiles and clarifies, horse steak, I gulp, swig down my aperitif and say yes (well it is his speciality).

I started light (it was the heat): Salade des haricots et girolles. The plate was an elegant and simple salad; a delicious balance of fresh green and truffley mushrooms, small and tobacco tan in colour. Simple? I think that would be understating what lies beneath.

While the haricots were perfectly non-squeaky cooked, the mushrooms provided a wonderful soft contrast in texture, then the subtle slightly crunchy rosy pink spots of finely chopped shallot. There was a prickle, something teasing the lips and tongue, coming from the merest hint of cayenne pepper (though with the humidity and wine tastings, I had, to paraphrase Mike Leigh’s Abigail, sensitive lips) but I saw the specks, the tiny red dots, they were definitely there; tarragon and parsley, topped by the shallot, bring out the dressing, adding light liquorice and pepper notes; layers of complexity thanks to the subtle added flavours and spices. So, ‘simple’? No, delicious.

The main course arrived: Merlan de Cheval. On the plate a medley of food, colourful and rich in perfume; round slices of meat with a dark, chocolate brown, tangy and prickly peppered crust, hints of spiciness on the nose and tongue, then a beautifully fruity red bloody centre. The red onion butter, turned pink from the slow cooked slices, adds sweetness to the strong slightly bitter flavour of the meat. Surprisingly, it doesn’t have the grassiness or bloody iron ‘whack’ that beef gives, though it is similar in richness and does have a powerful flavour; sweetness and earth are perfectly combined.

Farcis of courgette and tomato accompany the dish. The courgette is a vibrant green stuffed with a lightly curried aubergine, raisin and tomato ‘ratatouille’, gentle in flavour and very more-ish. The tomato was stuffed with the more traditional style of ratatouille, pepper, courgette and onion, again subtle and tasty. Finally, herbed mash gave balance, green flecks playfully opposing the rosy butter.

Otis Lebert recommended the Pichon Paillé 2009 Graviers Bourgheuil to go with the main course, a leathery and vegetal cabernet franc, slightly meaty, and a perfect complement to the main.

I said my thanks and we shook hands (I actually wanted to bear hug him it was so good) and stepped into the sticky night air, swaying pendulously from the food and the wine. For some Joe le Taxi started running through my head, maybe it was an infantile obsession with Vanessa Paradis, whose song was around when I was travelling all those years back, more obviously the name of the restaurant stuck in my mind. Whatever the reason I zigzagged my way through the streets without the need to look back, on a large bed in a cool room with a contented grin on my face, I knew I would be back some time soon.

Restaurant Le Taxi Jaune
13, r. Chapon
Paris 75003

+33 1 42 76 00 40

Life can be perfect (part 2 - the food)

2011-08-02T03:46:00.000-07:00

A shudder, a jolt, and I hold on to the rail (just in case, you never know). The grinding noise begins and we are off. My first thought is the book “From Earth to the Moon”. The pod continues to shake as it makes its ascent, taking us up, not quite the speed of sound or light, not quite to the stars, but still giving us the magical feeling of being taken high up, very high up, nose bleedingly high up (I think you get the picture); a vertiginous journey.

Our destination is, appropriately though, the Jules Verne, an Alain Ducasse restaurant set above the first level of the Eiffel Tower, where Bollinger is hosting the presentation of the RD Champagne lunch. After twelve vintage tastings, twelve swishes, slurps and spits, twelve sets of notes, all that hard work, it is time for fun. I have faim de loup to use a phrase.

With another ‘welcome’ glass of champagne, we are ushered to our tables and to enviable views over the Paris skyline, passing huge yellow spinning wheels, pulling the elevators and the crowds of tourists below, and giving a sense of motion, the impression of a Mississippi steamboat. Introductions to our fellow diners done, we are sat down and the food begins.

We began with an amuse bouche: Langoustines rafraîchies au caviar; soft pink luscious Dublin bay prawns, juicy, dribbling down the chin juicy, topped by a nutty fishy salty, greeny black caviar, and garnished with red onion, chive or lemon zest; each garnish different and each bringing a pleasant addition to the flavour. The prawns lay on a strip of crustacean mousse, saline and rich, bringing out the sweetness of the prawns, specks of cauliflower caught the eye and demonstrated intimate detail. (Frankly, if this was ‘amuse’ my taste buds were already getting hysterical!)

Next came a starter of Homard de nos côtes court-bouillonné. Pieces of meaty Brittany lobster flavoured with fennel and woody herbs, the aniseed perfuming the creamy fishy flesh. Around this, a kaleidoscopic vision of endive, spring onion, carrot, fennel and radish ‘acidulé’ giving colour to the plate and a spectrum of flavours to the palate; sharp lemon acidity, mouth wateringly emphasising the sweetness of the meat. Pepper and smoke from the endive and onions, fennel and radish, juxtaposing the acid zing, complimenting the sweeter vegetables and drawing out the lobster flavour further. This coral reef of colour rested on a bed of pink jelly, a reduction of pink champagne, perhaps, as this was the accompanying wine? (I didn’t get the chance to confirm it).

Continuing the fish theme, we were presented with a plate of Blanc de turbot doré en cocotte with a medley of pan fried Provencal figs and violet artichokes, a tangy wine and fish stock sauce added a saline kick to the plate. The turbot was pure flavoured, unadulterated juicy meatiness, and perfectly cooked. The pan fried figs and poached artichokes gave alternate sweet and sourness, caramel and subtle hints of earthiness, to this wonderfully flavoured fish. Sadly the flesh on my figs tasted a bit over toasted, a bit burnt, tainting the flavour slightly, but that aside this was a delicious dish, matched perfectly with the Bollinger 2002 Grande Année.

We followed with game: Pigeon en crapaudine cuit au sautoir. Pan fried chestnut coloured nuggets from a spatched pigeon sliced open to reveal a wonderfully moist pink centre. Petit Pois à la Française with mange tout provided a spring fresh accompaniment, lifted further by the wine vinegary twist, and then made mellow by the dark meaty stock, hints of bacon from the pan frying and red onion adding smoke and sweetness to the gamey meat.
Brie de Mieux to cleanse the palate. Well it’s cheese isn’t it? Not quite. This was a really strong mature creamy and spicy prickly long flavoured sock’n’sweat cheese, dots of basil pesto and lightly dressed side salad garnished this very welcome and refreshing break in our meal. Along with that was the ‘vin surprise’, guests having to guess the year of the vintage, the association of Bollinger and Bond films goes back forty years (hurrah and huzzah for the Brits, Olly Smith guessed the 1975 vintage champagne correctly).

Finally, presented in a space age Sputnik dish, surely a nod to Moonraker, came the Vacherin citron fraises des bois. It was so flavoursome that I almost forgot to appreciate it, let alone digest it. Why? Again, on a theme of sweet and sour; the flavour of the light but rich strawberry creamy moose was quite intense, the feather light creamy melt-in-the-mouth teaspoon sized meringue curl and a scattering of crispy marshmallow style candies provided all the sweetness you could ask for in a desert. Contrast that with the refreshingly zingy lemon juice and lemon curd opposing the strawberry, so light it was almost imperceptible and a crisped lemon slice as sharp as you can get and mouth puckeringly tart. Poured over this, the coulis with Little Scarlet sized wild strawberries in it. I throught I had died and gone into orbit (to paraphrase).

After all the champagne and rich food; the flavours; the sharpness versus the sweet, the drinking, the eating, the force feeding until I felt fit to burst, the idea of cramming myself into a small lift..? I needed air, to take the stairs, to burn it off. With gravity working in my favour, my pace increased as I descended, first slowly, then faster and faster, steps becoming a blur (or was I just flattening them?). It seemed like I was racing the lift to the finish. But, in truth, like my waistline, I lost.

Life can be perfect (part 1 - the champagnes)

2011-07-18T00:28:00.000-07:00

“Well” to quote Shirley Valentine, “I won a competition, you see”... A writing competition for Bollinger’s Life Can Be Perfect competition to describe in a short amount of words a perfect moment in time. I went back to my former life in Paris, but just transposed the beaker of cheap Rhône with a glass of champagne.

So I am, seated amongst the most notable wine experts, journalists and television presenters of the world feeling a little out of my depth even with my own wine qualification and getting a little star struck too (two hours sitting next to the entertainingly brilliant Olly Smith, for example).

The prize? To be taken to Paris, stay in a boutique hotel, be whisked off the next day by chauffeur driven limousine to the Jules Verne, an Alain Ducasse restaurant on the first floor of the Eiffel Tower, to taste half a century of Bollinger RD (Récemment Dégorgé) going back to 1952. Twelve bottles; twelve tastings, all presented by Bollinger’s cellar master, Mathieu Kauffmann. Can you imagine? No. Neither can I. That is why I am still pinching myself a week later.

Récemment Dégorgé comes from an idea conceived by Lily Bollinger, in layman’s terms means some of the vintages were held back from release to mature for longer on their lees, usually a minimum of 10 years (all our wines were disgorged on 7th March with the exception of the 1952 in 1969). The champagnes will have a greater chance to develop unique characteristics of aroma and taste from this ageing. This is enhanced by the fact that the fermentation process is in oak barrels, giving more nutty, woody and smoky smells, but also bottle aged with corks rather than crown caps for longevity.

Out of the twelve tastings, two stood out as truly notable for differing reasons. But a quick run down of the wines overall (prominent vintages in parentheses):

Truffle smells (’66) and mushroom (‘88) , smoke (’97)and toast (’76), brioche and nuts (’59), coffee (’85), leather... (leather? That was the smell from the leather coated pens they provided, which stuck to my finger... didn’t I feel foolish)... stewed fruits (’66) and vegetal elements (‘79) such as asparagus, and of course, lemon and lemon pith. These were the aromas coming out of a lot of the various vintages as we went through the ages.

On the palate an array of flavours: gooseberries (’97) and lemon sherbet prickle (’88), apples (’95) and light tannic wood (’79), caramelised fruits (’76) and honeys (’66), snow peas (’59), steel and flint (’96); flavours mingling on the palate from the initial smack or caress, depending on the wine, to the long, slow acidity that keeps the mouth watering long after the last sip.

So, the outstanding ones? For me, the 1961 and the 1952 vintages. Both years were hugely different in taste and texture but both amazing: one for quality and one for emotive reasons.

As the vintages got older so the colours got richer. The 1961 had a rich golden yellow colour and light petillance in the glass. On the nose, there were very light creamy notes and lemon, alongside hints of mushroom and smoke. This promised to be a dry glass, especially after they honey hit of the 1966. A second nose dive into the glass brought the mellower fruits to the fore.

On the palate, the taste promised what the nose had suggested. Sharp lemon high notes with hints of flint and wood, smooth and rich, though much more tempered than later years, and rounded, but not necessarily creamier (these are extra brut wines with an average sugar level below 4g per litre), with a good length of acidity. This was a perfect balance, challenging the taste buds to discover another flavour on each and every sip.

If these wines were paintings, perhaps the 1961 could be a cubist painting; a Picasso, challenging to the senses, each angle a twist. And yet, take it all in and the picture is one of marvel and brilliance. The 1952, in that context has to be La Giconda, the Mona Lisa. Why? Very simply put, the painting is not da Vinci’s greatest work (opinion is divided as to whether he squandered his talents on science instead of art for example. But I digress). And yet... and yet with that comes a sense of awe; a sense of respect; a nod to its age. And this is where the 1952 comes into the spectrum.

The colour of this wine is so rich it is golden, not yellow gold but a darker hue, almost like it should be an Alsace wine were it not for the bubbles in the glass (I know there is Cremant d’Alsace but humour me!) Pure toast and smoke, hit the nose as well as the richer smell of black coffee and spice. Another smell and there are hints of zingy herbs, complementing the spice, almost edging toward mint.

This wine is much smoother on the palate, with some natural maderisation , sweeter to the tongue and more unctuous. Lemon fruits meet wood and cream, but maybe candied lemon; sharp but slightly honeyed. Sublime in so many ways, and a privilege to be one of the few people in the world to have tasted it.

However, that was the last wine we tasted and by the end my taste buds had gone into paralysis and I had “leather tongue”. It was time to have lunch and drink lots of water. Life can be perfect? It surely can.

Rites of Spring

2011-06-02T01:35:00.000-07:00

It has been a long wait; a long, cold and damp wait for spring. Bright colours now bring the countryside to life: puffballs of blossom dapple the trees in pinks and whites; flurries of petals and wispy spores dance in the wind like a Diaghilev chorus; bluebells bring a cornflower haze to nearby woods and forget-me-nots sprinkle lawns and grass banks. You can smell the freshness, the change (well, in my case, with a large dose of anti-histamine).

I am trying hard to get inspired, to cook something that matches the change of season. A hot sun tells us that winter has been banished; hearty, slow cooked stews and heavy red wines are too rich to contemplate; lighter, greener, refreshing meals come to mind and yet... ah! Vivaldi’s “Spring” plays on the radio, a perfect accompaniment to this weather, sharper notes contrasting with the melody remind us of the cold breezes that remain. Musically, I think he is saying don’t forget your jumper.

The answer to my quandary reveals itself during the April rush at the local farm shop, customers hare boxing for the new season’s asparagus (rather like the clamour for the iPad, such is country life).

Asparagus spears bring with them a craving for fresh flavoured dishes; a sharp green freshness. However, the chilling breezes and the cool night air are a sure sign that something comforting needs to be consumed. I have gone for risotto. Hearty but fresh tasting, warming but with a zing. But I can’t decide on the best method, so I have gone for three choices: classic asparagus risotto, risotto with asparagus and crisped Parma ham, and finally, my own nod to Primavera.

Ingredients:

Arborio rice 225g

Chicken stock (I have made my own) 850ml 1 ½ pints
Asparagus 500g
1 Escallion shallot
1 Garlic clove
Sea salt
Butter
Olive oil
Vermouth (dry such as Noilly Prat or a dry white wine)
A handful of grated Parmesan

Additional ingredients for plate two:

1 pack of Parma ham (about 70g)

Additional ingredients for plate three:

1tbsp frozen peas (a similar amount in butter)

2 or 3 mint leaves
A few basil leaves
¼ tsp chilli flakes
Zest of ¼ lemon and a small squeeze of lemon juice (or a small dribble of dry white wine).

Method:

Heat the stock in a pan. Cook the asparagus for a couple of minutes in boiling water. Separate the tips of the asparagus from the stalks, keeping the heads to one side. Mince or finely chop the asparagus stems. Chop the shallot and garlic clove and mix with the asparagus stems. Grate the Parmesan. Roll the Parma ham into a cigar and slice into thin julienne strips to fry. In a blender mix the peas, mint, basil, chilli, lemon zest and butter into a paste and leave to one side. (Not forgetting the glass of wine at hand to keep you going, everything should be ready).

Melt some butter in a pan with a splash of oil and add the shallot, garlic and asparagus stems. Fry the mixture until translucent. Add the Arborio rice and coat thoroughly before adding the first ladle of stock. Keep going until the rice is cooked and almost all the stock has been absorbed, in other words it is not completely dry.

Plate one:

Once the rice has absorbed the stock but still has a ‘bite’ to it add a knob of butter and most of the parmesan and stir. Finally add a glug of Vermouth or wine. Some people believe in adding the wine or vermouth before the stock however, I stick with the majority and add it at the end. Stir in or arrange the asparagus tips on top and serve with the remaining parmesan.

Plate two:

As the rice is absorbing the stock, in a separate frying pan, dry fry the Parma ham until it is crispy. Again, stir in the butter and most of the parmesan, a glug of Vermouth or wine and half of the ham. Again, serve by stirring in or arranging the tips of the asparagus and the ham in a decorative manner, topping with the remainder of the parmesan.

Plate three:

Not wanting to over gild a gilded lily, I have chosen small enough amounts to give enough balance in this version without drowning out the asparagus flavour altogether. So, just before serving add the pea butter mix and stir. Squeeze a hint of the lemon juice and arrange the tips accordingly. Add a small scattering of Parmesan.

Flavour wise the first risotto was good but to be honest, I put a little too much cheese in which did slightly subdue the flavour of the asparagus, thankfully, though, the heads ensured that some flavour remained. The overall result was a rich mix of stock, creaminess from the rice and cheese, cut through with the green freshness of the asparagus and a slight kick of the herbal wine, with enough bite to the rice and to the asparagus heads to give it some good textural contrasts.

The second was more my kind of dish; rich stock and creamy, nutty rice, vegetable freshness contrasting with slightly crispy, smoky, saline and sweet meat; hints of parmesan giving more cream to this plate and a sharp, headier, herbaceous wine rush adding to the stock flavour but reducing the chance of a cloying mouthful.

Finally, my version; the ‘experiment’ (should I have named it?) Given that a true Primavera would have broad beans as well as asparagus and peas this had a real mix of contrasts that balanced well.

There was just enough of the pea, basil and mint freshness to still get the softer more muted asparagus flavour, the taste was definitely cleaner and lifted it from the creamy stock, the lemon zest and small squeeze of juice also breaking down the richness. Gentle, warming chilli lingered in the mouth to give it a longer finish. Rich, yes, but also more-ish because of the ‘cooling’ herb and sharper lemony flavours.

I happily washed this down with Panizzi 2009 Vernaccia di San Gimignano. I am a huge fan of this man and his wines which are probably the best in San Gimignano. Subtle vegetal and pithier citrus flavours merge to complement the asparagus.

The ‘insulating’ warmth of the risotto, helped in part by the gentle heat of the chilli, is as comforting as any blanket for the cool night air, and my smile has spread almost as much as my waistline. Asparagus may be the food that signals spring has arrived, I think to myself in my armchair as I try hard to stay awake after my feast, but for now, I am ready to hibernate.

Little satisfaction in Little Venice

2011-03-06T10:13:00.000-08:00

It is a cold, very cold night. Wisps of mist on the canal gain an ethereal quality from the reflection of the street lights. With foggy breath we hurriedly make our way over bridges and through the quiet streets of Little Venice towards The Warrington, a gastro pub belonging to the Gordon Ramsey group. No “pea souper” to add to the atmosphere but even so, it could almost have been romantic were we not shivering.

Buses, taxis, maybe a Boris Bike, the Bakerloo had closed, so arriving on time meant a twenty first century version of “Monte Carlo or Bust”. With all the chaos, two of the party were unable to make it without some Herculean attempt to cross London and, smile on my face, I was left to entertain the girlfriends.

I have to admit to being wary of gastro pubs. They leave me very confused. Is it a pub? Is it a restaurant? Is it a bird, a plane, etc?! I have experienced the joys of places like, for instance, the Canton Arms in Vauxhall, which served really excellent food, but that enjoyment was countered by the shock of the wine list prices which seem to take the pub into the realm of restaurants… or have I missed the point?

However, I overcome this inner turmoil as ‘F’ and I reach the door. Stepping through tile and terracotta, it is a veritable stage set of Edwardiana, oak framed mirrors, and some stained glass panes add to the cultured soft tones of gloominess. Hints of its history as a former brothel, art nouveau-esque swirls of reclining naked ladies on an ochre wall. As we pass upstairs into the warmth of the restaurant, it is almost possible to picture acrid fog of cigar smoke, to imagine the pianoforte hammering a popular tune in the background, to see bowler hatted gentlemen keenly lapping up the attention of louchely dressed young girls, while downing port or ale … no, you could. Really! I look around for Dick van Dyke.

We went for the Winter set menu. A nice basket of various home made breads were presented and consumed quickly. Wonderfully warm with the butter served on a small slate coaster. The waitress offered us more bread but we declined.

I tried a spoonful of the soup that one of us had ordered. White onion, Westcome cheddar and roasted almond soup. Wonderfully rich. Not too cheesy, a great stock flavour, nothing overwhelming the palate. A deliciously gentle combination of flavours.

However, I chose the Smoked ham hock, truffle potatoes, poached hens egg and mustard vinaigrette, in other words a Frisée aux lardons but in this case, with mixed baby leaves and potatoes.

I love this salad. It is one of my favourites. Simple and light, the smoky sweet and saline mix of pork, the prickly pepperiness of the salad leaves, and the cloying warmth of yolk from the poached egg broken down by that sharp wine vinegar acidity. Mopped up by fluffy bread, naturally.

My ham hock was really tender and flavoursome, just perfectly moist and moreish, hints of honey with the saltiness. The egg’s yolk was perfectly runny and hot. What is not to get wrong with this salad? Well, for me, there wasn’t enough sharpness of vinaigrette for my liking. I need that instant fix and cutting tang of a wine vinegar to break through the cloying yolk. Evidence of it was there with the small mustard grains but not enough to create an even balance. The truffle potato was indeed dark and nutty, strong in iron and floury, emphasising the greenness of the leaves.

I would have loved more, but had already eaten enough bread to become the face of Pilbury and was saving myself for the main course. Braised Dedham Vale feather blade with carrot purée, roasted field mushrooms. Chunks of slow cooked dark almost black beef in its jus, served with a shock of orange carrot and an earth coloured mushroom topped by vibrant green spinach.

The beef, apart from one rather tough and slightly dry chunk, was tender enough to break with the lightest touch of the fork. Perfectly rich in flavour. The carrot was sweet and earthy, and vibrantly appealing to the eyes. Spinach perfectly cooked, just wilted but slightly over salted. The flat mushroom, well it’s a mushroom isn’t it?

I was hungry and the ‘sensible’ portions now seemed to be rather light. I ended up feeling slightly, well, disappointed and wondering whether the à la Carte would have made any difference. Luckily, I had ordered some potatoes on the side which were nice and buttery though not nutty enough for me. However, they performed their remit and made up for the meat.

To go with this, we decided on a Côtes du Ventoux 2008 which although a bit cold at first, warmed up quickly to give tannic and berry flavours.

To finish, I was tempted by the Berry Panna Cotta with shortbread and berry compote but it was very hot in the restaurant and I was tired. We decided to move on to the coffee and short bread (an additional £3.50) instead. The coffee arrived but there was no short bread (although this omission was correctly reflected in the bill).

Shortbread aside, the attention to detail by the staff was really missing throughout the evening. And here is the rant: passing the card machine in front of my face to my friend instead of going behind me; spraying cleaner (a rather foul smelling one) and setting up of the next table while we were still drinking coffee (this at nearly half past ten); my coat lying on top of the drinks trolley at the top of the stairs rather than being put in a safe place (laid on top of glasses and next to a naked flame I should add, my bag on the floor beside it).

All these leave an impression that isn’t good. Friendly though it may be, and it was very amiable, there is no excuse for casual service, even if it is a pub, gastro pub, gastro pub restaurant, or whatever you wish to classify it as.

For value it was fine, really, fine. The bill was very reasonable, the food I ate was on the whole, good, well sourced and flavoursome, even if I was greedy for more. Stepping back into the freezing wind my coat, scarf and gloves were barely warm enough to combat the weather. So it was ironic then that The Warrington also left me feeling a bit cold, a feeling that it was just “fine, really fine”.

www.gordonramsay.com/thewarrington

Green Gold...

2010-12-12T07:33:00.000-08:00

It is cold. No, it is really cold. A sub-zero cold with flurries blowing around in such a way that no matter the direction snow gets in the eyes and mouth. On top of which there is a tube strike. I should be gloomy. I should be heading home for an early night with warming cocoa (laced with rum, naturally) in a toasty warm environment. In fact, I should question my sanity in going out at all, but I have been invited to a tasting of the new harvest olive oil by Andre Dang and I am childishly excited.

Why? Well the venue, Valentina’s, is a glistening glass building that, with the Christmas lights and gleaming decorations, looks like a veritable box of delights. Added to that, the quirkiness of a Vespa in one window, and the two snow white Fiat 500s (one, an original and coveted by me) sitting outside. I am, in my superficial way, already in love.

As I walk in dressed like a knitted yeti, my eyes are (naturally) drawn beyond the food based gifts towards the wines sitting temptingly along a wall. The wine selection has been carefully chosen by Fabio (a member of the family that owns and runs Valentina’s) and having recognised a few labels I am almost tempted to go on a mad spending spree. They have an excellent selection of wine hampers to take the buyer on an individual oeno-tour of Italy, central, north and south, as well as the individual bottles on sale on line as well (I checked earlier online).

The delicatessen, with its selection of imported cheeses, meats and trattoria delicacies that is the heart of the business. Bags of pasta, Barilla and Di Cecco (Matthew Fort of the Guardian in his book, Eating Up Italy says that these are not only the biggest producers but most Italians consider them better than other rivals such as Bertorelli), Alessi designs and Olive wood gifts.

But we are here for the olive oil, the theme of the evening. To be exact, new harvest, first pressed olive oil from the farms around the foothills of Montecassino where the owners’ family are from and to be used in each savoury course. Unfiltered, luminescent green, cloudy oil. Herbaceous in flavour, with an instant grassy hit, lightly bitter and strongly peppery. It would have been enough just to lap it up with plain bread.

So, we sit to plates of Parmesan and olives. Big, juicy and fruity, olives that bring out the cheese’s creaminess. And indeed the cheese is creamy and moreish. 24 month matured Parmesan cheese broken onto the plate in small chunks with a slightly grainy, good saline and acid balance, mild in flavour.

The meal itself started with bruschetta and mozzarella appetisers. The bruschetta, simple and elegant: chopped tomatoes, and basil, topping a garlic rubbed crunchy crusted fresh bread with subtle hints of garlic, light, zingy and pleasurable. The mozzarella were in a bowl on the side. Small brilliant white balls sitting in a small pool of forest green oil; ping-pong sized and milky rich with a slight and very mild almost cottage cheese sourness; tangy and just elastically resistant to the bite.

A plate of shellfish arrives, scallops to be exact. Visually looking so good it was a shame to eat it. Seared scallops with golden tinged edges and translucent centre, covered in a crispy straw nest of shredded leeks, and sat on a bed of reduced cream and wine, peas and carrots in a Russian Salad array of colour, all drizzled with the new harvest olive oil. The scallops gave easily under the knife. Light hints of fish, wine and some citrus cut through the cream, breaking down the richness and flipping the tongue from peppery oil to sweeter cream to light seafood flavours making the diner feel addictively greedy for more. No surprise therefore that this is one of the top selling dishes.

Next a Sausage Risotto. An ocular feast of colour, tutti frutti colours of red pepper, parsley and the pinky fleshy sausage colour mixed with the whiteness of the Arborio rice and yellow sauce. Topped on this was a spoon filled with the olive oil to drizzle over the dish. Lemon acidity and tongue coating eggy creaminess of the stock (was egg used to help thicken and enrich it?), the fennel aromas of the sausage, hung for at least a day and soft and spongy to the bite, perfectly done. The nutty resistance of the Arborio rice, sweetened by the contrast and the peppery herbaceous edge of the oil helped in part by the pepper of the parsley. I am deliciously stuffed.

But wait! There is pudding. Pear poached in red wine with ice cream and a snow flurry of icing covering the plate, highly appropriate given the drop in temperature and the impending bad weather. The odd physallis and raspberry for garnish add to the continued theme of mixed colours. The pear’s grainy texture smoothed by a syrupy berry wine sauce and a swirl of the melting vanilla. Served hot, (not cold as I am used to) which, to me, helps bring out the sauce’s full flavours. Syrupy berry wine sauce, mixed with a creamy vanilla and the subtlest of subtle hints of chocolate that is melted into the sauce, giving it a smoky, richer and slightly cinnamon tinge.

With the meal I had a glass of the Verdicchio, Castel di Jesi 2009 (Yes, I had just the one!) Light on the nose with floral notes, vanilla creaminess contrasts with the crisp, lemon juice and lemon pith and flinty minerality, for balance.

At Valentina’s, detail is the key, subtle points that hint to real care, no, real love about what is being served and how it is served. I thoroughly enjoyed the invitation to Valentina’s and would recommend a visit, not only for the culinary experience but to feast your eyes on the wines, gifts and delicatessen foods that greet the visitor at the entrance.

As an aside: in the spirit of using this olive oil for my own ends and following the example given to me by Valentina’s, I made a salmon and scallop risotto (sadly all the herbs were frozen in the garden so I ended up using, ironically, frozen peas for a bit of green colour) finally drizzling a spoonful of Valentina’s ‘green gold’ for flourish to give pepper to the sweetness.

Photo's with grateful thanks to May of the blog Slowfoodkitchen because I am a technophobe with my own phone!

Valentina's, 75 Upper Richmond Road, London SW15 2SR. http://www.valentinafinefood.com/ 020 8877 9906.

A touch of Eastern Promise...

2010-11-22T09:04:00.000-08:00

The kitchen is perfumed with garlic and coriander, the lightness of rose in the chilli spiced harissa, and the subtle creamy meatiness of chicken, the meat no longer able hold itself to the bone, and the skin on top turning golden and crisp. A tajine.

It was the ‘antique’ pickled lemons found, no discovered, at the back of Aunt J’s fridge the week before that started me off on a Maghrebine theme, and eastern influences in the food surely means an eastern influence in the wine, Hochar et Fils 2003 (Bekaa Valley 12.5%, Vintage House £11.75). Lebanese, surely near enough (it looked so close on the map)?

Not wanting to have the olfactorial distractions while tasting this wine, I have moved to a quieter, scent free room and start to pour, the bottle having been opened earlier to get to a reasonable temperature from the chill outside. Holding the glass up, the wine is clear, as are the legs, and light cherry red with tinges of garnet.

Slowly swirling and turning my nose into the glass I get leather. A full pupil dilating leathery scent with a back note of walnut mustiness (a panic as I wonder whether this is cork taintage, but thankfully it is not). Prunes and damsons come to the nose, and further swirling releases the cherry, some green pepper and herbaceousness. The overarching sense is though is the leathery, almost like opening a brand new briefcase; meaty, that slightly oaty bloody smell that comes from the butcher’s shop; damp straw and hay, and all the elements of the cow shed (minus the “you-know-what”).

I am excited and curious. I want to taste. And what taste! A soft muted berry loveliness, with lots of tannic woodiness and hints of vanilla and cream. That lightly perfumed berry from the Cabernet Sauvignon and that nutty note. Citric sharpness is thrown in for good measure however, and, surprisingly there is no flintiness or minerality.

I say surprising as this wine is grown on gravel and limestone, not, say for instance a clay soil, so I would have assumed some stoniness would be drawn into the flavour. However, because the winters are rainy and rarely suffer frost, the soil drains well reducing the chance of mildew and ensuring the new growth fruit develops well. Longer milder summers lower the risk of disease further, and the altitude (1000m above sea level) prevents heat drying the grapes out.

Low yielding old vines of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cinsault, Carignan, and Grenache (that would explain the leather) are blended, partially aged in oak for 3 months, and bottled during the final year. Each yield and therefore blend varies so no vintage is the same.

So, back to the glass. Left for a bit the aromas are the same rich leather and blood and herbs, but the taste alters somewhat as the room temperature helps the wine’s development in the glass.

Allowing it to settle means I get those fruitier darker berries in a richer, purer concentration on my nose. A contrasting sweet and sourness from the cherry and blackcurrant, and a smokiness of raspberry with the rounded more muted blackberry notes. And then, the subtlest, subtlest hint of cinnamon.

But on the mouth? Wow! Brie and cheese skin pungency to the tongue. Sour cherry and some rosehip sharpness. A perfect and palatable natural concentrated sweetness like the confectionery cherry flavour, but all natural.

Outside, the damp chills reach through even the thickest of wool jumpers, but inside the wine brings a warmth that reflects the anticipated exoticness of an English Tajine with a touch of "Eastern promise". Rich in flavour and scent but, being a second wine, not as spicy and complex as its counterpart the Chateau Musar, Hochar et Fils still represents excellent value for money.

Lasagne...Corsican style

2010-11-22T07:55:00.000-08:00

Autumn is over in my mind the moment the November bonfires die down and the sulphurous smells of fireworks have disappeared. Bird pecked, brown and softening windfall apples, home to earwigs and maggots, sit scattered on the lawn, waiting to be raked. Hard work outside means slow cooked comfort food inside as my head fills with ideas calorific and ‘carborific’. But slowly, slowly cooked. Slow enough to give me time to attend to the apples. Slow enough to saw some branches (not a callous on these hands strangely). Slow enough to bathe, to change, to pour myself a drink. Slow! (I think you get it!)

Syrupy stews with crushed potatoes, creamy casseroles with rice, and rich sauces to go with pasta are a winter must. It really is that time of year for a genuinely hearty supper to welcome winter in.

This weekend I am turning my mind to lasagne. Tomato sweetened ragù and a blanket of béchamel topped with a light flurry of parmesan. This, however, is a rich, potentially waistline busting version of a lasagne, Corsican in origin. Corsican? Well, yes. Although French, the influence and dialect is distinctly Italian (or should I say Genoese Republic). My recipe is my own version of a dish called ‘Dolari’ that I had fifteen years ago (when I was a child. Cough!) So called because of the coin shaped pasta-sausage layer. This version has more Tuscan influences thanks to the Tuscan sausages from Camisa in Soho.

Ragù:

1 carrot

2 celery sticks

1 medium onion

4 cloves garlic chopped

1lb pork mince (preferably mutton)
1lb beef mince
½ bottle Italian white wine
3 tbsp tomato puree
2 tins chopped tomato
Sprig of rosemary
Oil
Small knob of butter

Sheet of pasta (ready bought)
1lb Tuscan sausages (or any Italian course ground sausage meat)
2-3 Mozzarella or one long one.

Béchamel sauce:

2tbsp plain flour
1¼ pint milk
1½ ounces butter

Parmesan for topping

Method:

Preheat the oven to 160oC.

First the meat sauce (I have used a combination of recipe ideas including Katie Caldesi, Marcella Hazan and, of course, Elizabeth David). Peel and finely chop the carrot, onion and celery (or whizz them in a blender). Heat about 8 tablespoons of oil in a pan and slowly fry for about 10 minutes until the mix turns glassy and soft. Add the garlic and stir a couple of times. Now add the meat and cook until the rawness has gone.

Add the wine and sprig of rosemary, turn up the heat to high and let it bubble until it reduces down to below the level of the meat. Lower the heat; add the tomatoes and tomato purée and season. Once the sauce starts simmering gently put a lid on and leave for about 3 hours to cook, stirring occasionally. Add more salt at the end as well as the knob of butter. Remove the herbs once cooked. You can make the sauce the day before and let the flavours meld even more.

Now, butter a deep sided dish.

Next, the coins. (I used bought fresh pasta sheets but still dipped them in boiling water for a few seconds to prevent splitting). Skin the sausages and spread out the meat evenly over the sheet(s) of pasta until it reaches the edge. Carefully roll the sheet tightly, like a Swiss Roll and slice into coin shapes (about a centimetre wide).

Slice the mozzarella and set to one side.

Finally, the béchamel sauce (I used Elizabeth David’s recipe in Italian Food, but feel free to another recipe). Place a bay leaf in the milk and heat up (do not boil though) in a separate pan. Melt the butter in another pan, then add the flour. Stirring constantly add the milk slowly ensuring the mixture remains smooth and slowly thickens. (I thought of using eggs in the béchamel, as I would for a Moussaka, to make it fluffier and add another layer of flavour and richness but did not want to risk it this time around).

To assemble, place the coins flat, in the buttered dish. Put the mozzarella slices on top roughly. Pour the ragù over the coins, then the béchamel sauce on top of that. Finally, scatter some finely grated parmesan on the top and place in the oven for 45 minutes to an hour.

Lamb’s Lettuce or rocket salad on the side (or more traditionally, afterwards) cleans the palate well. I drank Panizzi’s 2006 Colle di Sinese to wash this down (www.panizzi.it or www.enotria.co.uk)

So how was my memory? Well, it was lighter than I thought it might be. Breaking down through the layers, the béchamel was lightly cheesy and thick enough to coat the tongue but not heavy, and gave a creaminess to the ragù. The sharper wine and tomato flavours of the sauce mellowed with the long cooking period, helped also by adding that small amount of butter.

What made it different was, of course, the sausage meat. Subtle to the palate and made more so thanks to the tempering melted mozzarella, it complimented the pork and beef mince well, the higher noted, sharper seasoned meat giving extra layers to the slightly more muted flavours of the pork and earthier beef. (I could only get the pork with lower fat content and wondered about using a small amount of lard in the oil. I don’t believe in size zero meats though my cardiologist would disagree, naturally). The small amount of pasta was enough although the coins could be made bigger for those who have toiled more vigorously in the garden. Overall, only a small portion was needed. The rest I froze for another time, and although I say so myself, I can’t wait.

Re-inventing the Dharmachakra

2010-11-01T12:31:00.000-07:00

Catching up with some one you haven’t seen in years can be terrifying (if not aging!) Will there be awkward silences and painted smiles as I stare into my drink wondering what to say next? Will I find new and interestingly subtle ways of looking at my watch to see what time it is? Will someone please call so I can pretend it is an emergency for goodness sakes?!

This was not the case when I bumped into a former work colleague from a previous life quite by chance outside the tube in Chiswick and agreed to meet him for a drink. Catching up on old times and discussing future ambitions, the years were condensed into minutes and the ‘quick’ drink turned into a couple of hours. So relaxed was the evening that when I got home, I realised I had completely forgotten about food.

I fancied something spicy (steady on!) I had just had a couple of drinks and was in that spice and carbohydrates I-have-now-had-two-glasses-of-wine-and-don’t-care-anymore mood, so why not? A Thai or Indian curry to take away. Dial a number, make a choice, wait for a delivery. But for one person they can be too expensive and wasteful (something I really hate). Pizza also came to mind. Again, I could order one for delivery. A flabby, bog standard one where the flavour of the cardboard has seeped into the pizza base. But why waste the money?

And there in the corner of the kitchen was the Eureka moment. That sign. That message. That mug. The one with “Make do and mend” on the side. Someone somewhere was telling me something. And so, taken with the idea of some culinary austerity, I opened the fridge: chicken breast, an individual naan bread and some herbs. My face fell flat. Not really very much is it?

However, with other ingredients lying around, a bottle of Pinot Noir and a swig of Dutch Courage, I decided on a course of action. Ok, it is not original. And ok, someone has invariably done it before. But yes, even though it was my own variation, I had reinvented the wheel.

Makes 1:
1 naan bread
1 chicken breast
Curry paste
Onion
Tomato
Yoghurt (Garlic, Lemon, Coriander)
Passata
Mustard seeds
Fennel seeds
Chilli flakes
Oil

First, take the chicken, slice it and ‘marinade’ it in the curry paste, if you have more time then you can mix the yoghurt and curry paste together and let it sit for a few hours. My time was limited, so I mixed the garlic (purée for cheats) and lemon juice with some chopped coriander in a separate bowl.

Next, throw the seeds into a pan and heat until they start to turn. Remove and fry a sliced onion. Add the chilli flakes and the tomato, and reduce until thickened.

Fry the chicken in a separate pan. Spoon the tomato onion mix on the naan, and place in a heated oven about 5 minutes. Spoon on top of that the yoghurt (if separate) and then the chicken slices. Return for a couple of minutes and then scatter some coriander on top to garnish before serving.

Did it work?

I think so, in a I-have-now-had-three-glasses-of-wine-and-don’t-care-anymore way. There was flavour (woof! Thank God for liquid refreshment as I had rather overdone the spicy heat). Yes, there was flavour! The yoghurt thankfully, tempered the fire of the curry paste and the chilli heat in the tomatoes enough that you could taste the fennel, lemon, mustard seed and coriander. The naan could have been more crisp to stop it going a little soggy and the chicken would probably have been better mixed with the yoghurt so that it tenderised the meat, but that is for next time. Did it look ok? I forgot to take a picture but I can assure you that it was presentable (yes, in a I-have-now-had-four-glasses-of-wine-and-don’t-care-anymore way). The point was that it hit my cravings and kept me smiling from my catch up with H through the evening to my bed, or maybe that was the wine.

The Piece of cod…

2010-09-12T05:01:00.000-07:00

There is change in the air. Summer is moving to autumn and cooler winds mean jumpers and even jackets. Bows on the trees groan with the weight of apples that should have been picked. Morning mists hang static and damper nights draw in sooner.

Depressing? Not really. I love that time of year. The subtlest smell of smoke from bonfires burning the end-of-Summer pruning drifts in the air. Trees perhaps looking sad and naked, but their roots will be cloaked with piles of dry brittle leaves just ready for the kicking. But I am not ready for that just yet. In my defiantly Summery mood I am still wearing shorts (Ok, only indoors and with a jumper), eating salads, draining the last reserves of the rosé wine, and reading books that bring summer thoughts to the coolest and darkest corners of the house.

Even so, I want to cook something that reflects my contrary mood. I am leaning towards heartier ingredients to keep me warm, and, as I am recovering from the heaviest of ‘man flu’ colds, has a healthy element to it as well.

No matter how hard I try to avoid it though, thoughts of the Mediterranean tug me this way and that. Who can resist the idea of dishes of honeyed roasted quail with hints of cinnamon; courgettes with mint; saffroned rice or chillied couscous; brined Kalamata olives or soapy aromatic green Lucques; chicken or lamb perfumed by sweet herbs; grilled octopus flambéed in ouzo? So how do I satisfy this while being in the heart of the seasonally changing English countryside?

My answer lies in Aunt J’s larder and with a local business that specialises in mail order fish; The Fish Society (www.thefishsociety.co.uk). In a very English way but with a nod to the Middle Sea I have chosen to do Cod with tapenade crust (served with roasted tomatoes, new potatoes and spinach for the health and heartiness).

Salted cod has a wonderfully concentrated flavour, making it richer, creamier than the ordinary supermarket catch. Admittedly, it has to be soaked for ages (in a bowl under a dripping tap was a method suggested by my landlady in Seville) and I have made some mouth desiccating gaffes with it.

Tapenade has a naturally bitter and saline element coming from the capers, olives and anchovies. Usually used on crostini, bruschetti, or French equivalent, it is a versatile paste and should draw out the sweetness of the cod, seasoning it naturally. Richard Ehrlich from the Guardian says the word Tapenade comes from the Provençal word ‘tapeno’ meaning caper, and that traditionally it is only olive, caper and olive oil. I prefer the ‘full fat’ version using anchovy, garlic and lemon juice as well for added ‘beef’.

Cod with Tapenade crust

Large piece of cod (salt cod rinsed thoroughly, or plain cod)

Jar of Tapenade (I had a jar of olive paste and added a teaspoon of rinsed capers, a good squeeze of anchovy purée, garlic, tossed into the blender then added oil to loosen and a squeeze of lemon juice)

Plum tomatoes on the vine

New potatoes

Baby leaf spinach

Flat leaf parley for garnish

Massage the cod with olive oil, smear the top with the tapenade and place in a roasting dish. I parboiled some large new potatoes, sliced them into thick discs and placing them under the fish first. Oil the tomatoes keeping them on the vine, put them around the cod. Place in a heated oven for 20 minutes at 180C (this could vary depending on the size of the fish). Remove the fish and tomatoes to a warm plate, throw the spinach into the roasting dish and wilt in the oils.

Not one to pat myself on the back (Oh go on Lou), this works for me. The contrast between the green and red vegetables and the dramatic black on white of the fish and paste (similar in contrast to the Cristianos y Moros recipe of beans and rice) is pleasing to the eye. To the taste, the sourness of the tapenade contrasted well with the rich, meaty fish emphasising its natural sweetness. The pepper and citrus zing were well tempered by the potatoes (thank goodness I was feeling greedy!) and further helped by a bottle of chilled and summer and citrus fruit flavoured Torres rosé (congratulations to Miguel Torres on his wine award for life time achievement) to keep in the spirit of things.

In the end, summer is still in my soul for the short term and my thirst for sun will be thankfully sated by my holiday to Spain. Then, and only then, will I be ready for the autumn lull and the run up to Christmas (did I say that?!), coats, boots, fires and stews.

Some Flocky wocky doo dah

2010-08-22T04:42:00.000-07:00

Sunday blues retreat into night, and Monday’s journey is always the longest of the week. I am not trying to state the obvious, though I am pretty close to it by saying, Monday’s are grim. This one, with its humid and overcast weather, more so. By five, there is a real need for comfort food and a tall glass of something strong.

The desire for meat accompanied by another for a rough red wine has tickled me all afternoon. I have had enough chicken over the past few days to sprout feathers and am not really minded to do a fish recipe, so I spent several minutes wandering around the supermarket trying to get inspiration before making my decision.

And then it comes, setting off my tastebuds on a white water saliva ride. Lamb! The pervasive perfume that comes from its cooking. The sweetness of flavour, so much kinder to the palate than the earthy grassiness of beef (although a good rib-eye on a bed of sautéed potatoes fried in beef dripping comes a close second). To go with this, a bed of velvety soft cannellini beans.

Shopping complete, I get changed, pour a glass of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo, and put on mellow Monday blues from Sarah Vaughan, for mood music. I am ready for a night of ovinophilia (too clever by far Mr W!).

Lamb chops (or any cut)
Butter
Olive oil
Cannellini beans (tin)
Banana shallot finely chopped
Tomatoes (2 – skinned, deseeded and chopped)
Garlic (how much is enough?)
White wine (enough to deglaze)
Stock (just a spoon or two of light stock)
Oregano

In a frying pan, heat the butter and oil and fry the shallot in oil until translucent, and the tomato. Throw in the chopped garlic, stir a couple of times before adding the stock, then mix in the cannellini and a small knob of butter. Heat through ensuring the mix isn’t too sloppy.

In a separate pan at the same, heat some oil (and a knob of butter too if you wish). When it is hot enough, put in the lamb, frying until done depending on thickness and how pink you like it. Remove to a warm plate to sit for a bit while deglazing the pan with the wine. Loosen the cannellini mix with the deglazed meat juices, because it is unhealthy and you will enjoy it, and sprinkle with the chopped oregano.

To serve, make a bed of the cannellini on your warmed plate, place the pieces of lamb on top with a garnish of left over oregano.

Louis' Lemony Snackette

2010-08-11T23:55:00.000-07:00

I had returned from a saucy weekend in Oxfordshire and had not done any shopping. ‘C’ left me suitably smirking all the way back home with her flirtatious antics in the way that you know you had fun, and in my dreamy gormless state I just ambled to the flat and to an empty cupboard without thinking about food.

So picture this: the cupboard is bare, the flat is bare, there is practically an echo as I carry my bags inside and there is little to eat other than random leftovers. So I am left with the question: what do you do with a wilting breast? I am, of course, talking about the plaintive chicken breast sitting on a plate staring back at me from under the condensation covered sheet of cling film, looking like the Janet Leigh in Psycho before the chop, and just begging to be used.

Delving deeper, in other words closing my eyes and fumbling around the back of a cupboard that is clearly designed for taller people, I discover a few ingredients that mean I can embark on a variation to a theme: lemon chicken with an Italian twist (well I say Italian but others are bound to disagree).

The practicalities of arriving (unpacking, changing, laundry, etc) completed, I decide to set the mood. Stan Getz is humming his Bossa Nova beat and the wine is chilled and open (a Pugliese Giardini Falanghina from Sainsbury’s with citrus notes and some creamy elements from sitting on its lees, which should match the lemon zestiness that I am aiming for in the food) as I ready myself for chopping and frying. Everything is laid out in anticipation of a peppery, spicy chicken with a sharp, bittersweet taste tempered by a butter creaminess. So what did I find?

Chicken breast (sliced or cubed)
Onion
Celery stick
Garlic
Unwaxed lemon (zested and juiced)
Chilli flakes
Wine
Oil
Butter
Salt and pepper
Rocket or baby leaf spinach
Spaghetti or similar pasta.

Finely chop the onion and celery and fry slowly in oil until translucent. Next put the chicken pieces into the pan and fry them until they have just lost their rawness. Season as appropriate. Next add a glass of wine (keep a second glass for yourself) and bring the heat up until it starts bubbling. Reduce this down so that most of it has evaporated. As this is happening throw in the lemon zest, garlic and chilli. Finally, turn down the heat, throw in the lemon juice and a knob of butter and let the sauce thicken to a more syrupy texture. Before serving, add the rocket (or in my case a half dead pack of baby leaf spinach) and stir in to wilt it slightly.

I think I would have preferred rocket as it doesn’t wilt so dramatically and has a better peppery flavour. I also wondered if polenta, the second handful from my blind attempt to reach into the cupboard, would have worked, but discarded that idea. In the end, the question is: Did I like it? I was hungry and there was nothing in, I had no choice... of course I liked it! Could I make a few tweaks? In my smirking, trance like state? I doubt it.

A surprise or two on the South Bank...

2010-07-06T08:26:00.000-07:00

I really enjoy food fairs and end up spending hours like an observer at an art gallery, just staring and taking it all in; sights, smells and bustle, hence my interest in attending The Real Food Festival last weekend at the Southbank Centre. Even so, I have to admit to being a shade disappointed. Not that it is not a good idea (it is a great idea). Nor that I was expecting an Earls Court sized event or anything like it, rather that it was not that remarkable; a bit samey and a bit formulaic. Should I have expected a WOW factor?

Having said that, two stalls more than the others did grab my attention. Small treats sticking out like a treasure chest in the sand: Merry Widows wines and Tea Together.

What do I know about Austrian wines? Well very little honestly, apart from the obvious Grüner veltliner variety, and it has been a long time since I did my exams. However, Linn Rothstein, owner of Merry Widows Wines persuaded me to give her selection of wines a try and revive my much battered memory.

As her website suggests, she specialises in Austrian wines (one particular size, the 250ml bottles is cannily aimed at accompanying the Delia Smith ‘one is fun’ or light bite type meals and comes with crown caps. Why open a full bottle when you only need a glass or two?) As I was travelling what better way to sample than with the twin pack of rosé and white 250mls at £7? Sadly for Linn, my tasting ability on a hot crowded train with plastic cups couldn’t give the wines justice. But here goes:

The first wine I tried was the Neusiedlersee Qualitätswein Cuvee 11, Austria (12.5%). The colour was pale golden yellow. This being poured into an off grey-blue plastic cup in my confined space as the train waited for its signal. No obvious greenness, just an initial impression of fresh light colour.

Swilling it around (not that I needed to much since the jostling of the commuters and the jolting of the train beginning to move - Oh stop complaining Lou!), the rich honeyed citrus fruits aromas are evident. Hints of liquorice woodiness, mustiness and the lightest of rubber also give the fruitiness a mellow more fuzzy edge.

This is a combination of Grüner veltliner, sauvignon blanc, welschriesling (neither Welsh nor Riesling) and chardonnay; sharper citrus and floral elements melded with honey and butteryness. Given the nature of the soils in the area: loess, black earth, sediment and sand, this is wine really reflects its surroundings.

On the palate, there is an off-dry rich vanilla and honey on citrus. Imagine candied lemon with honey drizzled on it and you are not far off. Honeydew melon (and melon rind or papaya giving it that slightly muted edge) and prickly petillance give this white a really summer drink quality. Flint and mineral finishes take any potential for cloyingness away. A long acid finish brings the tasting of this one to a mouth watering close.

The next wine was the Neusiedlersee Spätlese Pinot Noir Rosé, Austria (12%), rich and ruby red in colour and dark as a stained glass window. Pouring it into the previously described cup, shaking everywhere as the train rocked south from Waterloo, my initial comment was ‘liquid strawberry jam’.

Swirling it around to get a sense of what to expect on the palate, I carefully sniffed. Scents of damsons and strawberries with notes of honey and vanilla give it a rich, jammy quality, as well as a slightly woody bottom note. This wine is so ‘thick’ in scent that I imagine if this were not wine, I would look like a kid from a children’s party before a parent had wiped my jam covered mouth.

Tasting it; the initial hit on the tongue is a naturally rich off-dry sensation. As with the aroma, there is a jam quality. Strawberries and cream, honey infusions and a slight element of plum. There is more jam than cream and my wine did need to be cooler to balance that. Hints of wood and pip and a flintiness balance and round off this wine. A long satisfying finish. The concentration of flavour is not reflected in the strength of the wine at 12% which is a bonus.

On a personal level, this wine lends itself to Autumn more than high summer being fuller and richer; images of warm days and cooler nights, fires starting to be lit and jumpers on standby, an excellent stepping stone to the full hearty winter reds to come. Then again, the hundred or so commuters listening to me and Aunt J discussing this in the carriage may have disagreed!

A jam is just a jam isn’t it? Not quite. (Until I tried Raspberry and Ouzo jam by Nikos Papayiannides of Lesbos, when in Greece, jams were just a function of breakfast). The flavour combinations of Tea Together show that this really isn’t the case, and after the rather shaky evening on the train, the tranquillity of the countryside, the brilliant morning sunshine and the wafts of bread turning to toast made it the perfect moment to try my presentation box of jams from Tea Together (£6).

What made Tea Together stand out at the Real Food Festival was not only their sheer variety of 40 or more jams, marmalades and pickles, but also their attention to detail in the presentation of them; the turning of something simple into something desirable. Neat cardboard gift boxes in Provençal blue with burgundy stripes (the headquarters of this boutique business is in the Côte Opale, near Le Touquet, so I should really say opal blue) in which sit four small jars, numbered to denote the recipes and flavours: two marmalades and two jams, all seasonal and from organic produce.

Toast popping out, the first jar I selected was, No.15, a summer pudding jam infused with a vanilla pod: the colour was a vibrant purple-red rich cassis jelly, tasting as good as it looked. Rich berry with a slightly mellow velvet vanilla finish coming from the vanilla mostly blackberry and blackcurrant in flavour.

Next I chose No.33. This does sound more like the blending lab at Chanel but given their already stellar clientele list (Dorchester, Claridges, The Berkeley, to name a few) it is slightly forgivable. Tinged with garnet and slightly more runny than the previous jam due to not using pectin, so I was told, this was plain strawberry. Really? Actually, no. This was full rich strawberry compote flavour with a creamy almost cream cheese aftertaste; so wonderfully smooth.

Of the next jars, both marmalades, No.10, was less satisfying, however that was my fault. Toast out, I put a teaspoon on the yeasty warm bread (organic white if you need to know), a small dollop of No.10 and in I dived. A pale orange pink jelly made me anticipate a sweet and sour sensation. Not at all. Whooshes of sharp lemons and an almost similar quality to those of Moroccan preserved lemons, the sweetness of the sugar contrasts with the sourness of the lemon and hints of blackcurrants and there is an almost gingery zing to this (they do a lemon and ginger variety No.31). My mistake was not introducing some butter which would have brought out more sweetness and tempered the lemon zing. However, it really brought my taste buds to life and woke me up!

Finally, their classic marmalade, the No.1; classic in every way and one of the best I have tasted. Golden orangey yellow and set to perfection. Wonderfully gentle orange flavour with thin cut slices of peel. A soft pithy element gave it the mellow aftertaste, light and cleansing, so very cleansing on the palate. (Honestly, I could burst into a rendition of ‘Morning has broken’. Best not though)

Such pleasant surprises such as Merry Widows Wines and Tea Together make the experience of the Real Food Festival worth attending and I really look forward to seeing them again as well as discovering similar producers at the next fair.

http://www.merrywidowswine.com/
http://www.teatogether.com/

(For further information about the festival, and for those curious about Greek jams and sauces, go to: http://www.realfoodfestival.co.uk/ and http://www.papayiannides.gr/ ).

A Regency feast, fit for a party prince...

2010-05-10T06:35:00.000-07:00

It is not unfamiliar, waking up on a sofa bed in a strange room wondering what hit you, and then remember drop by painful drop, the night before. Difficulty swallowing that comes from the dry mouth and the knowledge the body is working from the beat, beat, beat of the thumping head; the sore stomach, puffy eyes and morning stubble (and, no, I didn’t need to reach out to check if I was alone!) There is only one way to overcome such feelings of shame and self loathing: a full English fry-up.

Is it the atmospheric buzz of a café that brings an element of life into the protesting body? The combination of noisy chatter, kitchen clashes and cooking smells? The sweet meaty scent of frying bacon, the warming yeasty aromas of bread slowly browning under the grill, the crackling sounds of the sizzling eggs? A ‘morning after’ fry-up cannot truly be called breakfast without all this.

One place that provides all this is the Regency Café. Tucked away off Horseferry Road, it is the traditional haunt of taxi drivers, builders, Channel 4 media types, and countless civil servants, made more famous by appearing in advertisements and television dramas. Hard hats and i-phones, boiler suits and puffas, Regency Café is one of the best so called ‘greasy spoons’ you will find in town.

From the street, the booming voice of the owner’s banter can be heard in the street. (Repeated calls for ‘breakfast with chips twice!’ followed by ‘Oi! Darlin’! Do you want me to fax it to you?’ a clue to some of the weekend clientele, though always said with a smile and a wink, gives an idea that breakfast is already in full swing). Inside, it is like a set from the swinging sixties, tables with wicker effect Formica and walls covered in photos of grateful celebrities (I sat next to a signed photo of Al Pacino). Always busy, always popular and more importantly spotlessly clean, army fashion.

So, what can you say about the food? Well it is a fully fried English Breakfast, Do I need to say more? Well yes. The sausages at Regency were really tasty, slightly herby, plump and juicy, and well cooked. The black pudding was also good, black to aubergine dark coloured slices of velvety sausage with flecks of oat in, giving a textural contrast to the smooth centre (thankfully, this variety did not have the white lumps of fat that some black puddings have). The eggs fried and yolks runny enough to dip the toast in. Beans are beans and hash browns generous in size but obviously not home made (well it is not the Ritz now is it!?) Sadly the bacon was a little over cooked for me, though previous experience tells me that this was an exception. I shared a pint of orange with my friend, the only healthy part of my breakfast. And of course, what would the morning fry-up be without the tea? Strong and orange brown in colour, served in a mug and piping hot. It would put hairs on your chest, as the expression goes, if I hadn’t enough of my own already. A filling, fully satisfying meal and excellent value for under ten pounds (waxing not included).

Regency Café, 17-19 Regency Street, London SW1P 4BY
T: 020 7821 6596‎

A bit of a fiasco...

2010-04-28T04:20:00.000-07:00

You know when some programmes don’t work? They just aren’t that funny but the canned laughter makes you think that you should laugh? Or films where they throw in every plot line taking it from implausible to downright surreal? Like those mobile phone ads, some executive types have an idea in the boardroom and everyone throws in their two-penneth’s worth leading to complete lack of focus. The same applies to restaurants in a group.

A night for catching up in an old haunt in Covent Garden followed by a cheap meal and a chance to try something new brought me and my brother Ben , and our guests to Kitchen Italia.

There have been many businesses at this location since the cellar housed the Freedom Brewery (I used to really like their IPA, but I am a wine drinker... what do I know?). Always bustling and lively. Tonight though, it was empty save for a table of foreign students. Empty, quiet and very, very large. In fact, apart from the smiling staff it was rather soul-less!

Deciding to keep the evening light, we started with bread, olives and pizza nibbles, and then order a main and maybe a pudding for the sweeter toothed, wine (noticing that it was by the carafe rather than an option of glass, carafe or bottle, and at what mark up?) and endless water. At this point I noted that the menu issue is November 2009 which says that they should consider an update!

Bellinis were suggested while we thought about our orders. It was written down as a “White Peach Bellini” (now to be pedantic, is there any other kind? When Arrigo Cipriani invented it at Harry’s Bar all those years ago it was the Bellini rather than as something that implied variety). Peachy, yes, but a bit flat due to the amount of the juice.

“Focaccia with Extra virgin olive oil” for Ben and his beau. Bready rather than golden, moist and spongy, and a bit dry. However, being surrounded by bottles of olive oil, from the shelves around the restaurant to the trough in the table, there was opportunity enough to rectify this. (And what a choice: natural, garlic, chilli, herby, dopey, sneezy, etc… Ok I’m being silly now). Links on the website tell you that their oils are from Marfuga a fattoria in Umbria that has a picture of the owner and his wife that reminded me very much of the photograph on the box of the seventies game Mastermind, with the gorgeous Eurasian lady and the sleazy Mafia don.

I thought that F and I would go for the garlic, parsley and butter pizza would be a lighter alternative (well she and I both have our figures to think about). The thought of a warm slightly crusty flavoured base, oozing garlicky and herby oils and made richer by the butter, the kind that you need a few napkins to clean your hands and mouth; peppery herbs and the slightest dusting of flour, all combined to make an effective but simple starter. But we agreed that this was floury and cardboardy, scratchy and tasteless. Like the atmosphere, rather lifeless. There was no evident richness from the butter and the herbs looked dried. (I didn’t get to the olives as they had already been consumed at the other end of the rather large table).

The main courses arrived surprisingly quickly, Mafaldine (pasta ribbons with crinkly edges to you and me) with spicy sausage, two of those. Tagliolini with black truffles and Gnocchi with peas, mint and Gorgonzola.

Generous crumblings of spiced sausage meat kept moist by a rich tomato sauce and perfumed from the fennel was not to be. The pasta, a good sized helping, fennel flavoured and peppery, lacked evidence of the spicy sausage which was hidden by breadcrumbs and sauce. It looked like it had been baked, the tomato sauce was dried out, like a red version of sea weed clinging to hot rocks. Was it the service counters lights? And why would that be when the mains arrived quickly?

F wanted the truffle on tagliolini with a light mushroom cream sauce, as she felt it sounded filling and rich. Mushrooms sliced, fried with garlic and herbs, tossed into the pasta, and given lightness of colour and mellowness of flavour from a modest amount of cream, speckled on top like caviar, the black truffle and some pepper. A sweetness of mushrooms, sourness of spicy pepper, nebulous perfumed truffle filling the mouth, all tempered by the cream. Tempting isn’t it?

Where was the mushroom cream sauce that F imagined clinging to the strands of pasta and speckled with pepper and truffle (or was that the description of the colour?) Modest amounts of cream? This was virginal! The truffle itself tasted of wood; chewed pencil. No ethereal perfume, no comforting creamy richness. Nothing. Again, a rather unenthusiastic experience for F.

So to me. My plate was altogether different. Well it was gnocchi not pasta, so bound to be. I always remember watching cookery programmes where they said that gnocchi is not difficult to make but easy to mess up.

A plate of several quail egg sized gnocchi, cloud-light to the bite and maybe flecked with a little herb (maybe not), tossed in a creamy sauce, lightly spiced from the green vein of the Gorgonzola, the richness cut through by the pea and the hint of mint that brings down the pea’s sharp greenness.

Well, the creamy sauce was indeed creamy, with a light touch of Gorgonzola. Although too much cream for me, there was some balance. A few peas, not very many, and a subtle hint of mint gave the sauce a bit of freshness, preventing it from being sickly. The dumplings themselves had some lightness to the initial bite but were more marshmallow in texture. I was still pulling it off my teeth at the end of the meal.

So what went wrong? Well as I said, this smacks of a group of executives wanting this to be everything to everyone without really focusing on what that ‘everyone’ is. Who are they trying to compete with, Carluccio’s or Wagamama’s (if the latter then they have missed the point of Italian eating, surely)? In this case, the group of executives is from a company called Sweet Potato, an investment company that operates several brands including, rather surprisingly, Villandry and Villandry Kitchen, both of which are quite successful and the latter, in Chiswick, I have already covered in a previous post.

Overall, aside from the friendly and attentive staff, we were left with a cavernous sense of disappointment, as lifeless and empty as the restaurant itself.

Kitchen Italia 41 Earlham Street, London WC2H 9LX T 020 7632 9500 E earlhamstreet@kitchen-italia.com

Resistance is futile...

2010-04-20T05:12:00.000-07:00

Silent and clear spring skies, thanks to Iceland’s volcano, made this particular Friday even harder than usual to resist escaping the chains of wage slavery early. So I pushed the ‘off’ button on my computer, told my work colleagues what I thought of them (I didn’t actually, but one day... one day!!) and headed down to Borough Market to get some gastronomic inspiration, purchase a bottle or two of wine, and meet with a few fellow bloggers and tweeters.

Coffee fuelled chatter between @Tehbus, @gingergourmand, @KaveyF and me, in the ever bustling Monmouth Coffee shop, came to a conclusion when we decided to go next door to Neal’s Yard Dairy.

Where the outside was noisy, busy and colourful, with it’s Victorian terrace of tea coloured bricks (where’s the bunting?) and glossy paint touches, the interior was spacious, cool and white walled; hallowed even. Hints of dampness barely noticeable against the strong aromas circulated around the shop; temptations of hard, soft and cream cheeses piled up on counters, slatted shelves or in tubs, lured the customer to purchase. This was the perfect environment for a cheese lover; pieces of heaven, rind coated and wrapped in waxed paper.

I held back, merely happy to watch Kavey’s love and knowledge of cheese in action. My hands remained firmly in my pockets refusing to open the floodgates of purchasing (the principle being that one purchase leads to an avalanche of useless purchases and eventually to an empty wallet and a red face). And I did hold back. I resisted, I really did. However, in the street by the entrance to the shop, they had pitched a stall of their top sellers. And that is when it happened. Like Kavey’s Stichelton, I crumbled in front of everyone, and bought the cutest little ‘handbag-dog’ of a cheese: Milleen.

So how does one go about describing this pocket of joy? This modest purchase, this tan and mud coloured roundel of about 4 inches in diameter; soft-skinned rind speckled with mould and the criss-crosses where it had been resting? How indeed?

Made from pasteurised cow’s milk and traditional animal rennet, it is washed in water. The humidity and proximity to the coast (Eyeries, Co. Cork) does the rest, creating the perfect environment for the soft cheeses the Steele family produce, according to the Neal’s Yard.

Released, at home, onto a wooden board, the kitchen filled with high smells of cabbage, earthy muddy aromas, straw and a hint of, well, wee actually. Yes, I said ‘wee’ (did they really only wash the skin in water?!) Clashing with the strong aromas of a simple roast chicken I could barely smell the wine that I had also bought at the market (a post on that later). Having been wrapped in waxed paper, in a bag that sat in my rucksack, it was clear why I nearly had the carriage of the train to myself.

Cutting into this cheese was almost ritualistic; silence and awe (helped by a candle lit room). Barely resistant skin gave way to a light cream soft centre. Salty sweetness on the tongue, made rich and luscious by a creamy egg yolk quality. This gave way to a slight graininess (that possibly meant it should have been brought out earlier), contrasting with the grassy elements of the rind, toffee cloyingness to the teeth and long lasting flavour.

Ignoring any bread, I went hell for leather with the Milleen and the (almost) matched glass of wine. And so it went. Gone. Disappeared. A mere will-o’-the-wisp of a cheese, or maybe I was really just plain greedy. However, sated, I was glad I only fell for the one cheese.

Neal’s Yard Dairy, Borough Market, 6 Park Street LONDON SE1 9AB
T (0)20 7367 0799 E boroughshop@nealsyarddairy.co.uk

Woodbine’s Good Friday Fish Pie Experiment

2010-04-05T12:41:00.000-07:00

An abortive attempt to booze cruise my way through Norman France left me with an empty fridge and the question of what to eat. I should have been sitting in front of a mouth wateringly hot and cheesy galette, maybe with some added local ham, tan in colour and grainy in texture and served with sparkling locally made cider in an earthenware tea cup; bubbles complimenting the grainy crepe.

However, the sea was too choppy for the ferry (a catamaran style, hence it not running) and I returned with an unchecked shopping list and a bag empty of duty free delights and French produce.

The fact that Waitrose had an offer on their fish pie mix had nothing to do with it, not at all. I had the spring of the Easter bunny, the joys of Easter, the inspiration of the old tradition of fish on Friday, and what better day than Good Friday? I decided to tackle my very first Fish Pie (no, it really is my first time) and see how it goes.

My mouth was watering for flakes of pearlescent white fish, pink sweet prawns, rich salmon flavours and hints of smoke from the haddock; elements of spring from the fresh, green petit pois, contrasting sharply with velvety egg yolks, peppery parsley and the slightly salty creamy fish sauce. Sliced potatoes layered fish scale style on top to complete the picture. Hang on... sliced potato? Well, yes. I want my pie’s topping to reflect the contents. (I have sighed at several recipes by the great and good who have mashed their potatoes. Is it just me?)

The mixed bag consisted of ivory white fish (Coley? I forgot to ask), bright golden smoked haddock, glistening salmon chunks in orange-red hues, and from the freezer, pale pink prawns, petit pois, and a further sliver of salmon asking to be used up. The rest came from a raid on the cupboards.

So off we go:

1lb of mixed fish
250g prawns (defrosted)
150g frozen petit pois (defrosted)
1 scallion shallot (banana shallot)
3 eggs hard boiled and quartered lengthways

1 bay leaf
500ml fish stock
250ml white wine
250ml double cream
2 egg yolks
Juice of a lemon
Salt and pepper for seasoning

1lb potatoes (maybe a bit less) sliced to about ½ centimetre thickness.
Parsley
Butter

Mince the shallot and place in the bottom of a pan with the wine and bay leaf, boil for a few minutes then add the fish stock. To the liquid add the cut up pieces of fish and poach for about 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, in separate jug, mix the egg yolks and cream together with the lemon juice, and season. Drain the fish, returning the stock to the pan, and place in a deep sided gratin dish which has been buttered. The sauce is made by spooning about 2 tablespoons of the hot stock into the cream mix, then pouring the cream into the pan of hot stock, whisking constantly. This needs to boil until it is reduced to a double cream consistency (do not be afraid to let it really bubble).

To the gratin dish of fish pieces, add the prawns, peas, some parsley the hard boiled eggs, mixing carefully. Pour over the thickened sauce and then place the potato slices on top (some will sink but it should settle) in a scale style.

Place the dish on a baking tray to avoid the sauce bubbling over and bake at 180c for 45 minutes or until the potatoes are done. Serve with a sprinkle of parsley and some lemon wedges.

So how did I fare? Well, not a bad first attempt, even though I say so myself. Any thoughts or tweaks? The sauce could have benefited from further reduction, and I only used half a lemon. It did have good flavour thanks to the stock and the egg cream thickening (rather than the cloying effect a roux can give). However, if there had not been smoked haddock in the mix, I might have thrown in a tiny frond of tarragon, a mellow aniseedy contrast to the lemony zing. I might have added a sharp saline kick of smoked bacon. There could have been potential to add anchovy essence, the sharp briney fishiness working well with the boiled eggs...if, if, if... If I had done that, perhaps I would be moving from fish pie to lily gilding.

A bit of a tart...

2010-04-05T12:35:00.000-07:00

Having made a mess in Aunt J’s kitchen with my Good Friday fish pie experiment, she, with the patience of a saint, then took me to where she stores the wine to see what was on offer. Chardonnay came to mind; lemon zing and light oak complementing the smoked fish and the lemon juice that had been thrown into the pie. However, the answer lay in the word “experiment” and, as with the pie, so with the wine, with a bottle of Domaine Ventenac, Vin De Pays Cotes de Lastours, 2008, Chenin Colombard 12% (Waitrose, £6.99). Oh dear, oh very dear.

Pouring the wine into our glasses, the colour was a light straw colour, very pale. Lifting it up to a white background it was possible to make out the green tinges of the wine, giving hints to what was to come on the palate. My glass was a little too dish-washer worn to notice any legs but the rim was as clear as the wine itself.

Putting my nose into the glass and trying to avoid the pervasive smell of fish that was wafting around the house, there were light floral hints and appley greenness; citrus, some pears, and an apricot honey that gave it a light almost sugary quality. However, it was very green.

What hit the mouth initially was the instant gooseberry and sharp mineral flint sourness; an insanely mouth puckering acidity of Granny smith apples and quince tartness (potentially from the additional Gros Manseng in the blend, though this is only meant to be about 10%). Redeeming this slightly was the vague honeyness from the Chenin, a honey and lemon lozenge; lemon pith; grass and herbaceousness; metallic pencil-lead flintiness. The creamy element had an almost, and I feel strange sharing this with you, raw and beaten egg white flavour before sugar has been added. Think meringues with a hint of lemon (I use lemon, some people use vinegar, a technique I picked up from Arrigo Cipriani’s “Harry’s Bar Cook Book”).

Leaving the glass to rest further in the hope that the woody, bitter herb after taste would lift, and the floral and honeyed qualities of the Chenin would come to the fore, my mind wanders to the wild and rocky garrigue of Lastours, only tamed by the vineyards of Alain Maurel’s winery, as the website would have you imagine. This, of course is slightly fantastic as Domaine Ventenac sits in the foothills of the Black Mountains, the same ones as St. Jean de Minervois and St. Chinian though about 50km further west. But we are 10km north of the very dramatic Carcassonne the medieval town rebuilt by Viollet le Duc and star back drop of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, so the fantastic allusions should remain.

Given the vines grow in a good draining mix of crumbly white calcium soil with an underlying magnesium loam (both of which would explain the flintiness of the wine) and some clay (preventing the grapes drying out completely), there is little danger of producing flabby wines. Strong Mediterranean winds from the south and cooler breezes from the Massif Central in the north give the vines plenty of air, avoiding the mildew that the Colombard is prone to.

Returning to the glass, there is a faint mead-like quality of honey on the nose. After a while some of the edge has gone giving over to the nicer honey subtlety, this is followed by the fruity citrus follow up... high, high high acidity. Puckering sharpness returns but less dramatic than before. It has lost its bitter herb quality. The long, long, very long finish is of riper apples but definitely Granny Smith rears her aged head here in this young wine. Still got that mouth-watering long finish some minutes on.

What amazes me is the disappointing combination of these grapes, bottled up to sound like something a bit ‘classy’ (to use a term). Chenin, a native to the Loire, gets full honeyed dried apricot flavours and aromas in warmer climes such as the obvious South Africa. Here, in the Languedoc, where the climate is much warmer and drier than the Loire, this wine is high in acidy and very little else. The honeyed apricots are trampled on by limes, quince, bitter apples and flint. Mix this with the neutral crisp sharpness of Colombard, a grape used mainly in the production of Cognac a little further west, throw in a touch of Gros Manseng (I admit having to look that one up!), and this is the result: disappointment.

Overall, my thoughts about sipping a gentle creamy and slightly buttered chardonnay still remain (though I am no great wine matcher). The label on this wine bottle says it is perfect with seafood and shellfish; however, it is too flinty and acidic, and would destroy any subtle sweetness that you get with a scallop or a prawn (or whatever). This would be great with a lemon tart, clearly because it is lemon pith and it is very tart. Whilst it did mellow, I wouldn’t want to have this again (not even with a lemon tart). For me there is no rounded edge, no honeyed apricots and no creaminess.

Adding some camp to Campari...

2010-04-05T12:30:00.000-07:00

I have to admit, the end of Lent gets me itchy and excited. My enforced teetotal abstinence is coming to an end (I feel that if I am entitled to a holiday, why shouldn’t my liver!?) and I crave the most knockout of drinks rather than a simple glass of wine; gins, vodkas, light coloured spirits, Negroni Sbagliatos. Negroni Sbagliatos? Ok, so not an obvious choice.

Down the dark, narrow streets, firmly in the Centro Storico of Rome, minutes from the Piazza Navona and close to the Sant’Angelo Bridge and Pantheon, is a buzzing bar, heaving with all sorts of Romans and tourists: Antico Caffe della Pace. It was here I tried my first real Negroni, and here also, that I discovered its slightly more fey but infinitely more enjoyable sister, the Sbagliato.

The Negroni, according to the cocktail books of old, is 1/3 Cinzano Rosso, 1/3 Campari and 1/3 gin, served in a shot glass with ice and a twist of lemon peel; bitter herbs from the Campari (the drink of the Romans) mix with nutty gin and the sweeter lifting vermouth of Cinzano Rosso. The lemon peel continuing to bridge the bitter elements, the ice punching through the heavy elements of the liquors.

Where the Sbagliato differs is the lack of gin, instead using Prosecco. More frivolous, more drinkable and less likely to make you keel over mid conversation. Served in a longer glass, the same measures apply for the Campari and the Cinzano Rosso, pour the blend over the ice and then top up the glass with Prosecco. Finally, add a full, fat, round slice of orange not a peel of lemon. Lighter in flavour the bitter herbs are sweetened by the lemon and apple elements of the sparkling wine. Complementing this is the orange slice which again serves to bring the herbs and bitterness together with the sweeter vermouth elements and, of course, the light fruits of the wine.

Salivatingly satisfying, hugely restorative and better than chocolate... well almost... Happy Easter.

Sustenance and sustainability...(not a Jane Austin sequel)

2010-03-31T08:04:00.000-07:00

Moonlight glistened on dark water and the reflection of light sparkled, adding a dreamy quality. Dreamy? Isn’t this Newcastle? Well, er, yes. Between the Millennium Bridge and the wonderfully monolithic wrought iron Tyne Bridge, that makes Newcastle’s landscape famous; along the quayside, with Baltic, the brutalist art museum, and Norman Foster’s undulating curves of the Sage (Newcastle’s equivalent to the Sydney Opera House, according to the taxi driver), in the new heart of Newcastle, lies one of the City’s prize assets.

Café 21 is the inspiration of Terry Laybourne, author of the cook book Quest for Taste, and the first chef to bring a Michelin star to the North East. Although the Café's aim is for informality, the initial impression, from the sleek bar, dark wood surfaces, dimmed lights and hushed tones of the diners (through enjoyment, I should add), is of formality and this is reflected in the menu, bringing together classic European dishes and English food, most of which is locally sourced from artisan producers.

A combination of work and a chaotic journey north had darkened my mood. It was late and I was tired and cranky, so I felt disappointed that I didn’t have time to indulge in a couple of dishes or more. I settled, though, on the one dish that could ease my mood and hit all my bases at once; the North Country Hot Pot (well I am in the North!) with ham knuckle smoked sausage pork belly and lentils. Pork, pork and smoked pork! (Did I mention the pork?)

Brought to the table in a cocotte big enough for two but with a perfectly portioned plate for one. A cloud of steam released the sweet smell of meat and muted woody aroma of lentils as the lid was lifted.

Succulent hock from Middlewhite pigs, boned and slow cooked, pulling apart to the touch of the fork, and with biting-into-velvet softness. Adding to the richness of flavour, a generously thick slice of salted pork belly, stripes of pink meat and full flavoured off-white fat. Smoked Morteau sausage from Lyon, thick cut discs, finished the combination of meat flavours, spongily resistant and gently smoked; sweetness, smoke and savoury. Smooth textured lentils cooked in ham stock formed the luxuriant base to which fibrously crunchy French beans, wilted baby leaks and green leaves, chateau-cut carrots and potatoes, were added. Fully satisfying and just right, so sad it had to end so quickly.

Back to the dreamy quality of Newcastle, and the palate of colours, sights and sensations in my mind as I drift off to sleep with a smile painted on my face. I am looking forward to going back.

Café 21, Trinity Gardens, Quayside, Newcastle upon Tyne NE1 2HH T: 0191 222 0755 www.cafetwentyone.com

You can’t always get what you want...

2010-03-21T07:33:00.000-07:00

As Julie Christie might have said in the film Darling, “Chelsea is so gay” (well not in the modern sense of the word, but then again, I was surrounded by interior designers and arty folk so who knows?) Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Instantly trendy places come and go like shooting stars, and older ones from the time of Darling exist but never adapt. And, two minutes walk from the King’s Road is such an establishment.

Pellicano sits behind the lumbering blocks of flats on Sloane Avenue, and is frequented by the transient clients staying there or local people. Although it had a modern feel it was still very old fashioned. So it was with a certain apprehension that, dressed to pull and surrounded by the arty and interesting crowd, I accepted a glass of light and apple and lemony Prosecco and joined in the revelry. But that was where the problems began.

I was hungry, very hungry, so I decided on a starter of Tagliatelli with Rabbit; visions of creamy yellow tagliatelli contrasting with pale pink fleshed rabbit and flecks of maybe, parsley or thyme. However, reality kicked in the moment it arrived.

This was a rather hearty portion for a starter (serves me right, I guess), and my vision of pale yellow pasta and meaty ragu was distracted by a rather mean desert spoon serving of shredded and cheesy rabbit meat placed in the centre on top. The pasta itself while glistening was slightly over-cooked.

Over-cooked? Well that might be a bit harsh, but I wonder; were they catering for an English palate or were they too busy to cope? Either way, it is meant to be the genuine Italian article. Regardless, it was just a little too soft. Not al dente enough. (I once went to a place near the Vatican that served pasta so al dente that I wondered if water had actually been applied. But I digress).

I guessed that this was farmed rabbit, rather than a fuller flavoured wild rabbit, as it didn’t have that slightly woody, gamier quality that I thought it should have (it has been a while since I last had rabbit so please correct me if I am wrong), and it is the end of the hunting season. Drowned by the flavour and made slightly greasy by the cheese, it tasted more like the meat in a tin of Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup, so a desert spoon was more than enough. I was left with an acrid after- taste and the desire to dive into a glass of the red wine staring back at me in a wanton manner.

My main course Quail with Fennel and Pancetta on Polenta. Again, I imagined pancetta wrapped roasted birds on a bed of golden polenta. This was close, presented with Italian panache and looking quite appealing, there were two pretty, boned, roasted-to-a-chestnut colour quail nestling in soft, creamy mash and surrounded by a rich meat jus; two bronzed bathers on a golden atoll surrounded by a dark sea; parmesan and sweet saline smells from the polenta and pancetta. Ah, but again, what met the eye failed to meet the expectations of the mouth and mind.

The quails were stuffed with the fennel and pancetta giving them a plump cuteness and keeping them moist. Sadly, however, the overwhelming flavour was of pancetta; pancetta, pancetta, pancetta. The subtlest hint of aniseed and the tiniest meaty taste of the quail struggled to rise above the bacon. Nor were they helped by the not-so-subtle parmesan in the polenta, nor the jus. Keeping with the sixties film quotes, Michael Caine’s “you were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!” cry to his bomb expert for a more subtle approach to cracking a nut comes to mind, the complete lack of balance in flavours and excessive use of bacon was equally heavy handed.

Will I go back? Let’s put it this way, the only things that came out tops were the prosecco and the postcard that came with the bill.

Pellicano, 19-21 Elystan Street, London SW3 3NT

The pleasure of Polpo..

2010-03-07T05:57:00.000-08:00

Polpo is a busy and bustling Venetian style ‘bacaro’ in Soho, which serves light plates of regional food and wine, and was once home to the painter Canaletto. Having read so many excellent reviews and, on a few occasions, pressed my nose to the window like a Victorian waif to peer inside, I leapt at the invitation by @R_McCormack and @Tehbus to go for lunch.

Arriving fashionably late (I now realise what that term means… London Transport!) I was greeted by Russell, he of Polpo and @polposoho, who took me down toward the back bar and offered me a drink as I met my fellow tweeters. What was so good about the whole experience (apart from the food Russell, apart from the food) was the feeling that we were just picking up a thread of conversation, as if we had known one another for years and could go on talking until the sun went down; a real treat.

So what did we eat? Let’s start with the appetisers we shared: Two perfectly formed mouth sized balls of Arancini served skewered on a long cocktail stick. Golden crispy coated rice mixed with cheese that pulled away in chewing-gum fashion as it was bitten in half. Crunchy skinned fondue soft centred balls, given texture by the rice; richness and lightness.

White moussed puffs of creamy salt cod, a nebulously light taste of fish on a golden disc of polenta; softness, lightness, fishiness atop the gently resistant-to-the-bite grilled polenta. I should say salted cod, because of the difficulty in shipping in salt cod from Italy. Either way, the chefs have worked on interpreting and translating day-to-day cod into the salt cod before us; clever stuff.

The non-fish eating member of our table allowed me to dive into the salt cod (why does “swim with the fishes” come to mind? This is London, not the Bronx) in exchange for the prosciutto and mozzarella.

Round 2 (Now I have the theme to Rocky in my head), the plates. I don’t normally get excited about Fritto Misto. I guess it is because it seems like an easy option rather than going for something more creative, more unusual; different. However, I am glad it was chosen. I really enjoyed the sunshine yellow, lightness of the batter and the melt in the mouth squid; the soft and sweet prawn meat, and crispy crunch texture of the fish; more-ish, greedy temptation.

A salad, well, it’s a salad right? Not quite. Aniseed flavoured shaved fennel, curly leaves of endive; a bitter sweet blend of flavours, mixed with slightly perfumed almonds. That is a cleansing salad!

Pork belly, a clear favourite; meaty-succulent sweet and tender enough to pull apart with the fork; contrasting textures of softness and crunchy hazelnuts and crisp peppery radicchio.

A fresh yeasty based Pizetta arrived, cooked to perfection (for me) egg with runny yolky richness, subtle cheese flavours and garlic perfumes cut clean by spinach.

In my greed and praise for the other plates I almost forgot this, and how could I? A deliciously rich flavoured terrine of tender, dark rabbit meat, refreshingly light, crumbling under the knife onto the thinnest of French toasts; pinky meat flecked with sweet apricot and subtle herbs.

Embracing the Venetian theme, the gastronomic carnival continued. Round 3 (ding ding): The ox tongue and lentils was an ‘out there’ choice, something I was curious about but needed to taste. Nor was I disappointed. Meaty-firm slices placed fallen Domino style (did you spot that reference?) on a slightly minty lentil bed. Velvety pulses, tender meat, and a fresh flavoured herb brought extra life to the dish.

Blackness brought a deliciously Gothic end to our choices from the squid ink; liquorice smiles bringing levity to the conversation. Cuttlefish, simmered slowly, so very slowly in its own ink given an almost electric charge by a tangy gremolata. @R_McCormack and I were in two minds about this (well for this course, there were only two of us eating!) Whilst the joy of cuttlefish ink is found in the deep, rich, earthy brine quality that lingers on the tongue, coating the mouth with its long finish, the lemon zest adds another dimension, keeping it fresh and light; which I liked. This was served with a side plate of soft polenta drizzled in olive oil.

And so we stopped; the huge selection and our expanding waistlines brought an end to the feast. To ensure we were steady on the road, my tweetamies had Affogato al caffe. Like a flashback from the 70’s with Coca Cola floats, the gelato, rich and egg yolk yellow-cream was placed on top of the espresso to melt and dissolve into the drink. I looked on with envy.

This was such a good experience, made great by the food and conversation. I am looking forward to returning. Thanks to Russell and the Polpo team, and of course my tweeter friends.

Step back in time…

2010-02-23T05:27:00.000-08:00

A final rummage through my notes reminded me that I was, all in one day, an action hero, a ‘girlyman’ (to quote Arnold Schwartznegger) and a time traveller. I think abseiling down the side of a 14 storey building constitutes the hairy-chested-man-of-action-Grrr image that I would like to convey, albeit without the box of chocolates.

On the flip side, is the ‘girlyman’ wimp that hid behind his hands watching Wolfman, with the ever gorgeous Emily Blunt. Jumping out of my skin when someone behind me dived into a pack of popcorn at the most tense of moments. But time traveller? Well, yes.

The late evening ticket for the film meant that I needed to eat something before going into the cinema. Something quick and simple and not too far that going back to the flat would constitute an easier option. Round the corner and down the road from Fulham is an old institution. I say ‘old’, this institution is somewhere I went in the 80’s and early 90’s as a teenager, and I couldn’t resist checking it out again for old times’ sake; a trip down Memory Lane (or in this case, Kings Road).

Even with the passing years, nothing has really changed at Pucci Pizza. The location is different, having formerly been housed in a terrace diagonally opposite the Chelsea Fire station; the interior has been done in a deliberately similar layout, regular customers (mainly pretty young girls about town) are pictured in framed collages on the walls, and the place still retains some of its former character, hints of red and green against a white wall, to demonstrate its true Italian-ness. The owner’s son is now in charge and provides a link between the past and the present. Teens and twenty-somethings sit along side those, like me I guess, who were customers in the 80’s and 90’s, and are now old enough to be their parents (now that is scary!) or ex-Sloane Rangers harking back to their youth. There is a very casual party atmosphere and that is reflected with the music, occasionally live, and staff who look like they are, sometimes, having more fun than the customers.

A rather formal touch to the informality for the place were the small bruschette delivered once the order had been placed, (though because of the pending change of license I had to order wine and put it down as a rather large service charge). They had a really tomato and vinegary zing and crunch, and went very quickly. In fact, they could have been a main course in copious amounts.

Pizze are hard to mess up once the base is made, and that was one thing I do remember about Pucci. They never used to get it wrong, so the twitching suspense was heightened as the waiting for the pizza drew out (though not too long!). I ordered the Capriciosa. I have always loved egg and anchovy as a combination so couldn’t resist it. My pizza was piping hot from the over, crispy, crunchy and thin, the base softening the closer you got to the centre. I prefer thin crusty pizze to the breadier, thicker bases. The flavours? well that is the easy bit: a rich tomato base, layers of cheese and anchovies and, of course, the egg, though I don’t like my egg scrambled and cooked into the topping as they did on this. For me, leaving the egg to fry in the centre is preferable, but that is my choice and many would disagree, as they would about the thickness of the base and so many other things.

Still, it worked; powdery, crumbly golden yolk and salty, briny anchovy shock; tart tomato and creamy melted cheese, scattered pieces of mushroom and ham completing the tutti frutti colour balance (although the ingredients' quality were run of the mill). So? It’s a pizza! And I was full enough and ready for my schlock horror film.

Wow! What a retro-mental experience. Seeing it without rose coloured glasses is a whole new experience. It is old Chelsea and ‘to hell with it’. It relies on its reputation for being fun and buzzy and has done so for nearly three decades. (Not only that, but its website points out it is Chelsea in the address, next to the changing pictures of the parked red Ferrari and Callum Best). Cheap and cheerful? Definitely. I guess I would prefer to go there than go to one of a chain of well-knowns. Classy? Erm.. think again. But for a value for money quick bite I would probably go again.

Pucci Pizza 442 Kings Road SW10 0LQ Chelsea London T: 020 7352 2134 E: enquiries@puccipizza.co.uk

An Experiment… on a theme of risotti…

2010-02-22T13:32:00.000-08:00

Aside from the chance to put on spangly thongs, big feathers and party until the early hours, isn’t the idea of Mardi gras to clear out the larder, use up what you have and start afresh? Well, isn’t it? And while sparkling fireworks and rhinestones light up the Brazilian night, here the dark and gloomy slow crackle of damp wood on fires and cold, wet weather inspire something altogether different. I have a need to create.

Spurred on by the success of one home made risotto (the delicious Nigella Lawson’s irresistible Lemon Risotto – albeit slightly amended to suit my needs) and the discovery of one large tub of fish stock (made only from salmon carcasses), I decided to combine my Lenten clear out with that of continuing a theme: risotto. And so begins the experiment.

Flickering lights from the stormy gusts light up a lonely pack of Arborio rice gathering dust in the cupboard. Some equally cheerless shallots, and the last decent couple of cloves on a bulb of garlic, sitting solemnly beside the Aga, were enough to turn famine to feast, ready to bring life to the listless and mundane.

Lou’s Salmon Risotto with wrapped Monkfish

2 banana shallots
250g Arborio risotto rice
750ml salmon stock (I couldn’t make up the full litre, but it is fresh!)
1 small glass white wine (such as Pinot Grigio)
1-2 cloves garlic finely sliced
1 sprig of rosemary
Maldon sea salt
Butter

2 fillets of monkfish (or other firm white fish)
2 packs pancetta or Parma ham
1 small pack of baby spinach leaves.

Serves 2

As I said before, it is all in the preparation. Mince the shallots, and warm up the stock. Next, prepare the fish as follows:

Lay out the Parma ham from left to right so that the ends overlap and you have a wide ‘sheet’ for wrapping. Trim each spinach leaf of its stalk and place on top of the ham, making sure the leaves are layered evenly. Leave a centimetre at the top and bottom. The leaves need only be two or three deep. Once done, place each fish fillet at the bottom end and roll the ham around it into a sausage. I would not put salt on this as with the stock and the ham it is likely to be salty enough. Lightly brush with some olive oil and place in a hot oven for 15-20 minutes (or until done).

Meanwhile fry the shallots, with oil and butter, add the rice and coat well. Add the glass of wine and reduce until practically gone, then start adding the stock, one ladle at a time until all used up (In the final stages I added the rosemary and garlic so that the flavour of the rosemary has a chance to infuse and the garlic settles rather than being raw and pungent).

To serve: remove the rosemary stem. Place the risotto in a dish or on a plate, slice the cooked fish in a diagonal, and place on top of the rice, the idea being to show off the tricolour of the fish, spinach and ham on a slightly yellow rice. Clean, simple and elegant.

What I got (pure luck) was a contrast in colours of the white, meaty fish, the stripe of the green spinach followed by the rich red of the ham changing what would be a visually ordinary white-on-white (made grey by the cloudy weather) serving into something more appealing. Testing the fish morsel, it reminded me of the texture of a soft centred chocolate; firm to the bite with a softer centre. The pancetta, sometimes crunchy at the end gives way to a moist, meaty and tender monkfish; the spinach giving some cleanliness to the salty ham.

Creamy butter and rich fish stock (part of your Omega 3, I guess) make a smooth combination, coating the rice, contrasting with the ham and the fish: nutty rice and firm meat; soft monkfish and spinach; strong salmon, rosemary and bacon flavours combining to pull the taste buds back and forth, here and there.

Keep your rhinestones, your feathers and your twenty-four-hour-party-people carnivals, your music, dancing and fireworks. The hypnotic flicker of the fire and the smooth comfort of a risotto is enough to warm even the most miserable of cold nights (though I did look at prices on Last minute).

Unseasonal itch...

2010-02-20T06:04:00.000-08:00

You know when you get that urge? That certain craving? That itch? That wanting that no other taste or texture will make up for? Craving a risotto was a first for me. No need to check my oestrogen levels to know that this was out of the blue. But urge, craving, compelling pull, call it what you will, this was an itch that needed scratching. Badly.

What to do? Faced with an already defrosted chicken breast in the fridge, I had thought of a simple (read: bland) cep risotto with fried chicken breast. Quirky, angular cuts of opaque meat scattered with the remainder of some forest green thyme leaves, gently placed on a small bowl of Harris Tweed-dappled, ivory coloured Arborio rice and tobacco and nutty brown mushrooms, and hints of creamy yellow parmesan cheese. Smoke, beef and wooded mushroom flavours contrasting with the succulent, sweetness of the meat and the sharp, saline nuttiness of the cheese. Very simple and appealing to my blokey nature.

However, my tweetamie @Hollowlegs, with the tact and smoothness of a Venetian ambassador, suggested that it was too simple and needed livening up. Flatten the chicken breast and coat it in lemon zested breadcrumbs. Wonderful! Added sharpness with the zest would contrast very well with the thyme and mushroom. Crisp breadcrumby crunchiness matching the bite of the rice (it’s Arborio not Ambrosia). But by then there were more items on my shopping list than indictments against the Parmelat Directors, and if I were to go that far, why not go all the way? Come on girls, blokes like gilding the lily!

Lou’s lifted Nigella Lemon Risotto with Chicken.
2 shallots
1 stick of celery
Butter
Olive oil
150 grams risotto rice
400 ml chicken stock (I used a pack of Waitrose liquid stock but home made would have been richer)
Lemon juice and zest of half a lemon
Rosemary
Yolk of an egg
Parmesan 2tbsp and some for scattering
2 tbsp double cream,
Maldon sea salt
Chicken breast and garlic for flavouring the frying oil

Technically you shouldn’t have moved away from the risotto as it needs to be constantly stirred at a gentle simmering point (but you knew that already). So, firstly, prepare. Heat the stock but don’t boil it. In a bowl, mix the egg yolk, cream and the 2tbsp of Parmesan, lemon juice and zest, and rosemary. Next, finely chop the celery and onion. At the same time (who says men can’t multitask?), heat some olive oil in a pan and add some garlic making sure it aromatises the oil and doesn’t go burnt or bitter. Remove the garlic and get ready to fry the chicken breast.

Melt some butter and olive oil in a pan and gently fry the onion and celery until translucent. Add the rice and coat with the oils thoroughly, then, put in a ladle of the stock until it is absorbed. Repeat this process until all the stock is used up and the rice is done, about 20 minutes. Meanwhile, fry the chicken breast adding salt if necessary.

To assemble, once the rice is done add the creamy mixture, I tend to spoon some of rice stock mix into the egg cream first, stir and then pour it into the risotto pan so as not to curdle or shock the egg. Mix and add a bit more cheese if necessary. Slice the cooked chicken breast and either stir it into the rice or lay it on top in said quirky manner. Garnish with a little rosemary (and maybe a couple of slices of lemon zest lifted out of the Martini that has been helping you through this process).

Although this is a recipe aimed at bringing comforting warmth on those slightly chilly but sunny first days and weeks of Spring, what is striking about this recipe is the combination of simplicity and richness; smooth, unctuous and creamy textures; the sharp lemon tang and the almost sweetening effect of the salt; the yolky cream coating the mouth, not in an unpleasant way, wrapping you in a comfort blanket and protecting you from the sharp acidity of the lemon; the slightly crystalline, gritty Parmesan cheese; nutty rice bites against soft, moist, garlic infused chicken; and, hints of smoky herb from the rosemary, adding balance to the overall flavour. The stock, originally meant to be Marigold vegetable bouillon, is richer and adds a bit of beef (chicken actually) to the sauce and lifts what could normally be a bland meat into something more lively.

I poured myself a glass (or two) of Soave (Strele, Oddbins £10.99) with its balance of flavour adding to the creamier elements of the dish while helping give punch to the lemon. More-ish and satisfying, I can’t think why I never tried it before, so thanks @Hollowlegs for the inspiration.

Kitchen confidential

2010-02-03T09:33:00.000-08:00

Gosh! Aren’t I the lucky one? Called, last minute, by my brother Ben who let me know that Villandry have opened a new bistrot and café in Chiswick and I should check it out (where he gets that knowledge from I have no idea). So instead of going back to the darkest depths of Somerset, I delayed… I deferred… I… well, I let my stomach take over my thought processes. There is a childish joy at being a ‘first’ customer. I was so excited by the thought of a free meal I was bouncing like Tigger… no really, I was.

Smells of paint, comfortingly and reassuringly imply newness, cleanliness, never before touched freshness; contrasting, the second hand rustic pine and oak furniture, zinc topped tables, and café lights of glass and steel. Light and airy arched windows, denuded walls and wooden floors give a ‘loft’ atmosphere upstairs (where downstairs seemed a bit darker, even though it had ceiling to floor windows… strange).

Open kitchens and on-display chefs give me a childish sense of anticipation, excitement and entertainment. No nose picking or inappropriate scratching, as graphically described by Anthony Bourdain in Kitchen Confidential, but I still crane my neck to see what they are doing and if it is my plate they are doing in places like that (Union Café in Marylebone is the same).

I ordered duck confit with haricot beans (well if they can’t get the classics right then there is no point in trying the ‘trendy’ stuff). It arrived, perfectly cooked and piping hot. Haricot beans, the larger Tarbais variety (?), slightly soft, mixed with tail clipped crunchy Kenya beans, small strips of roasted red pepper for variety, and a stock and tomato based burnt sienna coloured sauce, thickened with a beurre manié. Sat on this, knife tappingly crunchy, salty skin hid a treasure trove of fresh succulent dark duck meat, sweet and rich, easily pulled apart from the bone with just the slightest touch of the fork. Earthy, gamey, slightly saline duck flavours lifted up by the sauce. Meaty succulence mixed with golden skinned crispness; velvet powdery softness of the haricots shocked by the crunch of the green beans. Visually and texturally, this was good.

A glass of Pinot Noir by J C Boisset Bourgogne was meant to compliment the dish, but it was a bit too cold to show its fruitiness at first and needed to be warmed up (I understood that all the windows had been opened to quicken the paint drying).

Pudding? I had room… no, I made room! I definitely had to make room for pear and almond frangipane tart.

And WOW! The almond frangipane was sublimely light and eggy buttery, sweet as sweet sugary eggy almond frangipane can be: a golden crust; an interior, light and cloudy fluffy and hinting lemon. Although the pears had coloured brown grey (so not seasoned with lemon?) they had a nice bite, and I have always loved the graininess of pears. The crème fraîche, soured and thickened to an almost ice cream consistency, perfectly balanced the sweet fluffiness of the almond base, the smooth unctuousness contradicting the pear grain and the fluffy frangipane.

Washing this down was a lemon-cream Charles Frères, Cuvee Jean Louis Brut, Crémante de Bourgogne, wonderfully smooth, young and petillant.

Slightly nervous service (well it was opening night) and a couple of tweaks (the slightly too soft haricots, the below room wine; peripheral stuff) aside, would I come again? Yes. Recommend it to friends? Yes. Pay? Oh if I have to.

Villandry Kitchen, 217-221 Chiswick High Road, London W4 2DW. T: 020 8747 9113. E: Chiswick@villandrykitchen.com

Icing on the cake... Caffé Caldesi

2010-02-01T13:23:00.000-08:00

Inspired by my fellow food twitters to reach beyond my love affair with wine and dalliance with the discussion on food, I think... no I am happy...no, delighted, that my first blog on food should be on Caffé Caldesi in Marylebone Lane.

Having tweeted, twittered and tapped my newfound twitter friends for possible ideas, I was still set on going to Caffé Caldesi for Aunt J’s birthday. (I might add that a kind tweet from Katie Caldesi – she of the caffé – clinched the idea to return. That, and Aunt J’s love of all things Italian and the caffé itself).

My glamorous friend Helen, fashion buyer and old chum from wine course days, originally took me there some years ago and I still find it an ideal place for the odd treat. But oh, the stress of the train journey…! Oh, the lack of tubes at the other end..! Oh, the tension and suspense as the Tuscan Restaurant upstairs is closed in the winter months and you can only lunch downstairs without reservations (no wonder I am balding!)

Thankfully, as we decided on our courses (and again, thanks to Katie Caldesi) the manager served us a refreshingly welcome complimentary glass of lemon fresh prosecco to tease the tastebuds while we made our choices.

The Frittura mista di pesce, crispy fried calamari, whitebait and prawns. Delicious contrasts between the saline, the citrus, the crunch and the tenderness, presented in a rich, light batter, and served on a board. This, for Aunt J, brought childhood seaside memories of crispy fried whitebait. Crunchy to the taste, fishy and lemony; a must for her. Sweet meated prawns and to-the-bite calamari provided variety to this dish.

Me? Well, I am a bloke. Let’s face it, I eat meat. It’s a savage, sweary, Grrr, hairy-chested thing going back to hunting-gathering. A primal itch (continuing the theme in Twitter on Blokeseatbeef) that needed scratching. I chose the Tagliere misto di salumi e formaggi (Ok so there’s cheese in it, and I am a bit of a softy). Textural differences of smoothly elastic parma ham, spongy mortadella, and the firmer, drier bite of a rich bresaola, contrast with the two varieties of pecorino, of which the Sicilian had a wonderful, almost blue vein mature spice to it; olives and sun dried tomatoes (acidy citrus and tomato sweetened oil); a light and lightly salted foccacia; and finally, a melt-in-the-mouth artichoke perfectly cooked and effortlessly swallowed. (Goodness, what will the main course hold for us?)

I wanted to order Il Peposo; a slow cooked piece of beef with tomatoes and black peppercorns on a bed of polenta. Sounds salivatingly dreamy, doesn’t it? However, it really is slooooooooow cooked (and I was too early). Tempting as this was, our union will have to wait until another time.

Instead, both of Aunt J and I chose the La Milanese, a breaded veal escalope with potatoes and green salad. Veal, breaded and served on the bone (this one seems to be cut like a valentine chop before being hammered out, and is big enough for any bloke with primal meat urges, in fact, bigger). Cubes of oven roasted (an assumption there) floury potatoes compliment the light velvetiness of the veal. The breaded crumb coating is rich and eggy, crisp to the knife; the milky lightness of the veal, almost as melt away in the mouth as the artichoke earlier, cuts as easily as butter and is sharpened by the lemon juice. Neither the refreshing salad, nor the wine, could help me finish this course off. No bad thing, except for my ever growing waistline (strangely, Aunt J managed to eat it all and still remains slim!)

A Nipozzano Chianti Ruffina, Marchesi di Frescobaldi, 2002 (A half bottle, the station is still a seven mile drive away from Aunt J’s house) accompanied the main course. Fruity berries, tannins, richness and acidity. Mouthwateringly good with a long, long finish.

Pudding? Just a mouthful. Tiramisu, and with a candle in it for Aunt J’s birthday (the manager also offered to sing, but to his relief we decided to remain discreet!) Spoonful followed spoonful of gorgeous textures from the streaks of infused sponge to the mascarpone; cloyingly (in a good way) long lasting creaminess and chocolate powder. (I like a bit of crunch when I make mine so add amaretto biscuits soaked in alcohol but, like my writing, maybe I gild the lily). But hang on a minute, has the recipe changed? Last time I thought it had a rich Tuscan yellow cream (perhaps it is an egg yolk thing?)

Still, it was delicious and I needed a very long walk to burn it all off. (Actually, I needed to lie down, wrapped in the blanket of my own gluttony. Bliss.) Thank you! Thank you for making it a really enjoyable day.

Caffé Caldesi, 118 Marylebone Lane, London W1 U 2QF. T 020 7935 1144. E: caffe@caldesi.com

Raspberries...

2010-01-05T07:36:00.000-08:00

Even if I am walking through one of the most spectacular cities in the Western world (Keats, the Spanish Steps, Pantheon, St Peter's for a quick chat with a priest, then looping round via Piazza del Popolo) the weather is fairly depressing and my feet hurt. It is enough for one morning.

My brother Ben and I have decided, on recommendation, to lunch at Gusto in Piazza Augusto Imperator. Gusto is more than a restaurant, created about eleven years ago it houses a bar, restaurant, pizzeria, wine shop, book and kitchen shop, all in one (www.gusto.it ), and worth the detour.

While he is on the beer, I have ordered a glass of the Nero d’Avola, Tenuta di Serramarocco, Sicily, 2005 (at €7 a glass - www.serramarrocco.com ) to go with my pizza.

Admiring the vibrant red colour; a rich and bloody red, purple-blue in colour, with coloured legs and a wide rim, I greedily dive in, anticipating the warmth of the spice that comes with this grape (and the prickle that compliments the chilli in the soon-to-arrive pizza).

It is dull outside, but I am transported to warm summers of hazy sunshine, dragon flies and slow moving rivers, as the scented smack of fruit hits me on the nose. Strong raspberry scents, with a creamy smoothness, pepper and wood from barrel aging, and hints of mint. This is summer pudding! Full of sweet perfumed red berry fruits with vanilla notes coming through. Should my glass be lined with bread (just checking)?

On the mouth, there are more fruits, dark, rich berry fruits coming through; there is the cassis of black current pastilles, all concentrated and mouth watering, and liquorice; creaminess tempers the acidity of the fruits, and spices give the prickle that hints at the warmer climate of Sicily, pepper prickles that Nero d’Avola is well known for; and finally, there are smooth tannins giving the length of flavour that keeps the mouth watering.

This has such a good finish that it holds its own, even with the strong chilli spiciness of the crisp Siciliana pizza, hand made in the kitchens behind me, and the bold taste of ozone and sea of the fresh anchovies (doubly lovely for me as Ben hates them).

(I thought I had already blogged on Nero d’Avola but can’t find anything, so here is the ‘science’ bit). Nero d’Avola is known in Sicily as calabrese which suggests origins in Calabria, it ages well in a barrel and is favoured for its reliable longevity, giving wines a great richness, texture, and depth of flavour in addition to complex aromas.

Although Avola itself is in the south eastern part of Sicily, near Siracusa, this particular vineyard is situated near Trapani and Palermo, in other words, the other side of Sicily. The grapes for this wine were grown on a mix of calcerous and clay based soils (the latter keeping the roots cooler and allowing a fuller maturing process), before spending one year in old French oak barrels (rather than Italian chestnut barrels which was more traditional until recently) to add the pepper and spice, and then six months in the bottle.

Sitting and admiring its colour and aromas again, the overall flavours and scents change only slightly still retaining that liquorice and raspberry that came to the front before. This wine really is full of Sicilian punch, and slightly unusual bearing in mind I was expecting a rather more raisin and stewy-fruited flavour to go with the prickle.

Stuffed but refreshed, I should burn lunch off walking the other hills of Rome, but may just manage a short up hill climb to the Tempietto.

VENUS RISING…

2009-12-31T03:25:00.000-08:00

Let your mind wander, journeying amongst undulating hills, where dust speckled canopies of leaves shade you from the raw heat of Tuscan sun; flashes of sunlight then shade. Dry clay tracks lead the car between the columns of vines and hares scamper and scramble around to get away from the noise of the car. San Gimignano sits behind like a backdrop to this summer dreamscape, unchanged since medieval times (ok that is a bit of an exaggeration. They had more towers then. A LOT more towers). Tuscany, the birth place of the renaissance, and the setting of Azienda Panizzi (www.panizzi.it ), the home of award winning Vernaccia, for which the area is famous, and more or less the experience I had when I went to visit there doing a solo ‘tour’ in 2008.

However, it is now winter in Bath and the summer warmth has long died down, replaced by the more intense heat of log fires in the drawing room. And my Panizzi wine is a rich ruby San Gimignano Cabernet Sauvignon “Rubente” (14%) 2005 (a Latin based word for coloured or tinged with red. In other words, it does what it says on the tin!) one of twelve varieties that Giovanni Panizzi has in his portfolio (including a medieval style Vernaccio called Evoè, which smells as potent as a red but has a full and unctuous flavour).

This red is rich and plumy to look at, although it is starting to move from its ruby description towards a garnet hue. And whilst there is little rim, even swilling leaves a tide of red clinging to the glass.

So, I swill, and try to wake up the wine from its cold, hibernating state, drawing out some of the aromas and flavours. The strength of the alcohol is immediate, strong but without any sting. Then come the scents: cassis and brambles; spices and wood; liquorice and mint; cream and vanilla from the new oak barrels in which it has been aged (the tasting note described coffee, which would be a natural part of this spectrum of aromas but I didn’t get that. But then again, I am in a different environment, in other words cold England rather than warm Italy); and, an almost meaty earthy note hidden at the back. This is full of complexity and each dip of the nose brings another mouth watering element.

Savouring the moment, and seeing if this would bring back more wistful memories, I take my first sip. Strong prickles hit the mouth, ticklingly spicy. The fruit is strong, mixed with a light vanilla and cream that came to the nose earlier. The berry fruit, more damson than plum, seems rich and slightly stewed giving it a long finish. Wood and flinty minerals reveal themselves towards the end of each mouthful. That, and the high acidity and medium tannins mean that this pleasing moment stays in the mouth for a while.

Cabernet Sauvignon is a late ripening small grape variety that has the ability to burst with berry flavour in hotter climates, where cooler climates can give it a bell pepper bitterness. There is a unique mixture of clay, sand, volcanic tufo, and calcareous soil in the hills surrounding San Gimignano; the clay gives it enough cooling protection to allow it to develop at its own pace without over heating or drying out. This wine has also been matured in new French oak barrels, giving it those slightly more coffee, richer, nutty aromas and flavourings that the Panizzi tasting notes describe.

The wine has had more time to develop and breathe in the glass and returning to it an altogether richer, deeper and smoky aroma from the bluer fruits emerges; a teasing raspberry tinge and rosehip lightness that contrasts with the berry. Then, jamminess.

The warming up has given the wine a greater depth (Panizzi does recommend drinking it at 16-17 degrees Centigrade which is a lot more natural there than Bath). Now the palate has the sweetness of the berries, bringing out the pure jam that was on the nose. This is a prize winner in the WI jam competition! I suddenly get a ‘Rubenesque’ image of rotund, ripe berries, full of fruity flavour dancing on the tongue, teasing you with more to come (not quite a burlesque act for the senses, but something more subtle. Maybe a tableau vivant). Again, the cedar, the flint and the tannins follow, giving structure; framing the wine. And then there are the minty, even eucalyptus (seriously), hints that add to the spicy liquorice; this time though, they are stronger than before.

Like Botticelli’s Venus rising from the sea, these flavours have emerged from the cool temperature where the wine was stored, revealing the wine for its full beauty (I need atmospherics! Cue Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde!)

PS. Azienda Panizzi is going to be in the UK in March to promote their wines (and olive oils maybe). Check out the website for more details.

Credit Crunch Christmas

2009-12-25T14:23:00.000-08:00

Thankfully, even with the failure of the Eurostar to get me to Paris for the New Year, and the fact that the snow has melted around Bath, the feeling of Christmas still remains; Ben, Dad and I went to Mass this morning (I told you I was a good Catholic boy!) as a unit, a lovely thing to do amongst families. Having said that, Ben, the elder, managed to wake us up like a child hungry for presents at seven this morning, so we were feeling a bit jaded and looked forward to our return, and to an enclosed environment where we could, if needs be, just crash on the sofa for a few minutes. However, we got back for very strong coffee and a mince pie and prepare everything for a late lunch, followed by the unwrapping of appropriately useful, silly or fun gifts. There is comfort in familiarity and doing Christmas is one of those things. Some people’s habits don’t really change, even after several years.

So with that in mind, our food choice on this occasion was a bit different to the norm, with no capon; the usual choice. Smoked salmon, roast duck (a rather large one from the local butcher) with all the trimmings, and Christmas pudding, ordered and delivered by Fortnum & Mason (who else?). In other words, a bit of a mixed bag.

The wine choice came from what we had in Dad’s ‘cellar’ (read larder). We started with Jacquart (which I have blogged about before). I know. Before you say anything, a good Chablis with a bit of oak would have worked a treat, but, as the title implies this is a Credit Crunch Christmas and I picked this out from a left over wine tasting.

The duck was a bit of an experiment, a Marsannay from the Cote d’Or, a Pinot Noir based wine with the most delicious berry lightness and low tannins that went ok with the meat (in other words, it didn’t steal the bird’s thunder) and particularly unusual as it is almost a deep rose in colour rather than the light purple-ish red that maybe a Gamay or other light red would have.

Finally, a Tokaji Azsu to go with the pudding. A dried berry and citrus zest wonder from the East of Europe (yes, I know it is Hungary. I went to Budapest to get it myself!) with a rich and ever so slightly cloying after taste that left me feeling I wanted to whoop with joy, before mellowing on a bed of Hungarian down pillows to slowly doze and leave the washing up to those left behind (i.e. Ben and his early bird Santa imitation). Good stuff and worth the wait of four years to find an appropriate moment.

All in all, a rich and heady combination which is sending me to a rapid dreamlike state, and ushering me to an early bed.

So not the normal blog, but a quick note to say, good night and I hope you have a very Merry Christmas.

Lou

Ps Thanks to Jamie Keddie for this photo knicked from his blog..!

Angels and Demons

2009-12-17T08:20:00.000-08:00

Following up from the recent tasting of Beaujolais Nouveau (surprisingly good if not slightly expensive) I travelled with Dad (not actually moving from the spindle back chairs in the basement, but that is wine tasting for you) down from Beaujolais to the Rhône valley and to Vacqueyras, giving us the chance to chat and mull over the wine in front of us.

So to set the scene: My big brother Ben has returned to London to work on the Chancellor’s report, the street lights are glowing with that wonderful orangey hue as the wintery, misty night rolls in, and the fire is burning with renewed energy in the hearth. Crackle! Snap! (Are you with me?) The cold I have just recovered from has really thrown me, so I am not convinced my palate will serve me well with this one, however, I will press on with Dad as my back up.

Nestling by the Dentelles de Montmereil and sheltered by Cypress trees from what must be the Mistral winds, is a wine made with a blend of Grenache, Syrah and Mourvèdre (though I didn’t notice any reference to the latter on the label); Les Grands Cyprès, Vacqueyras 2007 (Waitrose, £7.99 from £11.99) 14%. Vacqueyras is a Rhône Valley region lying just south of the Gigondas (so this vineyard must be right on the northern border but on the other side of the teeth) a mere 20 kilometres or so from Orange in the South of France.

This light ruby red wine has an almost devilish scarlet tinge rather than a rich bluey red of some other Rhône wines. The clear rim sparkles and winks in the glass from the light and contrasts with the slightly coloured legs.

Swirling this wine around (in that knowing way that experts do when talking to people, but somehow I just manage to spill some and end up having to take items of clothes off for washing) I get a rich Morello cherry hit on the nose followed by cassis; brambley blue fruit richness and hints of sharper citrus. Lighter berry fruits follow, coming to the nose; ripe strawberry, some cream and also a more mellow tone, musty and dull, a papaya-like mustiness, slightly sour yet fruity; a bit of a serpent in Paradise (given my dislike of papaya).

Changing my glass (I told you I swill so badly, this one has been knocked over. Thanks Dad) I get sour cherry, lemony flintiness and hints of stalk. The elements of cream and the cherry remind me of something similar to clafoutis; more sour cherry and less of a creamy vanilla batter scent though.

Each pause lets this creamy richness develop. I wasn’t sure about this purchase being always dubious about discounted or promoted wine, but realise my glass, hand, and bottle are probably a little too cold for this one. So giving the wine a bit more air and warmth, Dad and I take our first sips.

Initial berry and cream lead to fruity, woody stalk and sharp acidity that the Grenache provides. This high acidity leading to a mouth puckering, mouth wateringly long finish. There is a subtle melange (now there’s a word I haven’t used in ages) of the sourness and younger red fruits, red currents, strawberries, raspberries. Also, a impish hint of Parma violet, the element that gives the mellowness, bridging the sour cherry, the dark berry and the smoky tannic prickle. A subtle hint of herb comes next, though rather a bitter liquorice herb; stalky, chewed pencil ends. Finally flinty rocks blend with the acidity and tannins to gently coat the mouth.

Resting further and gaining a better room temperature, out come the richer fruitier berries that I had on the nose initially. Some leathery stewed fruits appear, which may or may not be the mysterious Mourvèdre that fails to appear on the label (apologies to Waitrose if it is, I am getting glasses soon). But predominantly it is the rich, creamy, dark and naturally sweet berries that remain in the mouth and in the mind. This, added with mild and smooth tannic elements, and the warming peppery prickle that comes from the Syrah grape, tickles the tongue and the tannins, spice and pepper pull together to provide the long and delightful finish.

Dad and I sit back and watch the dancing fire and breathe the cedar aromas emanate from the hearth; smooth music plays in the background, and we sip the wine that enlivens our palates with its own crackle of spice and pepper. Angelic fruity richness and devilish peppers. Spice. Acidity. Length. Temptation! Naughty but nice (as the old “cream cake” adverts used to say).

Prime beef from du Boeuf?

2009-11-27T04:21:00.000-08:00

Ok, let’s be honest. I didn’t think that Beaujolais Nouveau (Georges Du Boeuf 2009, Waitrose £5.99, 12.5%) would bring back some fond memories or a wry smile to my face, as I foist it onto my brother and Dad for the latest wine tasting. It isn’t really a bad wine, it is just not meant to be a classic wine, merely a quaffable, lightweight, trouble free wine (we can leave the ‘trouble’ to the chefs on the other side of the room).

I remember the very first time I tasted Beaujolais Nouveau. It was 1985, and I was five years away from legal drinking (you work it out). It was magical. The world of wine had not yet opened up to me, but a visit to London, trips to the Hamley’s, Madame Tussaud’s, the Tower and the Grande Dame of hotels, the Savoy, for a party to celebrate Beaujolais Nouveau Day, made me feel special and grown up, as if my birthday and Christmas had come early. It was the first time Dad allowed me a glass to myself, and the last time we went out together as a family.

Now, I realise there may be a raised eye-brow or two using the word ‘magical’, though 1985 was a reasonably good year for Beaujolais Nouveau; but, there is something extraordinary about harvesting and producing wines with such a quick turnaround, sometimes under six weeks.

Back in Bath, the present, the kitchen, while Dad and Ben between them heatedly fuss over the supper (it is only a chicken!), my glass is sitting waiting for my attention. The eyes are immediately drawn to the wonderful and pure beetroot juice colouring of this wine; a rich, staining purple-red which leaves a crown of coloured legs when it is swilled around the glass, and a distinctive clear rim when settled.

Bringing the glass up to the nose, the first surprise comes from a rounded, rich cassis aroma. Why a surprise? Normally, there is a lighter cherry note that comes from the Gamay grape, which is what this wine is made from. Here, initially, perfumes of darker fruits come to the fore. This cloudy cassis gives way to some hints of fresh strawberry and then old familiar characteristic smells of Beaujolais Nouveau start to come through: those perfumed, lighter red fruits.

Beaujolais is famed for its unique fermentation process that boosts the flavours; carbonic maceration or whole grape fermentation. First discovered by Louis Pasteur (yes, the milk man), the whole grapes are put in a sealed vat where carbon dioxide is pumped in to start the fermentation process before pressing. This process enhances the aromas and flavours giving it a jammy, sweeter element to the tasting process, taking your senses on a journey from cherry and berry to banana, jams, bubblegum, pear drops and kirsch. The flavours are all in there in various bottles (and, OK, I admit it. I even had a sniff from the top of this bottle to double check my nose was working!)

The second surprise is on the palate. Creaminess hits the tongue in the first instance, bringing with it cassis and darker berry notes. Taking another sip, it is followed by a powdery, cloudy mouth filling strawberry. Contrasting to the fruity flavours are some stalkier, flintier elements, reminding just how young and green the wine is. The flintiness comes from the granitic and schist based soil on which these grapes are grown. Giving it a rather pencil lead note to the palate, rather than for example, a clay soil which hints at more leathery, leafy tones. Either way, it emphasises the acidity for which the wine is well known and its lack of serious tannins.

Coming back to the glass after resting for an instant; there are some sour cherries emphasising the high acidity, drawing in the cheeks and making the mouth water. The sweet fruits are brought further forward as the glass reaches room temperature. Again, summer fruits, ‘cherry lips’ sweets (does anyone remember those?), and jam, meet berry and sharpness. Throw in a chalky, powder puff of perfume that seem to fill the mouth and you have this year’s blend; hailed as being the best primeur in fifty years.

Georges du Boeuf is a master of turning the commercial into something a little bit more exceptional, the ordinary into something a bit more extraordinary. Beaujolais Nouveau Day is said to be down to him. So, this year’s results are surprisingly enjoyable, but let’s not get too excited. We are not talking a well rounded Margaux here, or a rich and mellow Chateau Neuf du Pape. Good value? I would say yes, but with a BUT. £6 is nowadays not a lot to spend on a bottle of wine, in fact, wine at that price is cheap (and I am always looking for bargains in these days of thrift).

My point is that you have to take Beaujolais Nouveau in context. As I said at the beginning, it is a quaffing wine, not a quality wine, so this year you are getting something that is better than average for a reasonable price; it just isn’t a bargain. But, drink it with, for instance, a succulent roast chicken (like the one that is waiting for me the other side of the kitchen, if the boys stop fighting), or the Thanksgiving turkey (which comes a week later than Beaujolais Nouveau Day), and the acidity will bring out the sweetness of the flesh. The fruit will contrast well with the salted skin, the creaminess and the butter. Then, maybe, you are talking about money well spent.

American Beauty

2009-09-22T07:23:00.000-07:00

Is it me or is there a distinct chill as the days draw to a close? There is a distinct change of smells, with leaves changing colours, and gusts bringing mini-whirlwinds of russets and gold. Autumn is definitely in the air and getting out warming gilets and scarves come to mind.

And so, with the exception of Dad’s gardener, visiting early this morning (very early), and Ben’s call to say that having partied hard he is now trying to remember when his wallet, amongst other things, was pinched, I managed to make the most of the solitude and the seasonal mood, choosing to cook a hearty supper and to pick some of the last apples from the tree for a pudding.

My take on a seasonal meal is Mutton with flageolet (an Elizabeth David recipe that I have altered to suit myself). The gamey richness of the meat and the muted colour of the beans, lifted slightly by the tomato, create the tone. A light Tarte Tatin to follow, and to go with this? A definite bargain from Waitrose: Hess Syrah 2005, Methode Traditionelle, Monterey County, USA (from £9.99 to £6.49), 14.5% (yes 14.5%! Remember, this is Schwarzenegger country!) I should really have considered Steak au Poivre to complement this punchy wine. However, I had mutton on my mind.

The Hess Collection has several hectares of vineyards (as well as art galleries) in California, mainly in Mendoza. But, sandwiched between other heady names such as Kendall Jackson and the more stellar Robert Mondavi, Donald Hess grows this Syrah in Monterey County. The longer growing time (sometimes a whole month longer than the average grape) and careful irrigation, due to the low average rainfall, influence the slow maturation of the grapes. On top of that, the variety of soils, a mix of loam, clay and sand (in layman’s terms: the baking clay can act as a thermostat, whilst the sand and loam the drainage), help create an excellent microclimate in which to produce this heady wine. Not forgetting that 1985, was considered a particularly good year for Monterey.

So, having said all that; I can return to the bottle and pour the wine into the waiting glass. And what richness of colour! What a bluey-red. What a plumy-ruby-red red. Coloured legs, which hint at the strength of the wine run down the glass. Joyous ‘Lacrima’ (Oh you can’t take the catholic out of the boy!).

On the nose this wine is rich. Rich, rich, RICH! Dark fruits and liquorice hit the senses, the strength of these aromas making the pupils dilate (I told you this was strong!) Spices of anise mixed with the sweetness of the raisins lead to thoughts of the exotic. Woods, especially a cedar-like sweetness, pencil and pencil lead reach out from behind the strong vanilla and cream (this caused in part by the French oak that this wine is aged in).

I am already heady, in part because of putting my nose into the glass enough times to give me a high, but also because this wine is just a pure temptation. As my tongue plays with the liquid fruit, I am seemingly rolling in dark fruit, any dark berry: mulberry, loganberry, that sort of thing. A velvety wrap, a rich compote of dark fruits made more intense by honey, vanilla and cream (think American Beauty, but with me and grapes! Better not, thinking about it, I need to go to the gym). Woodiness and tannins find their way through the smoothness, making the teeth dry and a high acidity leaves the mouth watering intensely. And then it comes: BAM! The syrah punch. Rich pepper, peppery-pepper, peppery spice, almost chilli pepper (did I mention the pepper?), and a really long ticklingly prickly finish on the tongue.

Letting the glass air a bit more, and in the spirit of California, I need to SHARE. Normally, I am not a great fan of many New World Wines. There, I have said it! I feel better now. To me, they are often too big in fruit and too heavy with alcohol; ‘confectionary wine’, sweet and filling, leaving room for little else. Quality is potentially sacrificed for commercial advantage and big flavours; the bigger the better (South Eastern Australian wines being particularly guilty in my mind, with their addition of flavoured staves or essences to increase the oak and smoke flavours).

With the Hess Collection (and many boutique producers), this is not the case; care and traditional methods of wine making mean that they are serious producers offering pleasurable, not ‘party’ wines. And this wine, even though at the cheaper end of their collection, whilst strong, is nevertheless delicious. I am exhausted by that sharing; that openness. Have another drink Lou!

Taking another mouthful; the creamier elements come to the fore with hints of apple (almost dried). A sharper citric tone rather like red apple or raspberry
(but sweeter than cassis which has a sharp acid lemony note to it) makes the mouth water; a top-note flavour that rises out of the deeper darker fruits (think of that top C in Allegri’s Miserere). Some powder on the tongue adds to the rich velvetiness, and the wood and liquorice, give added layers to this jammy wine. It is like having a pudding it is so rich (but I already have my Tarte Tatin in the Aga).

Carefree swinging to the oven to get my pudding, and even more carefree swaying back to the computer (helped by the mellow and soothing voice of Sarah Vaughn on the CD player) I feel as if I have been massaged, wrapped in a duvet and kissed goodnight. I can now slump in an armchair to slumber and digest. For a low end of the range, boutique (and not forgetting New World) wine, I am truly delighted. But for value, I got a real bargain and am gigglingly happy. Goodnight.

Death, the 80's and me

2009-09-15T08:12:00.000-07:00

Slightly aside from my normal wine tasting tales, I have been away in Paris, so, I have been too distracted to do my usual tasting blog.

Instead I have been 'checking out' some unruly tenants, sympathising with my concierge (I have learnt a lot from Muriel Barbary) and generally trying to find IKEA from the Paris Circular, or Périphérique as it is known, painting, dusting, cleaning, scrubbing, checking in new tenants and finally, returning to the calm and tranquillity of Bath.

The family home makes me feel melancholy, with echoes of footsteps on the hall floor and only a buzz of traffic and people; maybe it is because of returning to Paris, which brings back memories of Dominique and our lost promises; maybe because it is still haunted by laughter and voices of yesteryear when we were a whole family and life was seen through the youthful tints of rose and sepia; maybe it is because I miss my father, who has extended his travels in the Southern Hemisphere for another couple of months (I like his style, but I would like a retirement fund like his much more); or, maybe it is just the weather and the news that Patrick Swayze and Keith Floyd have died.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am not, nor ever was a Patrick Swayze fan. No! He sparked up quite a few jealous flares when I was dating the girlfriends of the time. Constant chatter on double dates (take it from me, double dating is a bad move) of how ‘gorgeous’ he was, whilst we, the boys would sit and grumble in the corner of the bar listening to the trills, the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and wondering when we would get a ‘look in’ (I think that was when I made the decision to take my dates to scarier films so that I could get the girl in my arms at the crucial moments). I was too young, thankfully, for Dirty Dancing but not for Ghost, so never had to consider my dance moves, only my artistic side.

However, I was a Keith Floyd fan. I loved the way he cooked, chaos with a flare, going from failure to failure with enthusiasm, to paraphrase Churchill. I loved the fact that he was a Somerset boy like myself, which in my youth was a factor more so than today. Presentation was not as important as the sensations that came from flavours, something I am mostly in agreement with now, though debates on 'feasts for the eyes' can run and run.

His love of all things French was a healthy part of my decision to go to France to learn about food and wine, as he did, and with that, life and love. I ended up in Paris rather than the south, firstly poor and hungry, but later, with plenty of friends and eventually the love of my life. Story book stuff really, and it is partially thanks to him.

Inspired to learn, my first wine lesson was over a ropey Beaujolais, light in colour with cherries and a chewing gum flavour that I later learnt came from the carbonic maceration for which Beaujolais is famous. From there I progressed to other grape varieties, and then other wine producing countries. I did a wine course before working in a Parisian café bar (serving beer and more ropey wine, notably Morgan, and learning very quickly and from scratch how to cook as the owner demanded more from me).

It was through his inspiration that I read Elizabeth David, then Jane Grigson and the wider food writing community (I should say Julia Child given the film of the moment but I haven’t seen it and do not own her books), getting inspired by them too. Setting higher, and more chaotic standards for myself (I still love the chicken with leeks and cream recipe), and once, though thankfully only once, setting the kitchen of the café on fire.

It is thanks to Floyd that I understood why there is genuine and real pleasure to be found in food and wine, and I honestly felt that I was following in his footsteps (not forgetting his liking for The Stranglers, his theme tune). Sadly, seeing it all crumble around him, the drink, the illness, the bankruptcies, all that too is a lesson learnt. But it is not the latter that we should remember him by but the fact that he was a gourmand, a gourmet, a bon viveur. Full of fun, energy and passion about what he did.

So raise a glass to his memory as I will, and to Swayze (despite the arguments he caused), and to the fun times, the bad hair and turned up jacket sleeves; of the period that is becoming, more and more, just another decade in history.

Sunshine in a glass...

2009-08-03T03:47:00.000-07:00

I have decided to go for a short visit to London (en route to the Paris to deal with some rather unruly tenants). Dad’s house in Bath was becoming too big and airy without his being there, being on a ‘Who do you think you are?’ ancestry finding mission in Australia, and I needed some company. So, by way of a 'thank you’ to my older brother, Ben, in who’s rented accommodation south of the river I am staying, I have taken the spare keys and gone out to the shops, producing pasta, varied ingredients, and of course a bottle of wine; Italian, naturally, to go with the pasta.

Oddbins pointed me in the direction of a light white Soave (Azienda Agricola Strele, Costeggiola, Soave DOC 2008 (12.5%) £11), which seemed temptingly Summery, and fresh enough to raise the mood on a barely sunny day. As a wine, Soave was once barely considered worth discussing seriously not too long ago. They specialised in big output and low quality, expanding and expanding further the DOC area to meet demand, diluting the Garganega with Trebbiano di Soave and sometimes Chardonnay making the DOC regulations, frankly, a bit of a joke.

In recent years, however, smaller producers have been trying to rein in the branding boom and provide wines worthy of Soave’s history. The Strele Estate is one of these. Its 9 hectare pocket lies in the hills overlooking Soave, north of the Adige River and east of the famous city of Verona, producing a Soave DOC wine with 100% Garganega grapes. The name Soave means suave, or smooth, so opening the bottle and preparing for supper, I am keen to see if there is any truth in this name.

Looking at the colour in the glass (in a room where there are no white walls) it is a rich, golden yellow, a Summer sun colour to banish clouds; a comforting golden glow. Mellowing even! Yes! A real mellow yellow (there is a song about that).

Dipping my nose into the glass, there are wonderful rich lemon and pith. But interestingly, more pith than lemon. Ultimately this has that refreshing aroma that brings nostalgic, sepia tinted memories of Grannie's farm in Somerset; hot sunny days, cattle grazing and, after some rounding up at feeding time, the reward of that home made pithy puckering lemonade. Behind this lies the secret of the quality and, therefore, cost. Hints of white fruit come forth, but then these fade and give way to stronger aromas of tropical fruits: melon and mango; papaya, pineapple and pears. (I have to pause and look for another room. Cooking, candles and other fragrances coming from the flat are putting me off). I will tell you what image is going through my mind that will help me clear up the combined aroma sensation coming from this glass. Imagine ice-cream, emphasis on the cream not the vanilla, topped with dried apricots and drizzled with honey (... pistachios for decoration. Ok, I am gilding the lily. Forget the pistachios). THAT is what I am getting from the glass in the initial few minutes. Warming up a little, the sweeter fragrances mellow and behind them lie the herbaceous and young green elements that a younger wine gives; basil and fresh peas.

On the palate? Again, mellow, mellow, mellow yellow on the lips. Lemon and pith, pith and lemon. The flintiness comes through when it is chilled. A long, strong acidity finish making the mouth water (even more than when I was just sniffing it. Or is it the thought of that apricot ice-cream desert that I now want to make?). The coldness also gives a light prickle to the tongue, pushing you on to move beyond that prickle and its associated mineral flint, emphasising the calcareous soil that the Garganega is grown on.

Letting it settle for a bit, the prickle goes and allows the true flavours come to the fore; and, in bringing it to the temperature of the room, out come the smoother, richer and more exotic fruits, honeyed off by an almondy smoothness, that balances the acidity and keeps you wanting more.

What impresses me is that it is a 2008. In other words, this is a young wine, and even now it offers great flavour and develops nicely in the glass. Worth the money? I think so, though I am not so sure Ben, the accountant, will see it my way. Best keep it to myself.

Liberation...

2009-07-05T04:24:00.000-07:00

In this infernally hot weather, making deliberate reference to Dante’s circles of Hell, isn’t it nice to have a bit of space from everything? What the Americans would call ‘me’ space. I am having a very liberating evening to myself. My brother, Ben, is going to his first liberating ‘event’ in London with a friend, and Dad had gone to Australia for four weeks to see other members of the extended family. (The name Woodbine comes from our nineteenth century prisoner ancestors who acquired the name when they either became liberated, and did not want to be associated with their misdeeds, or because they did not want to be caught after ‘liberating’ themselves). You get the theme so far.

At last, alone in the house in Bath; keeping cool with all the windows of the building open at the back, overlooking our small terrace and herb garden. Jazz music playing ever so slightly too loud whilst preparing supper – a basement kitchen helps muffle noises for the neighbours, or at least that is what I am convincing myself as I really can’t face their complaints in what I am currently wearing. Yes, keeping cool wearing just my boxers, an apron, and a glass of something I found in the fridge to hand. Quite the naked chef. All being a picture that reflects the heat and need for space.

So this is it. Salad chopped, vinaigrette prepared, and salmon oiled and in a skillet waiting to go (my top tip is that I like to cook my fish and shellfish in bacon fat. But I digress). I pour out the Terra Viva, Bianche Terre di Chieti, organic 2007, white wine that my Dad had obviously bought from Waitrose for a carefree evening. The grapes being classified as typical of the geographic region, Abruzzo, with its humid landscape and sometimes excessive heat; in other words, Trebbiano d’Abruzzo table wine (Science bit: Trebbiano d’Abruzzo is a subvarietal of the standard Trebbiano. It is known in France as Ugni Blanc, used predominantly in brandy making, especially in Armagnac. Well, that is comforting).

Pale yellow with hints of green, the smells emanating from the glass (over the smell of cooking) are citrus. Grapefruit and lemon pith with an almost ‘sweet’ element to it. The label states that there are aromas of peach and melon and this could explain the ‘sweetness’ that I am getting, but it is very subtle and a little more floral than that.

On the palate this wine has a fairly obvious citrus bite, but behind lies the link to convince me that this will go well with my food. Elements of basil and liquorice herbs are drawn out as the flavours linger in the mouth. And, yes, as the label suggests, the sweet fruits are there; subtle but evident. High acidity versus a slightly unctuous almond cream; a flinty minerality added to the lemon finish. This is a definite Martini lemon rind moment with that almost nutty oily element (normally coming from the gin in a Martini, but bear with me, I am on a roll) contrasting against the sharp flinty citrus notes. That same mineral note also complimenting the herbal liquorice basil link, which I mentioned before.

The contrasts in the glass reflect the contrasting and dischorded jazz tunes coming from the CD player; acidity against unctuousness; lemon against almond cream; modern music against the Georgian surroundings. I dismissed this as a humble table wine, but I have to be honest, the mood, the food, both are being lifted by this enjoyable quaffing wine.

COUNT THEOTOKY AND OTHER GREEKS…

2009-06-21T08:42:00.000-07:00

It was because of a Greek wine tasting, with Richard Congreve, the head of Heartfelt Communications, who kindly allowed me to gatecrash his ‘Wines of Northern Greece’ event during Lent (when I was teetotal and drank not a drop. I swear!) that my brother, Ben, and I decided to spend a week on a Greek island. To be fair, he needed a break more than me, given his work, and it was at his expense, so how could I resist?

Gentle splashes from the pool. Views that go on for ever. Burning sun on the skin cooled down by crystal clear seas. Water that tastes all the sweeter because of the heat. Our island was full of nothing but land and seascapes. Good walking, wonderful swimming and places to muse. I think you get the picture. In the meantime, I enjoyed a mild flirtation in a café with an attractive waitress called Elena and Ben got the careful attention of a waiter at the restaurant we visited a couple of times. Nice to be liked.

Strangely, it was at this harbour side restaurant I went to, that I drank a wine from the same vineyard as one of the exhibitors of the Heartfelt event, in London a few weeks earlier. Ktima Alpha (2006, Amyndeo, Greece) which tasted as good the second time round, if not more so given the context of drinking Greek wine in Greece. Ignore the fact I was slightly ‘heady’ at this stage and cannot read my notes back very well, this excellent plum coloured wine had the nose of cherries and creaminess on the nose coming from the blend of syrah, with merlot and xinomavro grapes. The same cherry creaminess was mixed with a hint of the oak ageing, twelve months, to bring out a spiciness, complimenting the fruitiness of the merlot and the rich mix of acidity and tannins. I hope to see Richard again for another instalment.

A couple of days later we returned (now why did we go back to that restaurant Ben? Oh yes, the waiter) and enjoyed another wine, Ktima Theotoky, Theotoky, Ropa Valley (Corfu) 2007, a white wine blend of 90% Robola and 10% Kakotrigis both of which are local varieties.

Robola is linked to varieties in the Friuli area of Northern Italy (bearing in mind that the island was part of the Venetian Empire for several generations and Count Theotoky one of the oldest producers in Corfu).

In the glass, the colour was light lemon green and as beautifully clear as the water surrounding us. On the nose we got flavours of lemon, lemon pith, flint and cream with a mild hint of melon and pear.

Diving in (to keep with the swimming analogy), the flavours that came with the initial mouthful were of ultra creamy lemons, some flint and minerality and thankfully no metallic elements, which might have cheapened it. As the sunlight dimmed and our senses heightened, interruptions from the arrival of the food, red mullet on a bed of sliced, slightly spiced, potatoes, enabled the flavours of the wine to develop in the glass bringing out its character further. The citrus’s obviousness was overtaken by an altogether smoother cream and melon. A definite melon moment; almost melon sorbet.

A well balanced acid and unctuous finish with a long flavour that gently watered out in the mouth. Even Ben couldn’t fault this, but then again, maybe he was distracted by other company, or maybe just the sheer wonderfulness of the island.

The little difficult return

2009-05-17T07:13:00.000-07:00

I spent a very enjoyable evening in London the other week, heading to a favourite stomping ground, Marylebone, to meet one of my more glamorous City friends who had been waiting for me to finish my Lenten purging. We decided to meet for a drink to lubricate our jaws for the gossip ahead and I suggested Providores, a brilliant restaurant and tapas bar for the local chic that has a fantastically sourced wine list. Providores is owned by the New Zealand chef Peter Gordon who is a leading light in the fusion food stakes and is certainly highly admired in ‘foodie’ circles.

Seated at one of the busy long ‘posing’ tables that are in the centre of the room I decided out of curiosity on a glass of Little Rascal Arneis 2007, from Cooper’s Green, Gisbourne. I say ‘curiosity’ because, although I am qualified in wine (and got the badge, the t-shirt, and drank all the bottles), I have never heard of it before. The wine waiter suggested I give it a go describing the glowing and unctuous glass of golden wine as a zesty version of Pinot Gris.

So trying hard not to be put off by the wonderfully tempting smells coming from the plates being served around me (Hey! Is that Laksa!?) I started to take in the new aromas and tastes being offered in this glass.

As we dipped our noses in, there was an amazing sense of lemon and zest with hints of mint. Swirling the glass, aromas mixed with flint merged to produce an exciting fresh smell. Even leaving this to sit for a while (a very short time – we had a table booked at eight), the richness of aromas remained distinct and strong. All perfectly suited to the rich mix of Peter Gordon’s cuisine.

Arneis di roero, (translated from the local dialect, means the little difficult one) has its origins in the Piedmonte region of Northern Italy, from where the grape was ‘pilfered’ by a New Zealand vintner to plant in Gisbourne, on the east coast of the North Island. There the soil is rich alluvial loam (a mixture of sand, clay and decomposing organic matter, but you probably knew that already) producing high yields (the area was previously famous for big commercial production, wine boxes, that sort of thing, rather than boutique wineries. Now the situation is changing rapidly) and fine rich whites including Chardonnay and Gewürztraminers, and now arneis. The warmer climate develops the grape’s flavours and the soils, the richness.

So now you have had the science bit, back to the wine. On the tongue there was a creamy sherbet dip prickliness; lemon pith combined with spice and mint. Did I say mint? It’s minty lemon fresh! Given its spice, it is a creamier version of Gewürztraminer but with an Italian fanfare. More Enrico Caruso than Max Lorenz (although, the latter may have been more frivolous, if you know what I mean). The unctuous element, similar to pinot gris, was wonderfully balanced, bringing the two contrasting elements of cream and citrus together in a well rounded and wholesome flavour. Resting it for a short time, there was also a hint of minerality which was followed by the aftertaste of basils and sweet liquorice. The long finish provided a crisp mineral note with metallic edges and good acidity.

Mouth-wateringly good and a great recommendation from the waiter. Soft and fragrant but with a nice kick to it. Kiri te Kanawa meets Russell Crowe. I have to find this on the web as I want more of it!

A note to the boys on St Valentine's Day

2009-02-12T03:48:00.000-08:00

Valentine’s Day is looming and in the spirit of romance and adoration of the feminine I always turn to Champagne. It is the perfect and essential part of any romantic evening, and to me, is the essence of woman in a glass. Pink? Actually, I don’t do pink. Not because I am not in touch with my feminine side (I have read Cosmopolitan) and feel that the colour reflects the rosy cheeks, full lips or beating heart of the woman into who’s eyes I am staring on this day of romance. No, I just don’t really like it as much as the pure, straw coloured nectar, so why over do things?

Champagne is special, there is no denying it. A once weak and probably flabby wine is transformed through a heady, complex, time consuming, and in some cases, personal process of production – including the remouillage (the bottle turning, in some houses, by hand) and dégorgement (the removing of the dead lees from the neck) and all the tricks that make it special - into a sparkling golden drink that lends biscuits and cream, almonds, lemons (sometimes grapefruit) and pith, and floral notes to the palate. No wonder that our hero monk Dom Perignon thought the drink with the stars in was a miracle, it really is.

There is something delightfully youthful and feminine about a glass of non-vintage that has the frivolous sparkle, the light lemon zing and the creamy yeastiness. Bubbles tickle the tongue and lift spirits in a way that other wines cannot reach (apologies to Carlsberg). There is a carefree lack of formality that comes with the NV. The pop of the cork (that is meant to sound like a lady sighing in anticipation) and the whoosh of the froth as it races to the rim of the glass, the fun before the taste. Sparkles reflect bejewelled necks; the tickle on the tongue that brings a smile to the face and crinkles to the nose. Young love, hungry need or flirtation, all the anticipation of what might be, all reflected in a glass. This is what the NV is all about.

At the same time, the vintage brings with it a whole new dimension. A lighter sparkle in the glass, a stronger scent of biscuits and nuts from longer development, a more mellow flavour, all give the impression of a more mature woman, sensual and experienced, but with a glint in her eye. Less is definitely more with a vintage (proving there is still so much life in the old girl yet!) No whoosh and no need for giggles. This is serious lovers stuff, where senses, smells and tastes are heightened. Nuances with every glance, every word on the lips, every taste in the mouth. Whereas the NV is the ‘bling’, the party girl, this is the seductress. No need to impress, no anticipation of what might be but a knowledge of what will be, or already is.

Non vintage or vintage love? Diamonds? Stars? Sparkles? Either way, chuck out the chocolates, hold back the flowers, just bring out the Queen of drinks and relax. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Birthday Bordeaux

2009-02-01T03:47:00.000-08:00

Birthdays come but once a year, as they say, and all the memories that they bring come with them. So notching up more points on the Eurostar and taking advantage of a lift from my brother, I came back home to celebrate. I admit not being good with birthdays, vanity and lost youth, missing loved ones (you know what I mean), so, thinking of something appropriate which could take me back to places and times, something which will bring a smile to my face rather than the usual scowl, I nestled some bottles of Côtes de Bourg, (Monteberiot 2004, www.monteberiot.com) in my bag, and prepared for a trip down memory lane. This wine was recommended to me by a friend who used to live in Paris many years back, who still has an overt interest in wine and hangover cures.

I saved my notes from when I went to Bordeaux with Dominique, my then girlfriend, and decided to see how it had changed: a more gentle effect on the palate [than the 2003], berries and spice, cream and wood, leaf and earth. This is for taking slowly, letting the flavours develop and draw you in. Taste buds were being teased, if not challenged. So, sitting away from the noise of the kitchen (Ben, my brother, has gone into the kitchen to ‘supervise’, poor dad); creaking floorboards and crackling fire, and awaiting my father’s classic roast of local organic Somerset beef that he does so well, I pour the wine and prepare to taste.

Swirling the glass, the colour has tinges of brown in it now, changing from vibrant ruby to a softer garnet. The smell is spicy berry, with leather and liquorice. The merlot has faded since I first tasted this wine, and the cabernet in the blend has come forward with a heady mix of ‘terroir’, musty leaves (strangely Autumnal in the midst of winter and a freezing January), and tannins which hit the nose as soon as I lean into the glass. This is still a good beefy wine with emphasis on the BEEF given the leather smells and what is for supper. There is almost a medicinal element to the leather (a bit like the witch hazel in TCP but don’t let that put you off – it’s healthy after all!) and a pepperiness from the tannins. Leather thanks in part to the clay based soils that the Bourg has as part of its unique micro climate; pepper from the tannins enriched by the barrels made of Limousin and American oak in which blended wines matured.

On the palate, a reflection of the smell, in the first instance, there is liquorice, real stewed fruits, prunes with cream, and a gentle tickle of pepper on the tongue at the finish. Again, good acidity leaves a long pepper and cream taste on the tongue but also an element of flint. Where before, rich cassis and dark berry hit the tongue, there is a big leather and stew of fruit. But then again, as this wine takes on the warmth of the room, its complexity reveals itself further. A gentle essence of powdery Parma violet reveals itself, there, but really a ghost of flavour, breaking through (all I can think of is Miss Haversham’s wedding cake. Oh Lou, you are so literary!) nodding at the fruitier flavours that tone down the earths and leathers. And then further still, the sleepy sweeter fruits wake up and the original cassis that seemed to have faded comes to the fore. Stronger on the nose and stronger on the tongue.

No one likes to be rushed, and this wine is no exception, needing that warmth and gentle teasing over time to bring out the fullness of her flavour. So, the comparison? In a very human way, and appropriately in the spirit of birthdays, this wine has developed, moved forward, but not necessarily changed. Hearty roasts? Wines that transport you to distant places and times? Log fires and lazy evenings? I should have brought along a few more bottles.

Update: I have been trying to download this on the machine but the power cuts here have been phenomenally frustrating.

White in winter?

2009-01-18T02:43:00.000-08:00

I got a surprise phone call from my brother the other night saying that he would be in Paris on business and asking if he could he stay a bit longer. (Accountants have all the fun! I have to pay for everything but luckily I have enough savings and an accountant as my brother!)

I decided on Au petit fer à cheval, a place I love in the Marais, a tightly packed back room of a bar with a horseshoe shape (hence the name). This quartier is a bustling and trendy area housing a fantastic array of restaurants, bars, cafés, the heart of truly Gaie Paris (if you get my drift), and the Jewish quarter with some fantastic places to get a lunchtime bite to eat. To me, a hearty onion soup with cheesy croutons in this bleak weather and something like a lamb shank with flageolets, maybe, to finish, would do the trick. Winter warmers to fortify the stomach, all washed down with a spicy and tannic red.

So it was a surprise that, as we decided to catch up in the flat, he brought out a bottle of chilled Menetou Salon (2007 Lasalle). (Brrr! I shouldn’t be ungrateful, but thank goodness the flat had heating). Menetou Salon is a small wine growing area that produces wines just next door to its superior rival Sancerre, and, although the clay soils of Menetou Salon provide different flavours against the contrasting Sancerre chalk base, what it does produce is no less delicious when you think of the commercial advantage that Sancerre has in comparison. So for an old sentimentalist like me, its most superior wines are all the more precious.

The sauvignon blanc has a warm and light straw colour, and light legs as it is turned in the glass, contrasting against the grey and wet picture through my window. Dipping my nose in, the citrus notes of lemon and gooseberry merge with a hint of under ripe apricot, then give way to real grass and herbaceousness; coriander (yes, coriander! I kid you not), and a finish of cream.

Already salivating at the anticipation of the taste (and at this point I have to pause to explain to Ben why a beer just won’t do), there is lemon, again, but with hints of the tropics. Unctuous creaminess balances well with the subtle tones of pineapple, some grapefruit, but citrus acidity overall, and a mineral kick from the flint. The herbs come out as it rests; basil? Tarragon? Either way a slight liquorice tang compliments the mineral and creamy unctuousness, becoming more lemony and creamy as the glass reaches its optimum temperature. The wonderful acidity lingers in the mouth, the sense of steel and flint and lemon really do make your mouth water and thirst for more, but the finish is creamy and wonderfully round.

This is pure, balanced, complex and well made Sauvignon as the French truly make it. Not the gushing exoticism of BIG fruits from the New World. I am pleased by the excellent choice of my brother, but then we do share the same genes!

Hair of the dog

2009-01-04T09:08:00.000-08:00

Is it me or does the world seem a more dismal and drearier place after the excitement of Christmas and the New Year parties? My thoughts of alcohol of any variety are definitely in the grim lavatory just down the corridor at the moment as I write this from the Eurostar travelling from St Pancras to Gare du Nord to the empty flat in one of the most bustling parts of Paris itself. It is strange how the echo inside the flat contrasts with the wonderfully busy road outside and the rumbles of the metro, traffic and general chatter that switches off so easily when the window shuts it out? I am looking forward to the peace and solitude while my hangover eases and my stomach goes from acid rebellion to acceptance of food and maybe a little wine later on.

My aim this year is to write a diary on as much wine as I can, not quite a bottle a day, even my liver cannot possibly take that for the full 365 days of the year, but a log of tastings inspired by Nigel Slater's Kitchen Diaries and with the suggestion of my good friend Werds. Maybe I should keep in the mould and call it my Cellar Diaries (but that would be pretentious if you could see the place I am living in)?

First stop this week is to the barbers for my hair, or lack of it, and a shave. Five days growth means absorbing smells in my beard that would influence my tastebuds (or so they told me at wine school). After that I will dare to go into my off license, Nicolas, for a sample of their wine of the month or suitable alternative.

In the meantime, as I summon up the courage of the first mouthful of wine and keep my stomach from going into spasms of protest, I just wanted to wish all my friends and whoever may see this a very Happy New Year...

Lou