Sourced at Vinoteca

Sea beets

Purslane, a village salad ingredient in Greece

Elderberries

Rosehips

Rosehip syrup

Elderberries for liqueur, syrup and jelly

Foraging and the use of foraged goods in London restaurants is a dated concept by now, although I can’t help but thinking (and hoping not) that chefs have regarded it as yet another passing foodie fad. We chefs at Vinoteca are lucky to have the creative freedom to use any produce that might happen to come our way, and its always an exiting challenge to use unknown ingredients in dishes which highlight them, or demonstrate how nature grows its produce to be complimentary, leaving little to  the chef other than to respect those ingredients, not stuff about with them too much, and showcase their delicate flavours. Most recently we have used sloes to make sloe gin, elderberries for liqueur, ice cream, syrups and savoury jelly with terrine, and rose hips for a sweet syrup that compliments the tart pomegranate so well.

Its  easy to understand why so many professional kitchens don’t use these ingredients. As everything is gathered outdoors, it brings a little bit of the wild with it, therefore needs to be cleaned and sorted right away, something that kitchens with a tight team won’t have the time for. Our kitchen porter is not a fan of sea beets and sea purslane, which arrive with a fair amount of marsh mud, and when I recently got one of the staff to pick elderberries, whole families of tiny spiders and their mates came along for the ride.  Usually I think its a good policy that if a chef  wants to use elderberries, flowers or rose hips, they should be the one cleaning and preparing them - free elderberries became the most expensive commodity in the kitchen for a while,  all because of the hours of labour they required to become useable. Ditto for rosehips and their prickly, itchy hairs. Recommended only for the most exiteable cook!

Mushrooms are probably of the most fascinating foraged goods, but wild ones need to be picked with care, as they are more often than not riddled with maggoty tunnels if picked too late. Recently a supplier mixed different kinds of mushrooms as well. When picking for yourself this fine, but if supplying to a restaurant, any mushrooms that are even remotely on the dodgy  side, and hanging out between the edible ones possibly transferring spores and bad vibes, cannot be sold to paying customers. Then some  ingredients that are offered to restaurants of course just take the whole wild foods thing too far, which sums up my opinion of having chickweed and hedge garlic on the menu. On the other hand, I can’t wait to use green almonds, ramsoms and elderflowers again, and want to get my hands on some primroses too…

Giant puffball mushrooms

Time stops in Paris

Onglet & pommes soufflees at Boeuf Couronne

Rumpsteak Boeuf Couronnee

Pressed pig starter at Le Timbre

Snail and Puy lentil starter at Le Timbre

Veal and beef mains at Will's

Baron Rouge

Oysters and Charcuterie at Le Baron Rouge

Le mini-break

parisien we took this weekend was magical in only the way Paris can be. Armed with several maps, pieces of paper and recommendations of places that simply had to be visited, we took the crazy traffic on with Velib bikes (I’ll take my own bike next time though…)  Not being the most organised two people, we got lost a million times, and I’m sure I properly irked the chef at Le Timbre with my poor pleas, in French, that we were quite lost in Montparnasse.

First night in, was Le Boeuf Couronne, a restaurant in La Villette thats been there for ages, and no aspect of it – aged servers,  Art Deco interior or menu, seems to have changed. Since an article in the New York Times stated that this was one of the best places in Paris to try steak-frites, and they could acommodate us after a Eurostar trip that only reached the capital at 10.30 pm, it was perfect.

Foie gras pate and brioche for Simon and Fines Claires oysters for me, all terribly classically presented and pretty much standard as could be expected.  The restaurant however focuses on beef (Charolais) and these are served in the classic way too – rump with bearnaise for him, onglet with caramelised shallots for the lady. I love the pommes soufflees served on the side here - can’t say I’ve seen those anywhere else recently. A good Pomerol and some ripe cheese with Port finished the meal…

Next up was Le Timbre. Most dining venues, indeed most living spaces in Paris are tight, but this place redefines the term ‘intimate dining’.  As big as a double bedroom I’d say, with only one server, and the chef who acts as the host, takes bookings, washes the dishes…oh and does about 50 covers of splendid food a night. Our starters were so phenomenal that I think they stole the mains’ thunder, and whilst my millefeuille le timbre was something I’d love to replicate, Simon’s poached pear was just a little too plain for the price.  The chef does so much and the place is so busy for its size that you leave feeling like your job is positively a walk in the park. The menu and wine list are clearly reflections of the his personal taste, so is’nt entirely balanced, but if its your place you can do what you want, right? Judging by the string of patrons waiting outside in the cold (no space indoors) for a bunch of tables to clear, enough people agree with the chef’s recommendation anyway. I’d certainly go back if I found myself in Paris again…

Last up was Willi’s Wine Bar (preceded by a quick nibble and drink at Juveniles around the corner) which was, as we were jokingly warned by the server at Juveniles, awfully serious and packed with Americans. Well, we took our Southern Hemisphere accents and braved it, although for a place that’s been around for two decades I was expecting more atmosphere. Too much light, or something. Perhaps we were supposed to concentrate on the wines more, or judging by the rest of the customers, we were perhaps too young to appreciate the space.  The list is superb (that’s why we went in the first place) and so was the food, although next time I’d only go for a drink, and eat at a more moderately priced place.

Sunday morning saw us at Le Baron Rouge – certainly only a bar du vin that one would find by recommendation (thanks Brett)!  I tried to get a hold of as many Arcachon oysters outside as I could, whilst Simon quietly stared the crowd out of the way at the bar, returning with some ice cold white. Can’t say I’ve spent the better half of a Sunday morning leaning against a wall, working my way through dozens of oysters and chilled white – in deep-autumnal Paris- before, but I didn’t want to leave, and we mucked about for such a long time that we pretty much  just made our Eurostar back. By about 1 minute.

Martini London

Flavoured Martini

Sanderson Original Martini

Too-dirty Martini

The one cocktail that has stood both the test of time and cowboy barmen the world over. James Bond did a lot for it (if misguidedly) and today a good cocktail bar and its head mixologist (very fancy barman) is judged by their version of the original Martini (which was originally a Martinez, and no one is really sure whether it was gin or vodka in the first place so the lines are a little blurred to start off with.)  I love it, and like any Martini afficionado, I get quite upset when presented with a half-arsed attempt. Its like a kitchen serving rillettes or something-or-the-other potted – you serve it with the buttery/fatty seal on top just hitting room temperature – not colder and harder, not softer and melted. And the toast has to be hot to make the contents spreadable, all accompanied by some sharp pickles. That’s it.

 The Martini shares this simplicity; once you start dicking around, it all goes pear shaped. I am fascinated by all the different ways barmen swear they achieve the ultimate Martini – freezing the glass, using a room temperature glass and swirling ice cubes for several long seconds, swirling the alcohol with the ice, and of course all manners of shaking.

London boasts some of the best bars in the world and since I was a bit worried that I wouldn’t have time to have a drink in all of them, appreciating their decor, and er, drinks, I formulated my very own Great Urban Swish Martini Expedition. 20 bars, 20 martinis. (Maybe more martini’s. Up first - Dukes Bar at Dukes Hotel, tucked away in a cul-de-sac in St. James’ place.  A tiny bar that claims to be the very place where Ian Fleming conceptualised Casino Royale, and the now famous “shaken…” phrase. We were easily the youngest patrons, but settled into the deep royal blue chairs, and ordered Dukes’ Gin Martini’s. (£14.90) Yep, pretty steep, but the drink is created tableside with such flair you could mistake it for ordering crepes suzette at a silver service French restaurant. Alex, our server, talked us through the whole process, from when the vermouth is splashed (also sometimes spritzed on the glass here) in the glass and swirled, the addition of Tanqueray Ten and then the oil from an  Amalfi lemon rind which is dropped into the drink. The alcohols and glasses are stored until use in a freezer set at -25 centigrade, which eliminates any use for ice, he explains. Which makes for a very strong drink in which the aromas develop as you slowly sip the viscous liquid. Bar snacks including massive Gordal olives are topped up discreetly, and the experience soon became so enjoyable that we decided we couldn’t leave without trying the Vesper (the heroine in Casino Royale). At £16.50 this not the priciest Martini version in London I might add.  Based on the classic , Potocki Vodka, Tanqueray Ten and Angostura Bitters are used, and the drink is finished with Lillet. Lemon oil is added again with the twist. This drink is loaded with different flavours, but its hard to imagine that more than one could be enjoyed, even though Dukes uses the smaller kind of Martini glass with a narrower bowl.  

A few weeks later we decided to pay the Sanderson Hotel with its famous Phillipe Starck decor a visit. We opted not to sit at the Long Bar which is seriously lit up for people-watching, and had our Martini’s in the garden courtyard instead. Original martini’s (£12) were properly mixed but my second choice – a dirty martini, must have been 1/3 olive brine :  2/3 alcohol. Not good at all and the cheap IKEA-looking glassware wasn’t what one expected the Sanderson to come up with.  Simon had a  flavoured martini which was garnished with a very flamboyant physalis, but the drink could have been any fruit cocktail, which what flavoured Martini’s become I suppose. So Dukes is up ahead after 2 bars and 8 Martini’s…

Oysters all over

The ominous oysters

Artichoke Vinaigrette at Pearsons Arms

Oysters at Pearson's Arms

My favourite ancient Roman gourmand, Apicius, has been documented in history bragging about supplying the emperor Trajan with oysters - oysters that could be served uncooked safely, and were famous for their unique taste of the sea. Those specimens would have hailed from what Romans then called “cold and inhospitable Britannia”, from the area where the tiny seaside town of Whitstable is today. Wealthy Romans loved oysters (in the manner that they loved everything exotic – turtle-doves, peacock tongues etc…) but historians today don’t believe that they were ever eaten fresh by the time they had crossed the Roman empire. Even Apicius gives a recipe for ‘pickled’oysters in his book (the first recipe book ever written) but neglects to mention how to get hold of fresh ones if you feel the urge.

Here in Europe oysters are at their best from October to February due to the sea being much colder, so I figured a weekend visit to Whitstable was needed to try the now famous Whitstable natives, as well as some rock varieties. Wheelers Oyster Bar was a must – any restaurant that manages to stay in operation for over 150 years, and recently had Jay Rayner creaming, has me interested. As the tiny restaurant was full, we sat at the counter up front, where customers come and go, enjoying nearly every kind of shellfish Britain has to offer. We were in the mood for a pre-dinner snack, and had brought some beautiful wine with us from London.

I ordered a bowl of winkles, which were the wrong kind of chewy and not fresh. That aside, we should have known when a nervous-looking lad brought the dozen oysters we had requested – even the lady behind the counter suddenly became quite occupied. Initially we were really surprised at how badly shucked these specimens were, and thought that that could have been the reason for the cloudy juice. Which it wasn’t. These were old. Too old. I immediately had images of dying, and was convinced I’d start feeling seriously ill any moment. Simon was looking as uncomfortable as I felt and it seemed as if the place was closing in on us. We got ourselves out of there fast Anyone who has been serving oysters for such a long time knows when they have bad or old stock, - passing them off to paying customers is a pretty irresponsible way of doing business, even if Mr Rayner thinks its fine.

A local had told us about The Pearson’s Arms earlier that day and we hoped to save our night there, with Simon bravely ordering some more native oysters. These were not only presented with more care, but were clearly fresher. The rest of our meal here rivalled some of the “best” gastropubs in London and I’d happily send someone here if they felt the need to check out Whitstable.

Too much of a good thing…

Blood cake at St John's

Perfectly cooked rump at Rodizio Rico's

Bespoke grill at

Artichoke and octopus at QV

Rump & Bearnaise at QV

Rhum Baba and physalis at QV

The past week I set foot in more restaurants than I normally do over several  months, but as things do,  loads happened in my life in a short space of time, leaving me in a  slightly dejected mood tonight. Of course I have stuff that needs doing, but I’m sure you know the feeling of when you’ll put things off and procrastinate because all you want to do is go back there in mind and spirit.

It all started on Sunday when I met Werner for late lunch at St John Bread & Wine, one of my favourite East London Sunday hang-outs. Clearly on this particular Sunday the lady that served us wasn’t really into it, and we sat around for quite a while with our sad/hungry faces on waiting for bread and wine. Eventually I thought I’d chew my arm off and flagged down some other server who helped us. I would have thought that the service would be quite good as Mr Henderson himself was dining. Eating was the standard brown crabmeat on toast, ham & green bean salad with duck egg and a steaming but unappealing fennel & Berkswell gratin. A super highlight was the blood cake with prunes and pancetta. I love making blood cake myself and this version was inspirational.

Off Simon and I cycled to Hyde Park for a staff party, and several Caipirinhas and some drama later, everyone was sizing up the buffet at brazilian restaurant Rodizio Rico. For £22.50, you help yourself to all the brazilian side dishes you can eat, and then servers come to the table and carve off every conceivable piece of meat that can be barbecued – on top of everything on your plate. Know when you eat so much you can’t actually drink? Well that’s the deal here. Feijoada with fufu, bean and pickled vegetable salads and  particularly the roast  rump were ridiculously good. It’s all about no-fuss eating.

My folks landed on Monday, and insisted on having a bite at Vinoteca, as well as a bottle of something inspiring that they had’nt tried before. The Hungarian Chardonnay (unoaked) got the thumbs-up from my mom, who according to my dad, has been a bit of an ABC all of the 30 years they’ve been together. Mission accomplished I say.

Tuesday lunch saw me and my mom at the bar at Salt Yard, and we had such good tapas that she prematurely called it her favourite meal in the big smoke. Can’t believe I’ve never been before – if I could afford it I would park myself at the bar weekly. Tuesday dinner (oh yes, still going), our party sampled the steak tartare, oysters, octopus and artichoke salad and smoked salmon at Quo Vadis. Mains were  rumps with bearnaise sauce that they have a bit of a name for by now, duck breast and my confit monkfish. All perfectly executed if not a bit boring. Or something. I expected something more exciting from QV but I suspect I was getting jaded by this point. I was delighted to see rum baba on the menu, and got Simon to order it, being the only one with room for dessert. General consensus at the table was the question on whether there was a difference between the baba and a soggy doughnut. I forgive them, they just don’t get it.

Last in the line was Terroirs – a wine bar I’ve been wanting to try for some time now, and even though the decidedly French small plates (clams, smoked eel, remoulade) were delicious, the decor didn’t do it for me. Love the list though, and it’s my top choice in Covent Garden for affordable eating and good wine. I’m taking a break now though. Until Sunday, that is…

The lady and the chef

Private function starters

Asking a chef why he/she decided to pursue their (un?)enviable career, you’re due to get a more creative answer than asking an accountant for example, or a banker, why they do what they do. Because no, I don’t get to play with numbers on a PC the whole day and look intelligent for it, and I sure as hell don’t get paid a lot for slogging away an unfathomable amount of hours. My job is physically hard, working conditions are hot and uncomfortable, and ask any chef – there’s always a shortage of staff. Mostly you just need to keep up - and work harder, to do jobs better suited for two. From the second you light the ovens  in the morning, you start sweating. Then you do service and work up a real good sweat – the kind where rivulets stream down your arms from your armpits to your forearms, down your back to your butt, and inbetween your breasts. Nice. The comforting thought of the day is that you can at least change your jacket (if you have time)  before you work up a good sweat again during evening service. By the end of it you feel like a Babylonian whore doing brisk trade in the summertime.

Not counting all the auxillary little things that can go wrong in your day – the fish delivery being stolen out of the delivery truck an hour before service, the oven/dishwasher/salamander/blender/your willpower breaking down  again… All in all you know no day will be the same or boring in any way.

In most kitchens people of different nationalities work together, with different grasps of English, and anyone with a special talent for Charades will never have the wrong part of a strained stock, unknown vegetables (anything other than a tomato) or precious foie gras fat binned. There’s also the issue with front of house. The pressure and rush of service can often turn small issues and miscommunications into large and often spectacular blow-ups. Its quite terrifying to see a screaming head chef’s nose  literally explode with blood in anger (and obviously the heat). Its not funny being thrown with a cucumber/leek/your prep/your plated dish mid-service either. A sure indication that someone is now unhappy with you.

So after all that complaining – why do I do it? Because it’s me. Its what makes my day complete. The science of cooking, the history, the trivia, its neverending lessons and secrets. My dad once told me whilst I swung wildly at golf balls – ‘Golf is probably one of the most humbling games, once you think you’ve mastered it, something goes awry with your swing/stance/posture, and you have to re-approach your game.’  I approach my cooking in the same way…

Fast food done decent

Growing up, my idea of fast food was  my dad driving the entire family 45 minutes to the next, bigger town, ordering from Kentucky Fried Chicken, then driving all the way back before even being allowed to touch a chip.  We would then eat  as a family around the table, which made that KFC the best meal of the week. This happened about once every 2 months until I was about 14, after which the region I lived in started being transformed by instant food.

I’m still not a fan of fast food, or eating in front of the TV  in fact, although I’ve developed a weakness for pizzas. When moving to London, the food culture is a bit of a shock after Cape Town. The city is saturated with fast food outlets, all serving pretty much the same thing, in various degrees of crap quality. Cape Town has its fair share of fast food joints, including the local bunny-chow, but the general population can’t afford to buy it regularly, except probably for McDonalds, but that doesn’t qualify as food, and therefore doesn’t count.

Which is why when recently on the island of Lesvos, their versions of Gyro and Souvlaki, the ultimate Greek fast foods, is bloody good. Charred pita with shish pork, fresh tomato, tzatziki, onion and a whole lot of fries stuffed in there. If you really want it, they’ll reluctantly add mustard and ketchup instead of the tzatziki. So good I ate three souvlaki in a week.

Daytime souvlaki

Nighttime souvlaki

 That’s more fast food than I’ve eaten in the last three years. Yeah. 

One week of feasting in Lesvos

Baby goat kleftiko

Fish Shop

Eating octopus and courgette flowers

Bakery in Lisvori

Phillip's uncle cutting melon

Seafood at Vatera beach

Fried sardines

Our fish being portioned tableside

On the Greek island of Lesvos the coffee and the drinks have one thing in common – they’re both strong enough to put hair on (anyone’s) chest. The food is simple, the ingredients top quality, and the pastries are so sweet you get high. The graffiti is political, the sea is so salty that swimmers can float about in it in the sweltering summers.

The week I spent there is now a bit of a distant memory, but this being my first European vacation, I reckon I made a pretty good job of it. As one is supposed to whilst on holiday, we ate daily until near bursting, and when we couldn’y fit in any more to eat we went in search of a beach and a drink.

Phillip’s mom is from Lesvos and we were fortunate enough to try her traditional Greek dishes most nights, followed by some super sweet local pastry. Kleftiko, dolmades, tzatziki, octopus in red wine with clove, sauteed squid, moussaka, okra in tomato sauce, spanakopita, horiatiki, fried courgette flowers, etc were brought along every day. By Wednesday I decided that Phillip’s mom shamed my cooking skills and I seriously considered becoming a librarian, which is what I planned to do with my life before becoming sidetracked by a crayfish somewhere in my teens.

Greek food is simple and reliant on good produce, and Greeks are not into spicing their food heavily (no , thats apparantly what the Turkish do). Lesvos is pretty much a self-sufficient island, and most of the little villages around the island (little as in 40 – 180 inhabitants) are known for some kind of speciality – Phillip’s ancestral village, Lisvori, is known for its bread. We managed to navigate an excuse for a road to obtain some of this bread before siesta – and it’s that good that Ida ate the better half of a loaf on the way to the next village.

Not content with the seafood nirvana I reached on my trip to Lisbon earlier this year, I tried as much as the island had to offer. Every restaurant does octopus in vinegar/red wine, as well as sardines which are served fresh, lightly salted with sea salt, or fried. Red mullet, squid, octopus (meat)balls and of course there’s always the option of choosing a fish from the small displays and having the  kitchen grill it for you. Mischa even ordered shark at some stage (well did you know what Galeos Fish meant on a menu), which is served with a kicking skordalia sauce. Enough garlic to keep you healthy for a year.

On our last night we went to a fish restaurant in a village neighbouring Mytilini, owned by a family friend of the Prokopiou’s. Inside the kitchen (!) we were shown a catch of Red Roman that had just arrived, and chose our dinner. Obviously it was roasted to perfection, and filleted into portions tableside. The fish was cooked by someone who knew what they were doing, and the meat, still moist (you can overcook Red Roman quite horribly- at which point the only thing you can do is cry) flaked beautifully off the bones. It was simply served with lemon and olive oil (the island’s oil is much lighter, and less peppery, therefore more food friendly than the mainland versions). A fitting end to a stay on a beautiful island.

Poisson en Papillote de plastique…

I like Twitter. Anyone that has a Facebook page will like Twitter. I use it mainly to highlight new posts on this blog, and to check out what other foodie people – mainly those I have met through work, are up to. Once you’re onto a network, you’ll find that a lot of randoms want to ‘follow’ your tweets on your network, as that (networking) is what most people use the engine for. (That and a lot of pointless yackering.) So, like with actual groups of friends, there are friends of friends and boy/girlfriends of friends and dogs of friends. And all of these tweople, if none of them suffer from twitphilia, join your twitterverse.

So the point I was getting to, was that I have some real randoms following me, and I’ve returned the favour. I see some pretty weird stuff sometimes – ‘Have jst lcked mself out of hse. No shoes. Wet hair. Nbours not hme. What t do?’ She got a lot of advice. This afternoon’s one was the best though – and kind of alarming. ‘ Steamed fish in Saran wrap in micro last night. Grt new healthy way to cook’. Oh no. That’s just wrong. Plastic wrap? Really? The classical French dish with a space-age twist.

I wonder if this tweeter (twit?) has thought about what plastic wrap is. PVC. Yes, as in bad, bad outfit PVC. Oh, and something has to make it stretch. Those would be plasticizers, which are chemicals that can transfer onto food when the fish and the plastic and the microwaves all do their zapping thing in the microwave oven. Not good.

When you ask chefs what the item most used in a professional kitchen is, most would answer plastic wrap. The stuff’s incredible, and we use tons of it. To cover food. I’ve seen it used as belts and impromptu apron strings. When we steam though – we mostly take the hint from the Japanese with bamboo, or a la francaise avec papier. Quite a few chefs I know have mused over the fact when they’ve realised the only thing that destroys it, are sub-zero temperatures. Weird. (heat merely melts it) Somehow I just don’t think that it’s the best vehicle for lemongrass butterfish en papillote…

Sunday night’s sausage

Cochineal Insects

Danish Salami

Living in the East End of London (more towards the er, Bow end…) has its downsides. If you don’t bike about, you WILL wait for a packed and heaving No.8 bus. For hours. Nipping out for a quick (decent) coffee is a bit of a problem too, thank heavens for The Counter in Hackney Wick. The other major problem is decent shopping. Not a supermarket within walking distance, as is the norm elsewhere in London. Loads of crap cornershops – good for cheap(ish) beer at 2am, not so good for ingredients for a decent Sunday night meal. Which is how we ended up with the Danish Sausage. I wasn’t aware the Danish made their own version, but there it was. Its memorable colour however is what drove me to write this post about it in the first place. Very, very pink. Barbie would have had sausage envy.

I’ve always wondered about those really pink meats in the cornershops. Why are they so pink? Did some kind of research show that customers in cornershops, desperate for cold cuts, are somehow drawn to marbled pink, fanned sausage displays? Because thats all there is. Up and down Roman Rd. The packaging says that apparently 65% of my sausage is pork. Well, could have been worse. Says there too that The Sausage owes its radiant hue to E120 – also known as Carmine red or Cochineal.

The fine internet tells me that this colour is derived from little South and Central American insects, which are, as it were, boiled, dried and minced. It takes 155,000 insects to make 1 kg of colouring. The happy news is that they are not toxic or carcinogenic, but the production of the colour they produce, used to colour everything from make-up, my sausage, and clothing, can induce anaphylactic shock. Ok.

I don’t now how I feel about that. We ate quite a lot of the sausage anyway, its the recession after all, and we were hungry. (Its not good when Simon is hungry). But I don’t think we’ll have Danish Sausage again.

A thought I had whilst on my bicycle the other day…

This whole blogging thing is a bit of a double-edged sword methinks. Every Jane and Jack with some kind of opinion can now voice it loud and clear in cyberspace, tag it with umpteen words and then sit back and watch how innocent web surfers looking for ‘plum jam’ and ‘truffle mash’ are attracted to their dumb and ill-judged views on their stupid blogs. Says the one with a blog called ‘E rants on…’

Back to my point. From a chef’s point of view its useful to see what customers really think of a restaurant’s food, and of course people go on about the wine, ambiance, good-looking service staff etc. Which is good. On the flipside there are those morons out there with too much time on their hands and more foodie aspiration than they know what to do with. Now these people act much in the same way as those snaking crowds on golf courses watching the Opens and Masters day after day in respectful silence. They have a nagging wish to be part of the restaurant industry, be chefs, know what the difference is between Dauphinoise and Duchesse potatoes, or what is grown in the Douro valley. Thing is, they’ll never do it. (Doesn’t pay enough, hard work, long hours, dirty and sweaty, looks cool from a distance only.) Since they obviously do some other job in the daytime, they decide to start keeping a blog, on which they voice their opinion about every foodie thing they can possibly fit into their downtime.

So now the web is inundated with ladies who sipped the cheapest wine at a wine bar, declared that they were not very impressed. Of course not – its the CHEAPEST WINE ON THE LIST. What did they expect? Next time they should just stick with 2-for £5 at the cornershop. More wine, same level of satisfaction. Neither do I want to know whether Hitler was a vegetarian or not, or why its so bothersome if he wasn’t. I just wasted valuable internet time reading some guys rant about whether a chocolate pot – made from 70% dark chocolate, was chocolatey enough. Some woman dissatisfied about portion sizes in a restaurant. Next time guys – mention it in the restaurant – so the staff can do something about it – maybe give you a whole chunk of bitter chocolate to chew on, or an entire rack of lamb instead of 3 cutlets. Then go home, and write about something interesting.

Cervejaria Ramiro

Percebes/Gooseneck barnacles

Prawns and Spider Crab

Clams with coriander

Prawns and beer

Always a prego to finish...

Pasteis de Nata and local sweeties

When chefs are asked to do a little bit of outside catering, and said job takes place in a different country, the lodgings are not expected to be anything to write home about. We are there to cook after all, not try out the new bed-springs, in-house spa or pool cocktail menu. So when in Portugal recently on a SA Ostrich Business Chamber gig, rocking up at the Hotel Tivoli Lisboa was a serious bonus. More of a bonus was realising that Louis Baena was the executive chef at the hotel’s restaurant ( I’m not that up-to-date with the Portuguese celeb chef scene) and we got to work from his kitchen and meet him and everything! (www.louisbaena.com) Ok enough gushing.

The point is that he took us out to Cervejaria Ramiro. Now Cervejaria Ramiro is not just a place to eat mariscos and drink cerveja. It is THE place. Judging by the uber-long queue outside and inside, this is local general knowledge. The fact that it’s in serious downtown Lisboa ( Avenida Almirante Reis 1) is clearly not an issue.

So what did we have? EVERYTHING! Chef Louis was an incredible host – and after jumping a massive line outside, we had a succession of the the most amazing seafood dishes I’ve ever had. All accompanied by never-ending glasses of beer! First up were clams, slowly opened with garlic and coriander, followed by percebes – the seasonal gooseneck barnacle I’ve been waiting to try for so long. Totally worth it. A massive spider crab followed next with fresh bread, as well as prawns sauteed in chilli and garlic. This was the second time we had prawns in Lisbon and I was once again amzed at how perfectly cooked they were. Elsewhere in the world – they seem to be the number one ingredient all too frequently f***** up by chefs.

We weren’t done. Tiny prawns, first from the north of Portugal, then more, but from the South, arrived. Shell on, and simply steamed and seasoned with sea salt. Exceptional. Normally this would be toward the end of the meal – but not before we had grilled lobster… And then, of course it is custom here to end a seafood meal with a prego roll – which we did. I had reached absolute seafood nirvana (term originally by Pete Goffe-Wood) by now, and did not understand the prego roll excitement, but hey – when in Rome do as the Romans do… Then we got to see the jambons and tanks that house all the live seafood sold on the premises. Talk about the whole package… Back in the dining room, a Pasteis de Nata and tasters of local digestifs were sampled. It doesn’t get any better than this..

GM food – catch 22 of the century…

I recently finished Stuffed and Starved by Raj Patel, it’s a hefty piece of writing/research about the global food system and all that that entails – production, consumer issues, policy and politics. Whilst providing some alarming reading, I think Patel produced a brilliant work – and now I’m a regular visitor to his website that supports the issues discussed in the book www.stuffedandstarved.com

I’m already antsy about the role supermarkets have in determining how consumers buy and their lack of consumer education, and this book does nothing to dispell ideas that pretty much all supermarkets will do anything to get custom and keep it. My biggest problem is with Aldi and Asda, as they are so big that their bulk-buying/cheap-selling simply stamps out smaller, more varied competitors. Having grown up in a family were our livelihood depended on succesful price negotiations with supermarket giants for our fruit, I have first hand knowledge of their cutthroat operations. Producers are up against a brick wall – and buyers know this – often forcing fruit to be sold at rock-bottom prices, leaving the farmer barely making margins.

Another issue that’s addressed in the book – and that cropped up in the news today is that of GM farming. From an ethical point of view I have a massive problem with genetically modified anthing – but I also know that our planet is already not producing enough food to feed all its inhabitants, and as we move deeper into the noughties, the problem is only going to become unavoidable…which represents the catch-22 of GM crops.  Seems like  the government is starting to seriously doubt their own decision, as this Indy article attests, but what to do?  (Check http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/food-and-drink/news/government-launches-bid-to-allay-fears-over-gm-food-1647353.html )

I certainly think that whoever has any access to a garden of their own should pull out those pansies and start growing some veggies to complement their household groceries, but that’s only a small solution to a very, very big problem…

Cooking octopus…

Cooked octopus

Yes, not having cooked octopus for a VERY long time, thats the kind of relief I felt yesterday when the Galician specimens emerged from the simmering pot tender and gelatinous. The last time I encountered octopus was somewhere in childhood, although I remember the largest part of the battle was spent trying to pry the the large sucker (no pun) off my frantic brother’s arm. It was as tough as, well, it was inedible. Everyone agreed that no, this is what it was supposed to taste like, and it’s not quite their bag.

After trawling through loads of information on the topic of cooking the damn animals, I settled on what I had seen being done before – freezing the cephalopod for a day or two, slowly defrosting it and then simmering (not EVER boiling) it until the ’skirt’ (the little tutu bit where the head meets the tentacles) yields to a small knife. And yes, you can overcook them, and then you will feel with a knife that the end product will be tough. What you do then, is you dry it out and make a nice avant-garde handbag with it, as thats all it will be good for.

Why do cephalopods react to heat like this? Well, you know how other meats (beef, chicken lamb etc.) have a strand-like muscle texture where the proteins contract to shorter strands as they are exposed to heat? Cephalopods (octopus, squid, cuttlefish, snails even) have a muscular texture that looks like that silver wiry stuff one scrubs pots with. When exposed to heat, the little ‘wiry’ strands contract tightly, making chewing bloody impossible. The only way to counteract this is by super quick cooking, or prolonged heat, which totally relaxes the strands. Or you can spend some quality time beating the poor thing against your sink 18 times, or cooking it super long with some corks, or giving it a good spin your tumble-dryer, or any of those other Greek granny tales. If they work for, please let me know!

I’m happy with my result. We now serve it really thinly sliced with lemon, new season olive oil and paprika, and I can feel some more menu-ideas coming on. Beautiful. Super cool.

Single diners don’t do Valentine’s…

After extensive, ahem, research, on the subject, I’ve decided to post some pointers on dining out alone. Three cardinal rules:

1. Take something to read, anything. Even Bizarre magazine (or Nuts) will be OK if you feel so inclined.

2. At all times, especially on entry – create the assumption that you have visited the establishment many times before. Flash the server your special smile…

3. Order peculiar menu items. The chances that staff eye you suspiciously as a critic are doubled. Take your time. Ask annoying questions – like whether the tofu was smoked on the premises, or how the staff  gratuity system works. (Not recommended in high street Chinese restaurants though).

4. (Optional) Wear killer heels and a serious, but not slutty outfit (more on this later). Boys, or any of those not into heels, um, work with what you’ve got. Do not take your laptop. This reduces single dining to sad dining.

You’ve been in a restaurant – working or dining – and noticed the single diners. They usually look very occupied – with the napkin/menu/their copy of PrivateEye/cellphone/handbag digging.  Its kind of weird – dining out is widely accepted as a bit of a group activity, but yet, some rare souls have the courage to go it alone. They attract attention, even though their party is the smallest in the restaurant. Guys have it easier than girls. I mean, of course the guy that sits enjoying a massive glass of heavy red and a large hunk of meat to wash it down  surely is a travelling businessman? Maybe a free-spirited bachelor, or just some guy who felt like a steak and red wine and is meeting his lady later for dessert… A lady dining alone on the other hand is a different story altogether. Why? Where are her friends, or more pointedly – a partner? She is far too interested in that plate of food – is she a scorned woman – desperately trying to divert her thoughts?   And why is she drinking that massive glass of wine, oh, and look here comes the second one? Look at her outfit – good heavens is she trying to pick someone up?

Yes of course I’ve dined alone – a lot of the food I want to try is certainly of no interest to my friends/partner, and dressing like I’m on my way to the theatre instead of Sainsbury’s creates interesting confusion with serving staff when they realise they have to clear the second setting on a table for two. Its also quite fun walking into a rather posh restaurant that is obviously not busy, and the manager grudgingly gives you the best two-seater in the house – because the credit crunch is keeping the punters away. 

Pink pounds are said to be the elusive currency, although I propose that single pounds are the new pink pound. If you’re a restaurant owner, value them, because they add up. If you’re a diner, go for it. Although Valentine’s eve is probably not the best night to start your sassing, and leave the corset and bustle for Saturday night’s Torture Garden or Disco Bloodbath party …

Roast red stumpnose

I apologise for the heading of this post but nothing else fit – so I’m stuck with a lame B-rate horror film line. All I really wanted to do was write about a fish that I got so excited about, even my parents (who’ve seen me getting excited about strange things…) looked amused. Our cousins were over for the weekend and they had gone out on their boat before visiting us, bringing just-caught Spanish Marlin and Red Stumpnose with them.

 Red Stumpnoses, with the characteristic hump on their foreheads, used to be prolific along the South African coast and prized linefish, but nowadays if you hook a sizeable specimen, its a red-letter day. If you are lucky enough to catch one, you leg it home and light the braai fire as soon as possible. Anglers are now only allowed one per person, per day, and they are illegal to sell, so not even the niftiest seafood restaurant could ever boast with it on the menu. The before-mentioned family who live at Struisbaai, near Cape Agulhas, are seriously into sea-fishing, and when they come to visit their landlogged cousins, we light the fire and don’t prepare any meat. The beautiful Red Stumpnose we received this time, was caught in the last 24 hours, and all I had to do was find all the herbs I could in the garden, stuff the whole fish with it, add lemon, drizzle good olive oil over and season. Roasted in the oven for 25 minutes and then rested for 5, the delicate flesh was incredible, and it was simple to see why it’s often called the poor man’s crayfish by fishermen. 

After a bit of reading, I found that this member of the silvery Stumpnose family – the Red Stumpnose, is also known as Miss Lucy. Now I’m sure the naming stems from some coarse fisherman’s private in-joke somewhere, because if you know what the fish looks like, ‘ladylike’ or dainty as a Miss aren’t the first descriptions that come to mind.I wonder where that name comes from…

Seld Pod Shuboi

Stroganoff 5 ways at Cafe Pushkin

When you think Russian food what comes to mind? Borscht, pirozhki, stroganoff, vodka. Yes in the Russian Federation vodka does seem to have some nutritional content, judging  by the way it’s knocked back. As with every country I visit, I was keen to try out the local cuisine, and er, local beverages…

I was there for a reason though, and we needed to earn our keep first, by cooking an ostrich-meat based lunch (for the SA Ostrich Board) for 150 people. In the kitchen where we prepped for our function, the staff were preparing an interesting-looking salad, as well as doling out large scoops of it to eager-looking wait-staff. It being early in the day after a rather heavy night sampling some Russian Standard vodka, I expertly dodged the bright pink and white layered creation, and told the staff Pete would certainly appreciate some, being an inquisite chef and all. The look on his face will entertain me for years to come – the cold, chopped herring, potato and beetroot salad really relies on freshness and to say the least this sample was not made that morning…

Later at GQ Bar Moscow  I unknowingly ordered the same - Seld Pod Shuboi (Russian herring, potato and beetroot salad), inducing Pete into a laughing fit. Fortunately, here the chef put his own stamp on the dish, using crab along with the traditional, and thankfully fresh herring, sour cream, potatoes and beetroot. The herring was chopped but not mushy, and the potatoes layered on top with sour cream were perfectly cooked, as was finely grated beetroot, lending that special earthiness to the dish. Crab added a luxurious touch to what would otherwise have been a very ordinary creation. I love herring, but was struck by the dish’s overall understatement, something it had in common with much of the traditional Russian food I tasted. We found this dish, which is undoubtedly popular in Russia, on several more Moscow menus - hopefully those chefs took their traditional, rather old-school cuisine, and made it ther own  as well. I’ve added some photos of the food we had at the very old and ornate Cafe Pushkin, where ye olde school certainly still rules…

Seld Pod Shuboi at GQ Bar

Chicken with a hat at Cafe PushkinSeabass and sour cherries at Bar KalinaVeal chop and frites at Bar Kalina

Food Crits & Hackney Vietnamese

This past Sunday a review written by a highly influential London food critic focused heavily on something strange - social habits/trends. In the last paragraph he did however mention the decor. Oh, and something about an omelette.

Top reviewers today – whether they review restaurants, theatre, or art installations - usually write feature articles rather than straightforward reviews to keep readers buying the paper every Sunday. The only problem I have with this is that the point of a review is just that – for the journalist to visit a restaurant/gallery and convey as much of their experience to the reader, who then at least knows about the place, their initial perceptions altered favourably or not.

The above-mentioned article filled me in on what society apparently tends to do during hard times (read credit crunch), but other than that all I know is that the writer definitely did not like his omelette, and forgot what else he ate. Pity, I was looking forward to hearing what he thought of the food, good or bad.

Whilst on the topic of non-essential information about restaurants, I have to add that I recently went through a bit of a Vietnamese cafe phase, trying most of the spots in Hackney. Many are surprisingly good, using fresh ingredients authentically.  Puzzling though is the obsession with Celine Dion’s music. Exactly 3 restaurants out of 5 favoured the Canandian to sour their ambiance. Possibly its their innovative way to turn tables swiftly, ensuring more bums on seats in these (hard) times?

Autumn flavour geek

The arrival this month of damsons and puffball mushrooms has finally killed any hope of a decent UK summer. These two ingredients are true season indicators, and even if we tried to ignore the paltry weather, they brought the message home. Or maybe I should stop complaining!

I love puffball mushrooms - they are nature’s way of saying that a mushroom doesn’t always have to look like your average parasol toadstool. They give us a bit of a relief with vegetarian options on the menu, because the thick, spongy slices are quite meaty and filling, even if they only, as one slightly disappointed customer said, ”taste like mushroom”. Eh, yeah. 

Our specimens come from Norfolk, and I suppose the main fascinator is that they are almost abnormally large. We buy mushrooms up to the size of a man’s head, weighing in at about 1-1,5kg. A geeky fact that I like is that the puffball can contain up to 7 trillion spores, and when they are ready to be dispersed, the dry puffball cracks open and they are released with the wind. Other cap-type mushrooms  “drop” their spores on the matter they subsist in. Pretty cool, or maybe just to me.

Damsons on the other had, don’t provide any cool facts, but do bring a sense of old fashioned autumn activity to the kitchen. (At the risk of sounding like Elizabeth David) These versatile little plums have a very high pectin content and cook up beatifully into jams, compotes, cheese (like spanish membrillo) all with the most exquisite dark purple-red colour. We pickle them as well, a very traditional english way of preserving, as the fruit arrives in a glut and then their season is over for another year. They pair very well with cinnamon, allspice and cloves.

Compote can be served with any ‘neutral’ desserts such as vanilla panna cotta’s, cakes or ice cream, and damson cheese compliments british blue cheeses particularly well. We usually use pickled damsons with terrines, game and dark poultry, as their vinegary spiciness add another flavour component to these strong savoury dishes. 

With all the Picallilli, pickled artichokes and pickled cherries also made, I’m a little over standing at the stove stirrring vinagary mixtures, although next up are greengages, elderberries and quinces…

Les Trois Garcons – Opulent, individualistic decor, disappointing dishes

  (Click on pics to enlarge)  A couple of years ago, lying about in a Cape Town student flat strewn with fashion books, half-done projects, kitch objects and a prosthetic maimed hand, my best friend Phillip introduced me to Pierre et Gilles. Besides the fact that we went to many a party dressed in wares inspired by the highly stylized work this artistic duo is responsible for, it went without saying that I developed a soft patch for this sort of OTT, seriously kitch and camp style, whether it be decor, dress style or some kind of weird random artwork.

One of the only restaurants in the world decorated in a similar ‘taxidermy meets antique market meets baroque’ style, is Les Trois Garcons in London (incorporating Loungelover and Annex III). Oh yes, as soon as I set my feet on British soil, I would be there to indulge and experience. Indulgent luxury with a sense of humour is indeed what the decor is all about, and the diner realises midway through entering that he/she is not the only one staring at the stuffed panther, wild birds, imposing green velvet curtains, brocade and chic-kitch china – all scattered and hung with kilograms of diamante and gemstones.  And that’s only the restaurant.

Behind the restaurant is the award-winning Loungelover, a cocktail “bar” featuring bespoke drinks with inebriating names like Zatoichi. Stained glass windows, more stuffed wild animals dripping in diamante chokers and tiaras, metre-high vases filled with lillies and ancient anatomy posters adorn the walls. None of the furniture matches, but obviously, it all works. And how. Female staff glide about in black heels, figure-accentuating short black dresses, stark make-up offset by blood-red lips.

So, thats three paragraphs in and nothing about the food… Mmm. The problem with a place like this is that the decor is competing with what’s on the plate in a serious way. More serious than the tranny in the blonde wig who is absolutely and visciously intent on winning the Vogue-off 2008. And thats serious indeed. The restaurant is french and the head chef Swiss-French, the menu obviously reflects this, with some European influences here and there. We decided to try three courses of random menu items, throwing wine pairing out the window (the Katnook Chardonnay ‘06 did lubricate the meal beautifully though) and were treated to some seriously avant-garde plating.

My heritage tomato salad with anchovies in aspic was presented like a bouquet and tasted pretty good, although Naomi’s floral display of crab and Sicilian lemon foam was better. My veal main was puzzling because I could not find all the items mentioned on the menu in my bowl-plate. Well crafted meat dish it was, but underseasoned. Oh no. Naomi’s dorade main was better, and by now I was suffering order-envy.  The pastry section must be killer because I cannot even begin to mention all the hoops, twirls, croquants and foams on my chocolate plate. N’s souffle was perfect, but the kitchen sent out the wrong ice cream with it and after inquiry, weren’t really concerned about this fact, and were surprised we’d noticed.

But I think maybe they should review whether it appears that back of house cares or not because they’re up against some mainstage glitter out there, and guests paying £80 upwards for a meal. Or maybe they’re confident that we’ll come back for the decor. I might just…