Petit Pois

January highlights

2012-01-28T17:36:00.009Z

Holiday

For the last few days, I’ve been wholly absorbed in planning for a forthcoming five-day trip to Istanbul. I imagine I’ll make it to the Hagia Sofia and Topkapi Palace, but what I’m really excited about is the food. I’ve even joined Twitter in order to survey expert opinion on the best place for manti, a lamb tortellini of sorts, served in yogurt sauce.

Winter fruit at Maltby Street

Tony Booth’s decision to move his eponymous fruit and veg shop from Borough Market to Maltby Street has added at least 30 minutes to my Saturday morning shopping routine. But damn it if the man doesn’t make it worth it every time. This week there was beautiful Yorkshire forced rhubarb, just over half the price of his Borough competitors. Oranges with flesh the colour of pink grapefruits were 5 for a pound, the Sicilian sanguinello not much more.

Chinese New Year

We celebrated the Lunar New Year last weekend with G’s brother and sister-in-law. There were 14 guests and nearly as many dishes, ranging from wasabi mayo-topped smoked salmon in filo cups to sweet-spicy chicken wings and homemade black sesame ice cream. Little was left of the pomelo salad, but S mixed us up another batch of the tangy, coconuty dressing. (It made an excellent supper when we returned to London, stirred through strips of grilled chicken breast, shredded Savoy cabbage and rice noodles.) And while she claimed that that the turnip cake, apparently an epic labour, was not up to her mother’s standards, chunks of it scrambled with eggs and spring onions at breakfast the next morning was good enough to bring back memories of a similar dish from our Penang food crawl.

Alice Medrich’s cocoa brownies

Had I known that two professional chefs would be attending the gumbo evening for which these were baked, I probably would have tried to find a way out of my hastily-made promise to bring dessert. But not only did these super-moist, fudgy brownies garner praise from all assembled, but I was able to make them in one bowl with the most basic of ingredients and at least half my attention on an unusually good television documentary. Job done.

Stichelton

2012-01-15T10:27:00.006Z

It’s not quite as much a seasonal product as turkey, 90% of the annual national consumption of which is said to take place on Christmas day, but the holidays are also high season for the East Midlands producers of Stilton.

I had the opportunity to taste Stilton from one of the remaining artisanal producers, the 99-year old Colston Bassett Dairy, a few weeks back. It was mellow but deeply-flavoured, creamy-textured but not cloying—in every way a great cheese. But it was edged, as I’ve found to be the case on a number of head-to-head tastings, by an upstart from just down the road called Stichelton.

Stichelton is simply raw-milk Stilton, produced, bar a bit of technology, as this very old English cheese had been made for centuries before a listeria scare in 1989 led to mandatory pasteurisation. It’s said to have come out of a conversation at a Borough Market pub between Randall Hodgson, owner of Neals Yard Dairy and long-time champion of English artisanal cheese producers, and an American cheesemaker, Joe Schneider. They tracked down an ‘80s-era culture and convinced owners of a Holstein farm to partner with them with their quest to recreate the complex creaminess and sweetness of pre-pasteurisation Stilton.

To achieve this, Hodgson and Schneider have reintroduced traditional flavour-deepening methods, including the use of only minimal amounts of starter and rennet, hand-ladling the curds and allowing yeasts and bacteria to form a natural rind. The resulting cheese can’t be called Stilton, as EU regulations now prescribe both counties of production (Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and Leicestershire) and the use of pasteurised milk. (It takes its name instead from that given to Stilton village in the medieval Domesday Book.) And with far smaller production capacity, it can’t aspire to capture more than a tiny segment of even the top-end Stilton market. But it’s a real treat for those who are able to try it.

Stilcheton devotees describe the cheese as having a gentle nuttiness on both the nose and palate. The blueing is moderate and integrated, and the texture lush without becoming sloppy. I find it to be both quite savoury, almost meaty, and moreishly sweet. The finish can be fantastically long.

In London, Stilchelton can be bought at Neals Yard Dairy, La Fromagerie, the cheese counters at Selfridges and Fortnum & Mason, and several other independent shops. You can follow the cheesemakers on http://twitter.com/sticheltondairy.

Radicchio, fennel and orange salad

2011-12-29T16:27:00.004Z

With each passing year, bitter flavours are featuring more prominently on our table: strong black coffee and marmalade on a weekend morning, Campari or gin and tonic to begin a leisurely dinner and endive or radicchio salads to sharpen the palate. Endive tends to feature when we have French meals, tossed with a mustardy walnut oil dressing and, on occasion, some toasted nuts, pears and blue cheese. Radicchio usually gets an even simpler treatment—just a sprinkle of good balsamic vinegar and a smaller one of Maldon salt.

This fall I tried growing radicchio from seeds given to me by an Italian colleague. The resulting leaves, while speckled with maroon streaks and tasting agreeing bitter, in no other way resemble either of the main varieties (one round and crinkly, the other with long, stiff leaves) available locally.

Unable to harvest enough leaves to serve friends coming for Sunday night pizza supper, we bought some particularly handsome radicchio di Treviso at a local greengrocers. The plump, unblemished fennel bulbs also on display gave us the idea to adapt a southern Italian recipe for fennel, orange and olive salad, using the radicchio both as a colourful base and to add bitterness. Laid out on a large white platter, the salad looked festive and elegant, so much so that our photographer friend snapped this quick shot with her iPhone.

Pizza will still be appearing through the abstemious month of January. But in the interests of continuing to fit into the new clothes I just bought in the States, large helpings of this salad will be as well.

Radicchio, fennel and orange salad

1 medium-sized radicchio, any variety

1 large fennel bulb

1 large orange

Lemon

Olive oil

Salt

Chives

Tear or slice the radicchio and arrange on a platter. Remove the core from the fennel and slice into thin moon-shaped pieces. Remove the peel, pith and interior membranes from the orange (preferably allowing any juice to drip onto the salad) and chop into small segments.

Place both the fennel and orange onto the radicchio bed. Dress with lemon juice and olive oil and sprinkle with salt. Chop or snip chives on top and serve.

Best of 2011

2011-12-18T12:20:00.009Z

Ingredients of the year: corn tortillas and kalamansi limes

Tacos have made it into the bi-weekly dinner repertoire. Fillings vary: there has occasionally been spiced-up leftover brisket or shoulder of lamb, more often some beans. A cabbage salad is a new and popular addition to the table. Whatever the individual components, this is always fun to eat, its quality underpinned by proper tacos (ordinarily from here, though there are some being made in Brixton now too).

Amongst the many foolish things that the European Commission has done is to forbid the importation of these limes, far more intense and aromatic than anything I’ve come across. Bottled concentrates bring back at least some memory of drinking sweet-sour lime sodas across Malaysia, but I remain on the lookout for contraband.

Method: curing

When I lived in France, I would have no more made confit de canard from scratch than I would have baked my own croissants. But measured by an input-output ratio, this delivers an astonishing amount for very little effort: one pan, about 15 minutes of active time and a bonus jar of duck fat at the end.

Most exciting Brixton opening: Lab G

Our local maestro di gelato is a generous soul, a creative genius and a perfectionist, particularly when it comes to his exceptional pistachio and salted caramel flavours. This is the place we take people when we want them to appreciate just how astonishing the Brixton food scene is.

Best meal (London): Pied á Terre

I was lucky enough to eat at this Michelin 2-star twice in 2011. The food was beautiful to look at, and the kitchen is creative while still turning out plates that are hugely enjoyable to eat. The service was a surprise too: well-informed, generous and far from starchy. At lunchtime, it's not even shockingly expensive.

Best meal (everywhere else): Tek Sen

One of the few disappointing moments of our trip to Penang was finding this restaurant closed (some kind of temple festival) when we tried to make a return visit. This was revelatory food: astonishingly fresh yet amazingly complex in flavour. If there’s a single reason why we’re cooking and eating so much more Asian food now, it must lie in the effort to recapture what was on those plates.

Most-used cookbook: Madhur Jaffrey’s Curry Easy

We had this out from the library on and off for the last 6 months; our permanent copy should be arriving in time for the beginning of Hanukkah. It’s yielded crispy, spicy chickpeas which are perfect with a G&T, our first proper dhal and introduced us to curry leaves. But the biggest game changer has been making our own chapattis, far simpler and tastier than I would have imagined possible.

Most enjoyable food shop: A & C Co Continental Grocers

I’m spending more time in the local Asian grocery these days, and I still make a trip to Borough Market most weekends. But this is the place that I stop into nearly 6 days a week, whether for some olives or nuts to start off dinner, to top-up store cupboard basics or for the things that no one else sells locally, like quinces or fresh bay leaves. These are the people who’ve held onto my extra keys, make me laugh at the end of a rotten day and are eager to have taste me the new cheese that’s just come in. I don’t think most people have a shop like this; I’m very lucky that I do.

Best experiment: growing tomatoes

Flowers and shrubbery may still hold very limited interest, but I’m now beginning to understand why people like to garden. I’m not sure that in the midst of the root rot saga of August and September, or when I was hauling home 40 litres of potting soil on the bus, that I wholly appreciated how satisfying it could be to grow my own food. But it gave me occasion to talk to my neighbours, and was a far better use of time than more Internet surfing. And I learned that even basic cherry tomatoes taste great when picked as the table is being set for dinner.

Black beans, eggs and salsa

2011-12-04T19:41:00.009Z

Along with a whole range of dishes which used multiple parts of a pig, the 90s-era Cuban diners on the Upper Upper West Side of Manhattan did potent cafes con leche and plates of scrambled eggs and black beans which were big enough to make the next meal redundant. As well as being exotic and cheap, I was told by those with experience of such things that food like this was also very good for hangovers.

For the bright young things of Brixton, who seem to suffer with the same affliction on weekend mornings, the neighbourhood’s multiple Columbian cafes—which do a comparable line in vast servings of assorted meats, eggs and beans, washed down with lots of caffeine—appear to fill a useful niche. But even for those of us whose closest experience of a late-night party is the one that takes place far too often in the apartment upstairs, beans and eggs—minus the mixed meats—is also a popular weekend meal, easy, tasty and admirably inexpensive.

Canned black beans, a rare commodity in much of the country, can be bought in any of the dozens of the small Caribbean grocers nearby. Cooked down with onion, garlic, cumin, fresh coriander and a spoonful of chipotle en adobo (still not locally available; Brixton’s Latino population is probably the largest in inner London, but it’s largely Ecuadoran, Columbian and Venezuelan rather than Mexican), they make a fudgy, mellow partner for eggs of any variety. We’ve scrambled the eggs and used the two to fill leftover corn tortillas. Though my own fried eggs are variable at best, I think that a well-made one plopped on the beans provides nice textural contrast.

Today we played with an idea from another egg dish, shakshouka, where eggs are part-poached, part-baked in a thick sauce of tomato and pepper. We cooked the beans in a wide frying pan, leaving a bit of liquid, then made indentations for the eggs. The pan was covered, and the eggs left to half-set. We finished it all with a quick grilled salsa, made from some cherry tomatoes that improbably appeared at the farmer’s market. The result was somehow far better than the sum of its (simple) parts—and far too good for those neighbours.

No formal recipe needed, but a few notes:

I’ve found that cooking the beans on a low heat in a frying pan—rather than a saucepan—allows them to soften slightly without turning into mush. I use a good splash of water and simmer them for 10-20 minutes.
Toasting and grinding whole cumin seeds may seem unnecessary in such a simple recipe, but it makes a real difference to the flavour.
A bay leaf makes a nice addition to the beans.
Orangette has a good grilled salsa recipe.

Somerset and Potato Gratin

2011-11-27T19:49:00.006Z

You know it’s going to be a good weekend when you’re met on arrival with hugs all around and a glass of your favourite champagne.

We were in North Somerset, 30 minutes or so out of Bristol, staying with G’s first year university roommate and his large and very welcoming family. The champagne—accompanied by a platter of blinis and salmon mousse—began an evening of copious food and wine, good conversation and a level of relaxation very rarely achieved on a Friday night.

The next day, having slept well under the watchful gaze of Justin Beiber (we had poached the seven year old’s room), we headed off on a country tromp. There was mud, stiles to climb over, lush green meadows and lots of sheep: all the things that the city folk expect out of a country walk. We ended up at a restaurant so seasonal, rustic and organic that the well-heeled, left-leaning readers of the Observer named it the UK’s best ethical restaurant. Other than its name, the Ethicurean, it wears its credentials lightly; the food did its setting ample credit.

Set in the conservatory of an old walled garden, much of the food is sourced on site or from nearby suppliers. The menu is small: terrines, salads, pies and platters of cheese and meat, served with local beers and ciders. Highlights included fantastically piquant chutneys and piccalilli (a traditional English vegetable pickle), off-dry Welsh cider and an Eccles cake, a flaky pastry filled with a warmly-spiced and not too sweet currant mixture.

After lunch, we ambled through the garden, where I discovered how Brussels sprouts grow, then into the orchard of dwarf apple trees. Home was through a series of corn fields, our progress hampered somewhat by our haul of mildly intoxicating beverages from the restaurant’s small shop.

We had been asked to cook dinner, a daunting task for a family that has eaten in serious restaurants and has shown us such exceptional generosity on many occasions. The opportunity to repay their hospitality was a welcome one, and the menu planning a massive highlight in an otherwise forgettable work week . We wanted the food to reflect how we like to eat, to demonstrate some effort, but not so much as to impinge on the relaxed atmosphere, and, most of all, to taste good.

We began with the Union Square Cafe’s bar nuts, buttery and warm, the sweetness offset by cayenne and rosemary. A simple salad followed: mustard-dressed leaves topped with blue cheese and walnuts. The main was duck confit; little more than some fresh herbs and a 24-hour run-up required. With that, we served gratin dauphinois and sautéed mushrooms. We finished with quince which we had poached in vanilla syrup until it was almost ruby-coloured, vanilla ice cream (not home-made) and sablé biscuits.

The duck and the quince are two of our favourite dishes at this time of year, while the nuts and salad have both made previous appearances. Sablé biscuits were a bit of a risk, as I’ve probably not baked more than a few batches of cookies since I was a kid. But it turns out, that with good butter, a reliable recipe, and some sea salt, there wasn’t much that could go wrong.

I had wavered on the gratin. Though the obvious accompaniment to the duck, my only experience was with eating it. But I should have known better than to doubt Julia Child. Her version—as adapted very slightly here--was hearty but not too rich, perfectly soft through the middle and appealingly crusty and bronzed on top. It may even be good enough to earn us some more invitations.

Gratin Dauphinois (Potato Gratin)

Adapted from Food 52 (who in turn adapted it from Julia Child)

Serves 6

Total time: 50 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

Special equipment: mandolin or food processor with a slicing blade; shallow baking dish (about 9 inches long and 2 inches deep)

350 ml whole milk

2 garlic cloves

2 bay leaves (ideally fresh)

Butter

1 kg waxy potatoes

200 grams grated Gruyere

Salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 220C. Put the milk in a small saucepan. Peel and smash one of the garlic cloves. Add it to the pot along with the bay leaves. Heat the milk gently until it comes to a simmer. Remove from the heat and let steep.

Peel the second garlic clove, cut it in half and rub the cut side around the inside of the baking dish. Rub butter inside the dish.

Peel the potatoes and slice with a mandolin or similar implement. Layer about a third of the potatoes into the dish. Season with salt and pepper and sprinkle a third of the cheese on top. Make two more layers in the same way.

Remove the garlic and bay from the milk and pour the milk over the potatoes. Bake the gratin for about 30 minutes, until it's browned and bubbly and a knife cuts through the potatoes easily. Let the potatoes cool for 5 minutes before serving.

Mussaman beef curry

2011-11-13T14:41:00.004Z

It’s always a pleasure when the first foray into a new cookbook completely vindicates its purchase. We had talked about buying Rick Stein’s Far Eastern Odyssey for a long time, but I had thrown up all sorts of objections: that the recipes wouldn’t be as good as the two from the book we had already tried online, that they would be too complicated to be made regularly, that we should buy cookbooks written by life-long experts in particular Asian cuisines, not a catch-all associated with a (admittedly hugely informative and enjoyable) TV show, that our cookbook shelf was already full.

We may need to impose a one-in, one-out policy, but on the basis of last night’s dinner alone, this book well deserves a spot on the shelf. After this summer, I was particularly excited about the chapters on Balinese and Malaysian food, and had already bookmarked recipes for the fish curry with okra and tomato that was a favourite in Penang, and the different satays which I ate across Bali. The main dish we ended up choosing, however, was a Thai classic: beef mussaman curry.

The preparation began with a method I’ve never come across before: an initial two hour cooking of the meat with just coconut milk, cinnamon bark and black cardamom, the last of which lent a smoky, almost funky aroma. The fattiness of the coconut milk kept the meat moist, while the liquid reduced and took on a nutty flavour and hue. With about 45 minutes to go, cubed potatoes, fish sauce, tamarind, palm sugar and a curry paste were added. Combining relatively mild heat with warm spices such as coriander, cumin, cloves, cinnamon and mace, pungency in the form of shrimp paste, and freshness from ginger and lemongrass, the paste’s unusual mix of ingredients is explained by the dish’s apparent roots in the spices brought to southern Thailand by Indian and Indonesian traders. (The traders would seem to have brought their religion as well, as southern Thailand has a large Muslim population.) Roasted peanuts were added before serving.

Served with rice and a deceptively simple but delicious cucumber, chilli, shallot and coconut salad, this was a truly astonishing plate of food, the flavours ricocheting from richness and sweetness to sourness and heat, and back again. Unlike a Western stew, it’s not something I could just throw together: the spice paste alone had 14 ingredients, requiring stops at a local Chinese supermarket and Indo-Caribbean shop, and the use of a pan, the mortar and pestle and the food processor. But even the resident dish washer agrees that a little extra work is worth it if the outcomes continue to be this good.

Thai mussaman beef curry

Adapted from Rick Stein’s Far Eastern Odyssey

Active time: 45 minutes-1 hour; Total time: 4 hours

Special equipment: mortar and pestle OR spice grinder and food processor

The curry paste recipe will make enough for a second, slightly smaller curry (using 600-650 grams of meat). The paste can be kept sealed in the refrigerator for several days or frozen.

Curry paste ingredients and method

10 dried kashmiri chillies (I used hotter dried Thai chillies and decreased the number used by at least 1/3)

20 cardamom pods

2 tbsp coriander seeds

2 tbsp cumin seeds

16 whole cloves

5 cm cinnamon stick (If you are using a mortar and pestle instead of a spice grinder, leave out and add extra to the curry instead.)

2 pieces mace blade

200g shallots or onion

3 tbsp vegetable oil

25g garlic (3-4 large cloves)

1 tsp shrimp paste

25g ginger (thumb-sized piece)

2 lemongrass stalks

8 tbsp coconut milk

Seed the chillies and remove the cardamom seeds from their pods. Heat a small, heavy frying pan over a moderate heat. Add the chillies and all the dried spices to the pan and turn until they begin to smell aromatic, 1-2 minutes. Pour into spice grinder or mortar and pestle and grind to a fine powder.

Coarsely chop the onion or shallot. Heat the oil over a gentle heat in the same frying pan, add the onions and cook slowly, stirring occasionally, until fully softened and turning a dark golden, about 20 minutes. Add the shrimp paste and ground spices and fry for a few more minutes.Peel and roughly chop ginger. Remove tough outside pieces of lemongrass and cut into small chunks. Add these, along with the fried mixture, to the food processor. Pour in the coconut milk and process to a smooth paste.

Curry ingredients and method

850 grams beef stewing meat

400 ml (1 can) coconut milk

3 -4 black cardamom pods (replace with green if not available)

5-7 cm cinnamon stick

200 grams waxy new potatoes (use a bit more to feed an extra person)

2/3 quantity curry paste

1-1/2 tbsp fish sauce

2-3 tbsp tamarind concentrate

Scant 1 tbsp palm sugar

Handful roasted peanuts

Put the beef and just over half of the coconut milk in a heavy, lidded pan. Add the same amount of water, the cardamom, cinnamon and 1 tsp salt and bring to a simmer. Mostly cover and cook on a gentle heat for about 2 hours, stirring occasionally, by which point the sauce will be thick and well-reduced and the meat almost tender.

Cut the potatoes into chunks. Add those, along with the remaining coconut milk, curry paste, fish sauce, tamarind and sugar, to the pot. Taste for sweet-sour balance, adjusting the last three ingredients as necessary.

Simmer uncovered on a gentle heat for another 30-45 minutes, or until the beef can be broken apart with a fork, the sauce is integrated and the potatoes tender. Check seasoning, add peanuts and serve, ideally with a clean, tangy relish on the side.

Coulommiers

2011-11-06T14:29:00.005Z

We’ve been eating mostly English cheeses recently, as the range and quality at our standard weekend shopping destinations (Borough and Maltby Street) are just fantastic. But a different itinerary yesterday brought me to La Fromagerie, probably the capital’s best source for perfectly-aged French cheeses. Somehow I managed to bring home only two: a small slab of St Nectaire that was escaping its rind but balanced mellow sweetness with a certain dirtiness, and a half of Coulommiers.

Even in Paris I didn’t often see Coulommiers, despite it being made in a town only 40 miles or so to the east. Here in London, I’ve found it only in a few high-end cheese shops. It may be that production is relatively small, or that it tends to get overlooked in favour of the not wholly dissimilar and far better known Brie and Camembert.

Depending on the version of the story, Coulommiers is either the progenitor of Brie or its descendant. Indeed Brie de Melun, the less popular of the two main Brie varieties, is produced just down the road in the town of the same name. Like Brie, Coulommiers is semi-soft, with a butter-coloured interior capable of becoming almost liquid when very ripe, and a bloomy white rind. It has the earthy, mushroomy tang of a good Brie, but alongside that there’s also a gentle nuttiness. Some find it a bit creamier and richer on the palate. It’s smaller than Brie too, with a whole cheese averaging just 500 grams.

Oddly, although it’s long-established and rooted in a particular town, Coulommiers hasn’t received AOC status. While this means that variation on the recipe is technically allowable, the only distinction seems to be between semi-industrial production, which uses pasteurised milk and ages for about a month, and artisal production, where the milk is raw and the maturation time doubled.

A final reason to seek it out? Even at the fancy-pants place where I bought it, a 250 gram piece was only £5. Given the prices of proper cheese (English or French), finding a tasty (relative) bargain is always a boon.

For Coulommiers in London, try La Fromagerie, Paxton & Whitfield or the financial district outpost of Parisian cheesemonger, Androuet.

October Round-up

2011-10-30T10:56:00.003Z

Dosa n Chutney

Revisiting our London favourite for dosa and uttapam this weekend, I was relieved to discover that it measured up even post-Malaysia. The chutneys were fantastically fresh and sprightly in the mouth, the rava dosa—extra-lacy and crispy around the edges—was a great new find, and the service was as friendly as ever.

Rowley Leigh's Financial Times column

Intelligent food porn.

Muscat grapes

Oddly, these are a plummy, dusky purple, not green, as muscats are meant to be, but the tiny French grapes at Tony Booth’s greengrocers (formerly at Borough Market, now happily resettled at Maltby Street) are nonetheless delicious. I’m tempted by Amanda Hesser’s recipe for adding them to a foccaccia-like bread dough, and by this suggestion of roasting them with thyme, but that would leave fewer to just eat now.

Jamie Oliver’s new food programme

I know the man became ubiquitous a long time ago, but his new show on British food is both winning and informative. The producers have clearly employed some good researchers—hence the visit to the burger pop-up which was a big hit on Chowhound, and the accurate explanation of fish and chips’ origins with Jewish immigrants to London’s East End. Refreshingly, there’s no preaching, just enormous enthusiasm for British ingredients and recipes new and old. And the food looks damn tasty.

Venison

Advocates for eating more venison like to point out that it’s local, sustainable and low in fat. All true, but I think the best recommendation is the taste. We splurged on some saddle a few weeks back, which we sealed in duck fat then roasted in the oven to a rare pink. Last night we sautéed some onions, leeks and carrots, added bay, thyme, stewing meat and a bottle of brown ale and cooked in a low oven for half the afternoon, throwing in some vacuum-packed chestnuts about an hour before serving. Next up, I think, a ragu.

Brixton

According to no less an authority than the Observer’s Jay Rayner, Brixton Village is the “most exciting, radical venture on the British restaurant scene right now.” And to think I live just three minutes’ walk away.

Eating Penang

2011-10-16T15:24:00.012Z

Penang (used to refer both to the island of the northwest coast of Malaysia and its capital), or George Town, as it is also known, is hot, crowded and almost disorienting in its concentration of sights, smells and sounds.

There are dozens of places of worship, ranging from the most modest sidewalk shrine to gilded temple complexes and spanning the city’s three major faiths: Buddhism, Hinduism and Islam (the last with separate Indian and Malay strands). Pedicab drivers tout for business, and there are far too many mopeds and motorcycles. The architecture encompasses British colonial relics, like the E&O Hotel and St George’s Church, touches of Art Deco and mid-century modern, and street after street of brightly-coloured, closely-packed shophouses (a building style popular across much of Southeast Asia, these were built in the nineteenth century as combined commercial and residential spaces.) The streets smell of joss sticks and cooking food. Much of the city looks a bit tumble-down and in need of a coat of paint; yet more and more buildings are being beautifully and painstakingly restored as shops, small hotels or homes.

Photographers, those with a yen for a history, or an interest in religious practices, all find plenty to satisfy in Penang. As for those who really like to eat: the quality, variety and sheer scale of what’s on offer is simply astonishing. It says something about how a city chooses to present itself to the world that maps of locations, days and times where several dozen iconic dishes can be eaten are prominently displayed at the airport. And even in a city which is changing rapidly, it’s striking that many of the best and most popular eating venues are ones which have survived the decades virtually unaltered.

With only three days available for our visit, we were almost always full but very rarely disappointed. To recount even the highlights is still a daunting task. A few stand-outs, in no particular order:

Steamed pomfret “Teo chew style” at Tek Sen, an open-fronted Chinatown cafe which has been serving Peranakan (also known as Nyonya or Straits Chinese, after the Chinese immigrants who married local women) dishes for the last 45 years. The mixture of pieces of tomato, black mushrooms, sour plums and some other unidentifiable items yielded a brothy sauce that was clean, sharp and phenomenally complex. The only place with a menu, much less an English-language one, the recent facelift has, according to those in the know, not changed the quality of food.

Mee goreng at Shahul Hamid. By far the most popular dish served in the rather dingy food court next to the seaside esplanade and eighteenth century Fort Cornwallis, the fried noodles cooked up by the stall’s owner are made to his father’s World War II-era recipe. My tin plate came piled with work-charred egg noodles, bits of peanuts, chives and squid fried with lots of chilli paste. In what was probably a quiet 20 minutes, no fewer than 2 dozen portions were cooked to order.

Assam laksa (sour noodle soup) at an unnamed cafe near the city’s business district. The broth balanced chilli heat with a strong punch tamarind, the fish was similar to sardines, meaty with a shredded texture, and the entirety was lifted with small chunks of sweet, acidic pineapple and fresh mint leaves. We could have easily finished several more of these small, orange bowls.

Moroccan challah

2011-10-02T14:14:00.009Z

The impending arrival of Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) brought on an unexpected desire to bake challah.

While I enjoy the process of preparing dough and bake pizza and/or chapatti about once a week, I am lucky to have a phenomenal bread selection—3 bakeries, ranging from quite good to excellent and covering between them sourdough, baguettes, granary and Central European seeded loafs—just down the street. It seems foolish, therefore, to expend time producing an inferior loaf. But as challah isn’t on the rota of any of these shops, nor is there anything like a critical mass of celebrating Jews in Brixton to generate sufficient demand for a holiday special, I felt like I could indulge my whim without any unfavourable comparisons to professional products.

My mother’s challah recipe is justifiably requested by many who eat at her table. But it wasn’t quite what I had in mind: too large to be easily consumed during its short shelf-life (unlike my father, I’m not a big fan of French toast) and not the most obvious match to the Sephardic meal I had planned. Instead I unloaded the books of Claudia Roden (whose Book of Jewish Food demonstrates little interest in Ashkenazic cuisine but is an unparalleled resource on the food eaten by Sephardim from Libya to India to Turkey) and Joan Nathan (whose books on Israeli food and French-Jewish food capture how North African Jewish food in particular has been transplanted and adapted to different milieu over the last 60 years) and got to work.

Based on the evidence provided, the challah of Tunisian Jews differs from the Ashkenazic standard only in its particular braiding and shape. By contrast, Algerian and Moroccan Jews use quite distinctive flavourings of anise and sesame seeds. The more refined versions of these challot, known as pain petri, are enriched with vegetable oil, egg and more sugar; some were also braided and glazed with egg yolk. The simpler are just lightly sweet, flavoured loaves, slightly flatter and wider than a conventional challah. (I also found one version, intended for the dairy break-fast meal after Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, where the water was substituted with milk. This is very similar to other Moroccan bread recipes not specifically associated with its Jewish population.)

I settled on the simplest version, known as a pan de casa in the dialect spoken by some Moroccan Jews. The dough came together easily and was ready to be shaped into a free-form loaf after about 90 minutes of rising time. After a further half hour, it was sprinkled with more sesame seeds and went into a medium-hot (375C or 190F) oven for 30 minutes.

It may not have been quite the challah of my youth, but my guests, who included an Anglican vicar and an Austrian Catholic, seemed unperturbed by any perceived break from tradition and very pleased with the taste.

Pan de Casa
adapted from Joan Nathan’s The Food of Israel Today
Total time: 2 ¾ hours; Active time: 15 minutes

I used a scant 2/3rds of the measurements given to make one free-from loaf large enough to feed four as a starter with dips, with leftovers for breakfast the next morning. I give the original measurements below, with the suggestion that the three smaller loafs are instead shaped into two slightly larger, higher ones. I did not find that this affected the baking time, but it may well require a few more minutes in other ovens.

The only other adjustment made was in substituting bread flour for all-purpose. I was advised by my mother than this would enable more gluten development and a higher, lighter loaf. (It seems to have worked.)

This dough makes a relatively soft crust. If you’d like something crisper, you might try putting the dough into a hotter oven, then immediately turning it down, or allowing it to cool in the switched-off oven, keeping the door open.

5 cups bread flour

1 tablespoon instant yeast

2 tablespoons sugar

1 tablespoon salt (I tend to use a bit more than called for in most bread recipes)

1 tablespoon anise seeds

1 tablespoon sesame seeds, with more to sprinkle on the shaped, unbaked loaf

1 ¾ cups warm water

Add the flour, yeast, sugar, salt and seeds to a large bowl. Pour in the water gradually, mixing by hand or with a large spoon to make a rough, slightly wet dough. (Add a bit of flour or water if the dough isn’t coming together.)

Turn out the dough onto a well-floured surface and knead until smooth and pliable, up to 10 minutes. Place back in the bowl, cover well and let rise in a slightly warm place until doubled, about 90 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 375C (190F). Grease two cookie or baking sheets. Punch back the dough and divide into two balls. Shape as desired and place on the cookie sheets. Sprinkle with additional sesame seeds. Cover and allow to rise for a further 30 minutes.

Bake the loaves for 30 minutes, or until they sound hollow on the bottom. Allow to cool fully before slicing.

Whole wheat apple muffins

2011-09-25T14:35:00.009Z

For years now, I’ve been promising myself to try to bake more often, reasoning that it’s a far better way than reading cookbooks to gain confidence and skills and begin to develop a repertoire. (It also seems like another way to help ensure that I log some miles on the treadmill.) I’m not sure how well the resolve will stick this time, but I enjoyed yesterday’s baking session far more than any I’ve undertaken for a long time. It certainly helped that the outcome was unambiguously good.

These muffins were moist, not too sweet and full of tender apple pieces and gentle autumnal spice. Whole wheat flour is not something I’ve ever used in baked goods before, associating it with the leaden items sold by those virtuous but unappealingly ascetic health food shops. If baking is an infrequent activity at best, I think it’s reasonable that the output boasts limited health benefits. But in this case, the inclusion of whole wheat flour yielded a depth of flavour which I don’t think would have been achievable with white flour alone. And there was enough fat and moisture in this recipe (in the form of butter and buttermilk or yogurt) to make the crumb unusually light.

There’s absolutely nothing in this recipe that needs changing. But it’s such a good muffin template that I can see lots of possibilities for adaptation: adding nuts or raisins; swapping out the apples for grated carrots, pears or plums (slightly reducing the liquid if plums were used), amping up the spice with fresh or dried ginger, including a bit of oatmeal in the batter or topping the muffins with some streusel.

If nothing else, the muffin tin should at least get some play this fall.

Whole Wheat Apple Muffins
adapted from King Arthur Flour and Smitten Kitchen
Total time: 40-50 minutes; Active time: 20 minutes
Makes at least 7 muffins in a ¾ cup tin

1 cup (150 grams) whole wheat flour

1 cup (140 grams) all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

2 tsp allspice

Generous grating of fresh nutmeg

1/2 cup (113 grams, or ½ a package) salted butter, at room temperature

1/2 cup (200 grams) granulated sugar (I used sugar which was lightly scented with a spent vanilla pod)

Scant 1/2 cup (200 grams) Demerara sugar (The original recipe called for American brown sugar, which is not easily available in the UK)

1 large egg

1 cup (250 ml) buttermilk or plain yogurt (I used half yogurt and half whole milk)

2 large apples (I used a mix of Bramley cooking apples and more aromatic eating apples)

Preheat the oven to 450°F (about 230°C). Grease or line muffin cups if tin is not made of silicone.

Core, peel and chop the apples into pieces between the size of a pea and a bean. Mix together all the dry ingredients (flour, leavening agents and spices) and set aside. In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar until well-mixed. (I did this with just a large spoon.) Add the egg and stir well to combine. Gently add the buttermilk or yogurt. (If you’re a bit zealous and the mixture curdles, don’t worry. It fixes itself in the oven.) Stir through the dry ingredients in several batches, mixing just enough to get any pockets of flour integrated. Fold in the apple chunks.

Divide the batter evenly among the prepared muffin cups. Bake for 10 minutes, then turn the heat down to 400°F (205°C) and bake until a toothpick or skewer inserted into the centre of a muffin comes out clean. (With my Texas-style muffin tin, this took an additional 20 minutes.)

Allow the muffins to cool slightly, then turn out of the tin to finish cooling. Store covered and at room temperature. The tops can be at least partially recrisped by reheating briefly in a warm oven.

Canning

2011-09-17T17:40:00.008Z

As a general rule, I’m happy to benefit from other’s kitchen skills when I think they’re better than mine. That goes for jam (more often than not Bon Maman, though I’d happily frequent this fantastic producer in rural Somerset were she closer), chutney (cue the lady in Somerset again, though half of Borough Market seems to be given over to chutney these days), pickles (well, actually cornichons, and I like most French brands except Maille) and ketchup (where Heinz is king). Beyond that, the cost of fresh produce and the severe lack of food storage options in our 55 square metres have provided little incentive to devote effort to improving my canning skills.

Somewhat by accident, though, I have managed to do enough canning in recent months to have filled up nearly a dozen jars, and a fair amount of our free shelf space. First there were the Lake District blackcurrants languishing in the freezer. These have now been macerating in vodka since sometime in early June. I should have my choice of cold, rainy weekends in late October or early November in which to finish turning them into crème de cassis. Next came a bag of windfall pears from a colleague’s garden. I added some Bramley apples, onions, sultanas and spices, and turned them into chutney. Unfortunately, I won’t know if it’s any good until pears are well out of season.

The chutney was a pleasing, if odiferous, way to pass a drizzly Sunday afternoon, with Formula 1 coverage punctuating the plip-plopping of reducing liquid. But the most enjoyable project so far, and the only one I’ve been able to taste, was spiced tomato jam.Although we’ve grown plenty of tomatoes, there was never a large enough volume at one time to make this recipe. But when I saw some slightly overripe plum tomatoes at the farmer’s market for a knockdown price, it seemed a good use for both my remaining jars and (yet another) variable weather day.

I didn’t tinker with the recipe, merely scaled it down to match the quantity of tomatoes I bought, and replaced the portion of white sugar with more brown. As promised, it cooked down in just under three hours to beautiful jam-like consistency. The spices didn’t dominate as they do in a chutney; rather, there was a hum in the background, a bit of complexity. Likewise, the vinegar added gentle acidity without announcing its presence.

It’s in the cupboard right now, though I don’t expect it will take much to get it opened: goats cheese and a baguette, grilled chicken or perhaps just some good cheddar. On the basis of my brief pre-jarring taste, I’m expecting very good things.

Sweet and Savoury Tomato Jam
barely adapted from Jennifer Perillo and Food 52

Makes 1 ½ pints (about 3 jam jars)

Total time: 3 ½ hours; Active time: 30 minutes

I chose to skip the suggested hot water bath, instead merely pouring the jam into hot, sterilised jars. If you plan to jar this for longer-term storage, please follow directions from a reliable source.

3 1/2 pounds tomatoes (make sure they are ripe and flavourful)

1 small onion

2 cups brown sugar

1 teaspoon coarse salt

1/2 teaspoon ground coriander

1/4 teaspoon ground cumin

1/4 cup cider vinegar

juice of 1 lemon

Core and coarsely chop the tomatoes. Finely chop the onion. Add these to a large pot. Add the sugar, salt, spices, vinegar and lemon juice to the pot and combine.

Bring the mixture to a gentle boil, then reduce to a simmer. Cook until thickened to a jam-like consistency, about 3 hours. (The exact time will depend on the amount of water in your tomatoes.)

When the mixture is nearly ready, prepare your jars. Pour in the jam, filling up each jar to within ¼ inch of the top. Seal tightly and turn upside-down until cooled to help seal.

September highlights

2011-09-14T15:05:00.012Z

Six weeks on, I’m still waxing rhapsodic about my recent South East Asia trip. But there’s been lots of other shopping, cooking and eating going on. A few highlights:

Tomatoes

Some of our plants succumbed to root rot, a likely combination of months of bad weather and too few holes poked in the bottom of the industrial-size tomato tins which served as pots. But it’s still been a highly credible first crop; we should finish with upwards of 800 cherry tomatoes.

There have been salads and pizza toppings aplenty, as well as roast tomato sauces destined for the freezer. A fair number never make it out of the bowl on the table. For slightly deferred gratification, however, it’s been hard to beat slow-roasted tomatoes, sliced in half, tossed with a bit of olive oil, fresh thyme or oregano, bay leaves, salt and whole garlic cloves, and put in a low oven (100 C) for 2 hours, or until they are wrinkly but not entirely desiccated. They then go in the fridge topped up with more oil, perfect for sandwiches, pre-dinner drinks and tossing through pasta.

Pho @ Cafe East

Amongst the best bowls I’ve ever come across (the saté pho at Pho Dong-Huong in Paris’ Belleville remains a sentimental favourite, but it’s not completely echt) is served at a simple cafe situated in a Deptford parking lot, next to a bowling alley, multiplex and bingo parlour. Its unpromising location is perhaps less surprising when you learn that the surrounding area is home to lots of second-generation Vietnamese. I’m partial to the spicy broth; the rice noodle dishes are good here too.

Cafe East

100 Redriff Road

Surrey Quays Leisure Park

Tube: Surrey Quays or Canada Water

Closer to home

Just underneath the Brixton rec centre, a new meat and grocery shop has opened. Its Algerian-born owner is selling loose olives, lots of fresh North African pastries and French-branded groceries, and, most excitingly, making his own merguez. A rotisserie is set up outside, awaiting the arrival of British Gas.

And in the market(s) proper, the eating options just keep getting better. I’ve heard that a Beijing-style dumpling stand is on its way to Granville Arcade, and I’ve met the very excited British-Oaxacan family pushing to get their Market Row taqueria open by the end of the week.

Notwithstanding the rain, the stands at Sunday farmer’s market have been full of beautiful, cheap fruit and vegetables, the last few weeks of the courgettes, corn, tomatoes and berries overlapping with the arrival of apples, pears and pumpkins. And I can only imagine the weather must be good for beets, because the ones for sale right now are large enough to feed a Ukrainian family for at least a few days.

In the kitchen

It’s been simple—but good—eating around here: lots of stove-top pizza, tacos, grilled meats and salads. A notable success has been finding an aubergine dish that didn’t involve buckets of oil and was worth repeating. I’m not sure why it took me so long to look in the obvious place—one of the Moro cookbooks. This recipe began with the predictable steps of grilling and scooping out the flesh, but then called for sautéing the resultant mush with tomatoes, fresh coriander, cumin and cayenne until the water was cooked out, and the puree rich and caramelised. Perfect alongside grilled lamb kebabs, roasted peppers, flatbread and a tzatziki-like dip.

Breakfast in Malaysia

2011-08-28T17:42:00.005Z

I suppose it’s possible that most Malaysians actually just grab a quick bowl of cereal, or a piece of toast, before heading out for the day. But I’d much prefer to think that the people I saw on the street or in simple coffee shops, filling up on an astonishing variety of rice, noodles, flat breads and more, are indeed the majority.

To start, a beverage. While it’s possible to get almost any fruit freshly-squeezed from dedicated street-side vendors, coffee and tea tend to be the more common accompaniments. The former can be iced or hot, and is usually topped off with sweetened condensed milk. The latter can be made with lemon and sugar syrup, particularly good iced, or turned into a frothy, latte-like beverage—teh tarik—by adding the condensed milk, then pouring the mixture between two glasses.

As for the main dish, the best food purveyors are highly specialised, often focusing on a single dish or—at most—a certain ethnic subset of dishes. It will therefore be necessary to choose at least a first course. On the more culturally mixed western coast, a masala dosa, served up in a Tamil-owned cafe, is a good starting point. These are invariably made to order on a flat grill, stuffed with mustard seed, chilli and onion-laced crushed potatoes and served with tomato, coriander and coconut relishes. The only decisions to be made are whether to spoon a thick, dhal-like sauce over the top and if the standard pancake, already quite thin and crispy, should be swapped out for one which is even lacier around the edges. If you like what you’ve been given, fold down the banana leaf cum serving plate towards you before leaving.

Next, some rice, perhaps the iconic Malaysian breakfast dish of nasi lemak. You may have a choice between fried chicken (ayam goreng) and chicken in red sauce (masak merah); the latter gives more sauce to mix with the coconut rice, anchovies and peanuts. And while boiled (and usually slightly over-boiled) eggs are the norm, any place with a fried egg option is likely to be making up a good plate of nasi lemak. Another option, harder to find but well worth seeking out, is the Indian Muslim nasi kandar, a mini-buffet of meat curries and vegetables, served with plain rice. Think it’s too heavy to be eating at this hour? Consider again. It won’t get cooler until well into the evening, and many of the best nasi kandar stalls will run out by mid-morning.

To finish, a roti canai. Find a vendor with a busy griddle, and watch the flatbreads being made in front of you. For sauce, the thin lentil curry tends to get my nod over the chicken gravy, but look at what the locals are eating and choose accordingly. Wait until it’s cool enough to not burn your (right) hand, but no longer. Like the pancakes you might make at home, these don’t improve over time.

A few venues to try, should you find yourself in George Town (the capital of Penang state), courtesy of the always-reliable Robyn Eckhardt.

Veloo Vilas

Great dosai at 22 King Street, Little India

Toon Leong

The brothers serving up the nasi kandar at the front of this Chinese-owned coffee shop on the corner of Jalan Transfer and Jalan Argyll are carrying on the business started by their grandfather, an immigrant from southern India. The okra and beef are both superb, and the coffee, served up by unusually crotchety older man, is very good here too.

In London, Bonda Cafe, a halal joint near Paddington kept to high standards and low prices by being in the basement of a Malaysian student residence, opens at 8:30 on weekends to serve up nasi lemak and roti canai.

Coconut

2011-08-17T18:09:00.011Z

In Malaysia, Java and Bali, coconut comes second only to rice in its ubiquity and centrality to both sweet and savoury food. Even the goats—we came across this one near a beach in Terrangganu, eyeing up a coconut shake—seem to like it.

Young, green coconuts—often described as jelly coconuts—are simply sawed open, the watery, gently sweet liquid drunk through a straw. In the process of maturation, the flesh shifts from being gelatinous and quite bland to a meaty, sweet richness. The flesh can then be turned into milk (made by grating the flesh either on a board of nails or with a threshing-like machine, then pressing it, adding warm water and repeating) or oil (a more involved process which requires long, gentle cooking of the milk, then spooning off and refining the liquid fat which rises to the top), or simply grated, to be used as is, toasted or dry-fried.

I can’t say that the oil was particularly distinctive as a cooking fat, though the less processed oil (used in a particularly tasty meal served, of all places, at a “lifestyle cafe” in the Kuala Lumpur airport’s Low Cost Terminal), did have a certain clean sweetness . The milk, however, drew together all sorts of complex tastes and textures—as coconut rice (nasi lemak),anchoring and giving its name to a popular Malay breakfast spread of chicken curry, fried peanuts, crisp anchovy-like fish, hard-boiled egg, cucumber and a spicy, tomato-based sauce (sambal); in tempering the pungent sourness of curried fish soup (Nyonya laksa, also sometimes known as curry laksa or laksa lemak); and as a relatively neutral medium to float sweet noodles, crushed ice, syrups and gelatinous shapes in cendol and ice kacang.

Coconut also features prominently in desserts that more closely resembled their European counterparts. The best we came across were moreish tarts from Leong Chee Kee, a small bakery owned by the same family for two generations. Justifiably popular, the tarts’ double-crusted pastry are impossibly flaky, the coconut flavour intense, and the overall result not too sweet. Impressively tinged green with pandan leaf, but perhaps less exciting in the mouth, were the thin crepe-like pancakes sold across Bali, filled with a palm sugar caramel and fresh coconut flakes.

A new discovery in Indonesia was the abundant use of grated coconut, sometimes fresh, other times toasted, in cooked vegetable salads. These invariably contained long green beans, chilli, lime, sugar, often also spinach or water spinach and young, just-sprouted mung beans, and were sold under the name of urap sayur (coconut vegetables).

Back in London, I found a Madhur Jaffrey recipe for something named Gudangan which seemed a simpler approximation of what I had eaten. (Some versions also use a fresh spice paste.) Without the energy to bash open the fresh coconuts which are abundant at local Caribbean shops, I settled for rehydrating unsweetened, desiccated coconut. And though Jaffrey’s recipe also called for cauliflower and mung bean sprouts, I stuck to the green beans already in the fridge.

The result was, even without the banana leaf as serving plate, plastic stool and relentless heat, highly enjoyable. And with only six ingredients, it stands a better chance than other vacation favourites of making it onto our table on a regular basis.

Green bean salad with coconut and chili dressing

Adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s World Vegetarian

Serves 2 amply
Total time: 75 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

I like this slightly warm or at room temperature, but it can also be prepared a bit in advance and chilled.

1 fresh red chili

1 garlic clove

2-3 tsp lime juice

Scant 4 tbsp unsweetened, desiccated coconut

1 tsp palm sugar (use dark brown sugar or jaggery if this is unavailable)

2 large handfuls of green beans (should be about 1 package or farmers’ market container)

Rehydrate coconut in a bowl with just over 3 tbsp hot water. It should take from 45 minutes to one hour to fully absorb the liquid and become soft.

While the coconut is rehydrating, chop the chilli finely (removing seeds if desired). Mince the garlic. Add both to a mixing bowl and squeeze over lime juice. Add palm sugar. (If it’s hard to get out of the container, try microwaving it for 5-10 seconds or using a spoon dipped in boiling water.) Mix to combine.

Cut beans into 1 ½ inch lengths. Bring a pot of salted water to a boil and add beans. Cook until just tender—approximately 4 minutes. Drain in cold water to arrest cooking and leave to cool.

Add the coconut to the dressing and mix through. Add the beans and combine. Taste for balance, adding salt and pepper and adjusting the acidity and sweetness.

Pizza lessons

2011-08-07T08:00:00.003Z

In our near-weekly pizza sessions, we tend to adhere to that maxim that the best pizzas are the simplest ones. A bit of sauce or sliced tomato, mozzarella or ricotta, some herbs from the garden, is usually all that’s used. Occasionally, we’ll shave on a light vegetable topping: asparagus in the springtime (as per Smitten Kitchen’s excellent suggestion), slim yellow courgettes more recently, or smear on a blob of pesto. But the general tendency has been to strip down to the absolute essence, in other words, dough.

On visits to Rome during my early 20s, I, like so many others, frequented Forno Campio de Fiori, a sliver of a shop tucked into a corner of a popular market square. The speciality there is pizza bianca, a rectangular slab of wood-fired dough dressed only with olive oil, coarse salt and perhaps a rosemary sprig. Back in Manhattan, I found a version on a still-undeveloped byway of Soho that was good enough to warrant taking the dreaded N/R train downtown. (Pizza bianca hasn’t figured much in more recent years, though I freely admit that the version served at the UK’s Strada’s pizza chain--called garlic schiacciatella, it's really piazza bianca--is unabashedly moreish.)

Once our dough recipe was honed—Shipton Mill flour, a bit of yeast, salt, olive oil and sugar, allowed to rise slowly in the fridge and cooked on top of the stove in a hefty, well-used pan—it quickly became natural to start off a pizza meal with a bianca. Perfect with a glass of wine and perhaps a few slices of meat or a handful of olives, the bianca sates our hunger pangs and allows an easy slide into the rhythm of cook-assemble-eat.

I’m not quite sure when we started putting the rosemary directly into the dough. And since the idea was G’s, not mine, I can unabashedly say it’s brilliant. Finely-chopped sprigs—anywhere from a teaspoon to a tablespoon, depending on taste—are gradually sprinkled on the dough as it’s shaped and rolled out, ensuring that the herb is embedded, rather than all exposed to the pan’s heat. It’s then cooked as normal. The only other occasional fillip is to rub the top with a cut garlic clove before topping with oil and salt and slicing.

As well as looking pretty, the result tastes pretty spectacular. I can only reason that the chopped rosemary integrates with the dough and warms up through the cooking process, allowing its flavour and fragrance to come through more fully.

Inadvertently, we also seem to have found an adaptable template for herb-infused crusts. Just last night, instead of topping the mozzarella and courgette pizza with thyme, we kneaded the flowers and leaves directly into the risen dough. If our oregano plant revives, its leaves will likely feature in a pizza topped with tomatoes from our garden. And come autumn, I’m envisioning a few of the leaves from the enormous sage bush by our front gate being plucked for the base of a mushroom and taleggio pie.

Did I say that the simplest pizzas are usually the best? Depends, I suppose, on what you call simple.

Here and there

2011-06-19T12:01:00.005Z

Cookbooks

I’ve recently become a member of the local public library. I did so mostly to support the reading demands presented by my four hour a day commute. (The recent haul has included some Philip Roth, Paul Auster and lots of mystery novels.) But it turns out that the cookbook section is surprisingly extensive. This week we’ve been perusing Thomasina Miers’ Mexican Food Made Simple and Madhur Jaffrey’s Curry Easy. As well as both having the now-requisite artfully simple photos, they share a common goal of demystifying what are perceived as complicated cuisines (and in the case of Miers’, introducing it to a UK audience). While there are a few compromises made on ingredients (tomatillos, for example, don’t figure prominently as they’re very difficult to find in the UK) and processes are simplified, the food, on early evidence, doesn’t taste dumbed-down at all.

Beer

Our household doesn’t get through a lot of beer. But we’ve tried a few English ales lately which have generated the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for stinky red wines from the south of France. The most memorable was a golden ale from a microbrewery near the Mendip hills in Somerset. It was fruity, bright and the perfect complement to a far better-than-average ploughman’s lunch: bread from our favourite local supplier, Westcombe Cheddar from Neal’s Yard and pumpkin chutney. Cheddar Ales aren’t really sold outside the local area, but we liked this enough that we’re considering using some our wine storage space to house a few dozen bottles. (Closer to hand, the St. Austell’s Cornish IPA sold by Marks & Spencer has also proved very enjoyable.)

Sorrel

It hasn’t been growing as out of control as I might like, but there’s still been enough to put into scrambled eggs and herby potato salads and to mix with chopped mint and soft cheese for a tasty pre-dinner spread, perfect on thin slices of toast.

Blogs

In anticipation of July’s trip to Malaysia and Indonesia, I’ve been searching for good information on where and what I should be eating. Eating Asia has been a great discovery. Authored by a professional food writer who’s spent the last 20+ years living in Southeast Asia, it features ingredients, street food and markets from the China to Sulawesi and everywhere in between, shot beautifully and explained with a knowledgeable but light touch. This will be my guide to the best fried chicken in Yogyakarta, central Java, and to what can’t be missed in one of the region’s best eating cities, Penang (Georgetown).

Crème de cassis (Blackcurrant liquor)

2011-06-19T11:43:00.007Z

At G’s family cottage in the Lake District, there are blackcurrant bushes in the back garden. In anticipating our visit there last summer, I imagined lots of walks, lamb on the fells and on the table, and a bag of fresh-picked berries to take home. Over three days, I managed to get my walking boots suitably muddy, fell asleep to the sound of bleats and dined on local chops. But there weren’t enough berries yet, so I had to make do with a punnet of farm-shop ones.

Upon our return to London, I put them straight in the freezer, plotting a sauce for autumn game or perhaps an apple-tempered crumble. But we tended to eat our birds quite plain, and, having not wholly mastered crumble topping, I didn’t want to waste the blackcurrants on a substandard effort. So they sat until a month or so ago, collecting hoar-frost at the back of the freezer.

Over this time, our supply of Paris-purchased crème de cassis had dwindled and turned a bit stale. In deciding a use for the blackcurrants, I recalled that Amanda Hesser had written about making it from scratch during the year she lived and worked on an estate in Burgundy.

The process, as Hesser explained it, was almost comically simple: Sterilise jars and fill them with fruit. Cover with plain spirit, seal and leave for five or six months. To finish, bring the mixture to a boil, then strain. Add sugar in equal quantity, and boil the two until the sugar dissolves and the mixture turns syrupy and glossy. Pour into a bottle and seal or cork.

I’ve followed the initial instructions, and my vodka-covered blackcurrants are infusing in the cupboard. Come October or November, I’ll finish it off, hopefully making enough syrup to keep me in kir (cassis-enhanced white or red wine, usually drunk as an aperitif) through the winter.

Crème de cassis
adapted from Amanda Hesser’s The Cook and the Gardener

As the method scales to whatever quantity of fruit is available, a proper recipe seems unnecessary. A few instructions, gleaned from Hesser and others:

-Check that you have jars in which the fruit fits quite snugly. You’ll want to leave no more than ½ an inch (1 cm) on the top. Sterilise them in a clean dishwasher or with boiling water.
-For the alcohol, use something neutral in flavour, which is cheap but still potable. In France, one can buy plain eau-de-vie, in effect grain alcohol. I used vodka.
-The instructions for finishing are similar to those used for jellies. In this case, however, the well-strained liquid is boiled for a shorter amount of time. (Hesser suggests that it should coat the back of a spoon after 10 minutes.)
-For easy pouring, the finished product can be stored in a sterilised wine or liquor bottle.

Late spring salad

2011-05-30T16:58:00.008Z

On our table, salad is usually nothing more than some nice leaves, simply dressed with a bit of olive oil and sherry vinegar and served following our main course and before or after cheese. If we’re feeling ambitious, there might be some nut oil (like this fantastic stuff we’ve been rationing since our last trip to Paris) or Dijon mustard mixed in, or maybe some chives from the window box.

When the weather is warm-ish, we sometimes eat a substantial salad for a weekend lunch or supper, likely something involving tomatoes, olives and herbs, bulked out by bulgur, farro or stale bread cubes. There’s the ever-popular Nicoise, and on the rare occasions when we’re willing to bypass the tomatoes, something with rice noodles, herbs and a sour-sweet-funky dressing. But as for meal-opening salads, our repertoire is functionally limited to a much more wintery assemblage of ingredients like endive, blue cheese and walnuts, or one of a number of variations on roasted beetroot.

There was, however, a recent deviation from form. Inspiration came in the form of the freshest peas, broad beans, and asparagus, all bought that morning from just down the road (and picked the previous evening.) The peas were, for once, better than frozen, their sugars not yet turned to starch, and still small enough that they could be eaten raw. The broad beans were young and creamy enough to do the same once they were double-podded. Even the asparagus were left uncooked, instead shaved into long slivers. These were all bedded on some soft, slightly curly leaves, studded with thinly-sliced radishes and mint. Some blobs of a soft, tangy cheese (we used crowdie, a light Scottish cream cheese, but a rindless, spreadable goats cheese or sheeps' milk ricotta would also work well) added richness and creaminess, while a drizzle of lemon juice and some olive oil drew it all together. The result was not only beautiful to look at, but may have even outshone the new house favourite of duck confit which followed.

I’d happily eat this salad at least once a week for the next few months. But I suspect that it may have been, like the perfect restaurant found on the last day of a holiday, a one-time pleasure. When I’m next at the market (in this case not for another two weeks), the peas and broad beans will likely be larger and coarser, the former perhaps not worth the trouble and (relative) expense, the latter now better suited for a summer minestrone, or a dish of gnocchi and pesto. And the asparagus, which arrived weeks early due to an abnormally warm April, may no longer be at their prime.

There will be many compensations, of course: perhaps the first courgettes, tiny, with their flowers attached, at least a few more weeks of very good strawberries and, if the recent rain abates, some cherries. All will make for some very good eating. But the search for a salad continues.

Gelato

2011-05-20T09:01:00.007Z

We have no Michelin stars, very few, if any, tablecloths, and a severe shortage of bathrooms, but the Brixton food scene just gets better and better. There’s a Japanese place on the way, and today we met the eager, nervous owners of another likely June arrival, this one a burger joint featuring Ginger Pig meat. There’s a new bakery too, getting fresh and very credible baguettes every morning from a French guy a few miles away. The unassuming, but excellent Thai place, where I’ve had zingy larb-like salads and spicy stir-fried chicken with a fried egg and Thai basil, was just written up by the Guardian’s lead restaurant reviewer, Jay Rayner.

But perhaps the most exciting development took place on Wednesday, when a very serious gelato maker started churning out a product that already deserves whatever superlatives might be used to describe it. The dozen or so flavours currently on offer are classic, conservative even—hazelnut, strawberry, zuppa inglese—but are made with a perfectionist’s eye for ingredients and balance. The fruit is fresh and seasonal, the pistachio from Bronte in Sicily. Even the cones don’t taste like an afterthought.

Giovanni, the owner, server and gelato-maker, looks delighted, if a bit surprised, by the local response. And apparently Jay Rayner has already been by.

I’m guessing that I live a bit closer than Jay, just a four minute stroll up the road. All the better, as I think Giovanni and I will be seeing a lot of one another.

Lab G (Laboratorio Artigianale del Buon Gelato)

Granville Arcade, Brixton

Late morning until 17:30 Su-W; late morning until 10 pm Th-Sa

Gardening

2011-05-15T17:32:00.007Z

Apparently, I’ve become a gardener.

I suppose I’d been spending a fair amount of time watering and fussing over the motley collections of pots, tins and other receptacles overtaking the windowsills and the ground below, of looking at videos of how to split out tomato seedlings and plotting how the abandoned flat-bed truck at the back of our parking lot could be turned into more growing space. But it wasn’t until a new neighbour described me as “the one with all the plants”, that I realised that there had been some sort of a step change in activity and aspirations.

I should clarify that I’m only growing food, and not so much of it at that. There are half a dozen herbs, several different kinds of salad leaves, chard and, should everything go to plan, maybe 25 cherry tomato plants. I’m on the lookout for some radish seeds, but I’m resisting the temptation to expand more dramatically. Other than the most prolific herbs, there may not be enough of anything to particularly change buying habits.

Starting last summer, I began spending some time at the local community greenhouse. It’s a remarkable place, all the more so for being in a neighbourhood as urban as Brixton. An astounding variety of food grows there: chilli varieties I’ve never seen before, beds of Asian greens tended to by an industrious woman who speaks very little English, all sorts of pumpkins, and, on a highly experimental basis, grapes and rice. There are fruit trees too, and bee hives. The food is sometimes sold, sometime used in cooking demonstrations and, far too frequently, just left for volunteers to scavenge.

A few hours in the sunshine, getting agreeably dirty, seemed like a fair price for suppers featuring fresh-from-the vine tomatoes, herbs and greens. But once the sun and the tomatoes were both gone, the walk towards the greenhouses became less appealing. I’d not sure exactly when the idea of growing some of my own became fixed, but the plan was put into action on the first warm weekend in March. Compost got hauled home on a bus, and a trowel, some seeds and small plants were purchased. By the evening, I had colonised the outside window sills with empty cans, old yogurt pots and the like, while the pots of tomato seeds were lined up, somewhat more precariously, on the inside ledge.

Six weeks on, and the mint plant is halfway up the wall, with no visible sign of the raids for juleps and raita. Oregano, thyme and rosemary are being used almost daily. For a week or so, the chive’s blossoms, purple and tasting almost like a mild spring onion, made their way into almost everything savoury, from eggs to salads to soups. The chard has survived what appears to be a minor bout with beetminer’s leaf, and the rocket will be adorning Tuesday’s pizza. The tomatoes are all still alive, the prodigy of the bunch nearly a foot tall and bursting out of its small port, the laggards barely an inch high. It’s just possible that come August, we’ll have a glut.

Weeding has proven less time-consuming than expected, watering more so, diagnosis of the strange purple splotches (rust, perhaps?) on the sorrel leaves virtually impossible. There has been a childlike sense of wonder in watching things grow from seed, a sense of anticipation in seeing how the plants have changed from one day to the next, a growing excitement at the possibility of being able to eat it all, and some pride in being just a tiny bit self-sufficient in supplying my kitchen.

Since I began growing them, chives have been figuring much more prominently in our cooking. One particular success was a triple allium pizza, featuring leeks cooked almost to the point of being confited, a smear of wild garlic pesto and, when it came out from under the grill, a scattering of chives and chive blossoms. You can find the recipe for the leeks here (follow the basic method, omitting the mustard and crème fraiche at the end). The pesto was made much like any other: toasted, pounded pine nuts (or almond slivers), combined with a big handful of garlic leaves, parmesan and olive oil.

Duck confit

2011-04-13T17:56:00.005Z

Duck has always been my favourite meat, almost impossible to reject if it’s on a restaurant menu. When I lived in France, I alternated between sautéing thick breasts (known as magret, they come from ducks being raised for fois gras) and opening up a tin of confit du canard.

In London, confit comes with an even more luxurious price tag. But duck legs are relatively easy to purchase and often cost little more than chicken. The first recipe I tried was a ragù from All About Braising, where the legs were browned, then slow-braised with a wine-enriched sauce base. It was tender and very tasty, but somehow the rich, almost gamey duck flavour didn’t come through.

A shortcut confit, however, was an unqualified success, the kind of dish that makes one feel clever for having stumbled over it. The recipe, from the NYT’s Melissa Clark, calls for thorough browning before a long, low-temperature roast. The fat rendered off in the sauté is left in the pan, allowing the meat to almost poach. Finally, the skin is re-crisped. (I used the grill; Clark simply uncovers the meat for the last third of the cooking time.) The result was nearly as good as any I’ve prepared (i.e., reheated) or even eaten in a restaurant, the meat falling off the bone, and the skin practically crackling.

The key may come from an initial curing with salt, pepper, thyme and bay. Though Clark suggests a full day in fridge (which I plan to try next time), a few hours were enough to add flavour and draw out excess moisture. I imagine, too, that the rub could be adapted, substituting rosemary or herbes de provence, or maybe even smoked paprika.

On the side? It would be hard to better the classic accompaniment of pan-fried potatoes, though for these you’ll need some fat already to hand—ideally duck or goose, with olive oil as a reasonable cupboard substitute—in order to have the potatoes ready at the same time as the meat. A green or bitter-leaf salad (endive or perhaps radicchio) would be good to follow. And did I mention the wine? Unsurprisingly, big reds from the Languedoc, a duck-obsessed region in France’s southwest, would suit nicely, though I’ve read that California Zinfandels make a fine match as well.

Duck confit

Adapted from the New York Times

Serves 2; doubles easily

Total time: 3 ½ hours for cooking (largely unattended); 3-24 hours for curing

Special equipment: An oven-proof pan which fits the duck legs snugly in one layer. If the pan is shallow, a splatter screen would be useful.

1-2 sprigs fresh thyme

1 tsp sea salt

½ tsp freshly-ground pepper

2 bay leaves, ideally fresh

2 good-sized duck legs, washed, any feathers plucked

Strip the thyme from its branches and chop. Combine with salt in a deep plate, pie dish or similar. Grind over pepper and combine. Add bay leaves.

Press both sides of the duck legs into the curing mixture. Cover and refrigerate for 3-24 hours.

If you can, allow the meat to return to room temperature before sautéing. (If not, it won’t affect the final product.) Heat up the pan on a low to medium flame and place the duck legs in skin-side down. Cover with the splatter screen.Preheat the oven to 110-120°C (230-248°F).

Cook gently for 15-20 minutes, checking occasionally, until the skin is browned and crisp, and there is a considerable amount of fat in the pan. Using tongs, turn the legs to make contact between any other fatty areas and the pan. Brown and render the fat from these, then finish with a few minutes skin-side up.

Cover the pan with a lid or aluminium foil and place in the middle of the pre-heated oven. Cook for 3 hours.

When ready to serve, remove the duck from the oven and reset it to grill/broil. Place the meat under the heat for 2 to 3 minutes, which should be long enough to crisp up the skin.

If desired, soak up any excess fat by placing on a paper towel-lined plate before serving.

Spring planning

2011-03-13T16:37:00.006Z

For a few hours this morning, it was spring. The sun was warm on my shoulders, and I doubted the wisdom of having worn a jacket. At the market, there was forced rhubarb, the stalks still thin, but now more gently priced. I brought home a kilo, along with a sweet, fudgy-textured goats cheese and a small bag of wild garlic leaves. The weather was not so assured as to push the planned beef stew off the dinner menu, but it too got a lift, with handfuls of fresh thyme, olives and orange peel.

By mid-afternoon the skies were grey and threatening. According to the forecast, we won’t be seeing the sun for a while. But if March in England is a study in inconstancy, it does provide lots of opportunities for planning and anticipation. Here are some of the things that have made it onto the long-list:

Artichokes

Perhaps this will be the year that I finally figure out how to cook them. This seems like my sort of recipe.

Chicken and White Wine Stew with Gremolata

Books for Cooks, the too-popular for its own good shop off Portobello Road, publishes occasional compilations of favourite recipes made in their test kitchen cum café. This recipe from Annie Bell’s Living and Eating was their top choice in Volume 6. The switch from red wine to white, and the inclusion of lots of herbs and lemon, sounds like a perfect update to more wintery braises.

Sorrel
Our local farmer’s market is selling some lovely-looking leaves, young and soft enough to eat raw. I’m thinking of using it in a goats cheese spread like the one we made a few weeks ago with wild garlic. (We used a rindless, spreadable cheese, loosened up with a splash of milk, packed it into a small crock and served it with toast.) I’m excited, too, by Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall’s suggestions for combining it with eggs, or in place of watercress in a warm new potato salad.

Lemon cake
Other than rhubarb, there won’t be much local fruit until the strawberries start appearing in June. But lemons have a brightness that seems right for this time of year, and I’ve been meaning to find a simply, citrusy cake to add to my repertoire. I could be swayed by this polenta one from the River Cafe. But a moist, sticky one—maybe made with olive oil?—would also be a welcome find.

A Swiss chard tart
Savoury tarts, whether with puff pastry, a pizza-like dough or short crust, freeform or in a fluted tin, are something that I eat rather than cook. They’ll be a number of steps to this one, from buying a tart case (or individual ones?), to revisiting rolling-out pastry. As for potential recipe sources, I don’t see any reason to look beyond Clotilde’s blog, which provides a choice of tart garnished with squash seeds, a hand-formed pie and a strudel made with filo pastry and goats cheese. Perhaps the perfect make-ahead brunch dish?

Odds and ends

2011-03-06T18:40:00.007Z

To ease myself back into blogging, I thought I’d start with a quick round-up of recent discoveries in and out of the kitchen:

• Lina Stores, one of the survivors of Soho’s Italian renaissance, has gotten a refit. The mid-century marble and pistachio-green tiles are still intact, but the overall effect has shifted from pile-them-high to a more curated selection of fresh and packaged food products. Day-to-day operations now appear to be run by the children of one of the original owners, and changes include a tiny stand-up coffee bar, Twitter and, somewhat curiously, branded aprons and espresso cups. The hand-filled pasta remains superlative and well-priced, and the service is now far sunnier, with the daughter offering half a dozen suggestions of different sauces for the ravioli.

• I’ve bought a copy of Joan Nathan’s recent book about Jewish cooking in France. Her aim is less to create a canon of recognisably French-Jewish recipes than to record the culinary traditions and practices of Jews living in France today. The recipes fall into four categories: North African, a product of the emigration of several hundred thousand Jews from Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia in the 1950s and 1960s; Alsatian, reflecting the pre-war majority of Ashkenazi Jews, many from Germanic countries; historic dishes from France’s small, post-Inquisition community in the country’s southwest, or of the onetime Papal Jews in and around Avignon; and popular French dishes made distinctly Jewish largely by the absence of pork and shellfish, or the mixing of meat and milk. The recipes are, on the whole, highly useable and appealing, but what makes this book distinct are the stories about how French-Jewish identity is reflected in, and understood through, food.

• As an East Coaster, my Mexican food credibility is likely limited, but the corn tortillas made by Cool Chili Company seem in every way authentic: sweet, earthy and perfectly pliable when heated. They’ve nearly made it into the weekly repertoire, with mackerel grilled or citrus-cured (the latter was particularly delicious with the juice of a Seville orange) or with shredded roast chicken. For the chicken, a winter-friendly grilled tomato salsa dirties the food processor but is very good indeed.

• Over the last few months, I’ve been drinking a lot more German Riesling. I was reminded of its existence when reading the memoirs of the wine writer Hugh Johnson, who claims it’s the best white wine grape in the world. He may well be right.

Beef short ribs braised in beer

2010-11-28T18:17:00.007Z

Except for when I was scrambling eggs or boiling pasta, most of my early forays into cooking served at least a table full. Friday night Sabbath dinners were a big social event in my crowd, done pot-luck style to lessen the load on whoever had a proper dining table. I recall a spinach, chickpea and cumin combo which got a lot of play in those years. The spinach was frozen, the chickpeas in a can, but it was tasty in a generically ethnic way. At Oxford, the etiquette of potlucks was less well-developed, and I often found myself not only playing hostess, but cooking up a dozen servings of vegetarian chili or a few casserole dishes of baked ziti so as to ensure that guests had more than baguette, hummus and brie to eat.

With a move to London, the cheap and outsized cooking and serving dishes were jettisoned, and I began cooking for two, perhaps four at a pinch. It’s remained that way ever since.

The challenge came not with an unexpected dinner party for ten, but with a few kilos of short ribs. Bought in a tizzy of excitement at a fancy butcher, I soon discovered that they were substantially larger than even my largest pan. Cooking them in foil in the oven was an option, but would have precluded the use of aromatics and a braising liquid. None of our knives was up to the task, and we doubted whether our puppet-making neighbour would want to use his lathe on raw flesh. Eventually, I brought the meat to a local Portuguese butcher (which we frequent for excellent own-cured olives and fresh vegetables), presenting a shambolic story about the ribs having been a gift. Manuel looked at me curiously, then guided the meat through the band saw.

From there, it got much easier. We chose a dark ale with a hint of sweetness and picked some thyme from the window pots. Carrots, leeks and bit of celery were chopped up and sautéed. And the now-manageable chunks of meats got a good browning before everything was combined in my Staub and placed in the oven.

I was vetoed on drinking the same beer with dinner, but we happily comprised on a pungent, barnyardy southern French red . The beef was unsurprisingly delicious, but was almost upstaged by a pile of mashed potatoes, tangy with crème fraiche and shot through with a rasp of horseradish and chives.

With a loan of a few pots (and indeed some more plates), this could well be on the menu for our apartment’s first substantial dinner party.

Beef short ribs braised in beer

adapted from Molly Steven’s All About Braising and The Boston Globe

Serves 4

Total time: 3 ½-4 hours, plus an option on an overnight rest; Active time: 40 minutes

The ribs I used were English style, which is bone-in, with slices cut parallel to the bone. I see no reason why this method couldn’t also be used with flanken-style ribs, or, with minor adaptions, to braise stewing beef off the bone. With English-style ribs, figure about ½ kilo, or 1 rib, per person. For ease of cooking and serving, have the ribs cut into large chunks.

2 kilos bone-in beef ribs

3 carrots

3 leeks

2 stalks celery

olive oil

2 bottles full-flavoured ale

handful fresh thyme

2 bay leaves (preferably fresh)

salt and pepper

Trim any excess fat off the ribs, retaining any connective tissue or membrane-like skin (silverskin). Heat the oven to 120°C.

Cut the carrots, leek and celery into large bite-size pieces. In a large lidded Dutch oven (or other similar pan), warm a thin film of olive oil on medium heat. Add the vegetables, turning occasionally, until softened, at least 10 minutes. Season well with salt and pepper. Remove from the pan and set aside.

In the same pan, brown ½ of the meat until brown on all sides, at least 8 minutes. Season well with salt and pepper. Remove from pan and set aside. Repeat with 2nd 1/2 of meat, then remove and set aside.

Raise the heat to high and pour in the beer. Bring to a boil and scrape down any solidified bits on the bottom of the pan. Turn down the heat to low and return the meat and vegetables to the pan. Add the thyme and bay leaves, cover and place in the oven.

Check the meat after 3 hours. It should be fork-tender and coming off the bone in long strips.

Allow it to fully cool at room temperature. If serving on the same day, skim off as much fat as possible. If holding overnight, the fat can be removed very easily once the dish is refrigerated.

Serve with mash—made either with potato or root vegetables.

Malay Chicken Curry

2010-11-07T17:23:00.008Z

Malaysia doesn't tend to feature on most gastronomic radar screens. Far less visited than Vietnam and Thailand, with much smaller expatriate and migrant populations than the Indian subcontinent and China, its food is little-known and infrequently available outside the largest capitals.

But with large Chinese and Indian minorities, a land border with Thailand and close proximity to Indonesia, food in Malaysia not only captures many of the methods, ingredients and dishes of more famous Asian cuisines, but also combines them in new and beguiling ways. There are Indian-inspired fried and filled flatbreads, stir-fries adapted to Malay tastes for sour and hot flavours and Thai-style curries aromatic with seasonings like fennel seed, cloves, cinnamon and star anise. With the exception of the desserts, which like many in the region tend to be appealing only to those who encountered them at an early age, it’s difficult to think of a category which is not well-served.

Ever since a trip to Malaysia some 8 years ago, I’ve always been on the lookout for chances to experience the food again, finding good options in New York and Washington D.C., and, less consistently, in London. But Malaysian food has been almost omnipresent in these parts of late. First, G’s brother got engaged to a lovely Malaysian woman, who’s turned out to be a skilled and enthusiastic cook. Our visits to them in Nottingham seem to generate a whirlwind of kitchen activity, and tables loaded with dishes reflecting both her own Chinese background and the Indian, Nyonya and Eurasian influences on Malay food. My interest in Malay food is being encouraged too, with gifts of hard-to-find ingredients like palm sugar and Malay curry powder, and a book of classic recipes.

Closer to home, a converted bus pulled into Brixton a month or so back, parking on a market side street previously dominated by Afro-Caribbean food vans. It serves up Anglo-Chinese standards like black bean beef and sweet and sour chicken to local residents and office workers. But the specials are Malaysian classics, including one of my all-time favourites: nasi lemak, a fantastic combination of coconut rice and chicken curry garnished with crispy anchovies, red-skin peanuts, a spicy vegetable sauce (sambal) and hard-boiled eggs. It’s about as far away from a boring sandwich as lunchtime can get, and at £4 for an enormous portion, far better value too.

With its myriad components, nasi lemak is not a dish that even most Malaysians make at home. But the chicken curry which forms a major part of it is much more accessible, with the added bonus that any extra gravy can be served alongside the rich flatbreads known as parathas (often found in the freezer section of Asian groceries) to make another delicious dish, roti canai.

Malay Chicken Curry (Ayam Masak Merah)

The name of this dish translates as chicken cooked in red, a reference to the large amount of tomato paste used. If your local Asian shop doesn’t sell a Malaysian or Singaporean curry powder, try to find one that contains as many of the following ingredients as possible: coriander seed; chili; fennel; cumin; turmeric; white pepper; aniseed; cinnamon and clove.

Although generating a bit of a mess, the process and ingredients used are relatively simple. It needs nothing more than plain rice and a green vegetable alongside.

Serves 4

Active time: 45 minutes+; Total time: 2 hours

Special ingredients: food processor and mortar and pestle/spice grinder

1 kg dark meat chicken parts (bone-in, skin-on)

1 tbsp curry powder

½ tsp turmeric

Neutral oil

2 large onions

6 cloves garlic

Small piece ginger (1/2 a finger length)

3 fresh red chiles

½ tsp fennel seeds

1 tsp cumin seeds

¼ tsp black peppercorns

3 cloves

3 cardamom pods

short cinnamon stick

200 ml tomato paste

400 ml coconut milk

Marinate chicken pieces in curry powder and turmeric for 1 hour.

Heat a thin film of oil in a large, heavy, lidded pan. Brown the chicken in batches until it gets a good crust. Remove from pan and set aside.

Peel and quarter onions. Peel garlic and ginger. Remove chili tops. Blend to a paste in the food processor. Set aside.

In a small pan, dry-fry cloves, fennel seed, cumin seed and peppercorns for a few minutes until fragrant. Grind in the mortar and pestle. Set aside.

Add a bit more oil to the large pan and place on medium heat. Fry the remaining spices for a minute or two. Add the onion, garlic, ginger and chili paste and stir until fragrant. Add the ground spices and tomato puree. Add a splash of water and cook until the oil begins to separate.

Pour in coconut milk.

Add chicken pieces and cover. Simmer gently until chicken is cooked through and gravy thickens, 40 minutes minimum.

Smoked mackerel rillettes

2010-09-29T18:02:00.005Z

Fish is preserved practically the world over, but the UK does it particularly well. I imagine that its enormous coastline and historic strength as a maritime power both were factors in its populace finding tasty ways to make fish keep. While the Portuguese and Spanish used salt for their cod, and the Scandinavians chose to pickle their mackerel and herring, the British have generally used smoke. In Scotland and Ireland, cold smoking is the norm for salmon. More prosaic, and these days far less popular, is the kipper, a whole, butterflied herring, heavily cured and grilled with butter as part of a (very) large breakfast. Smoked haddock is another particularly British speciality. Like kippers, the cure—and resulting colour—can often be overly harsh. But the best, when poached lightly to remove excess salt, make a creamy and delicate addition to chowders, fish cakes and the Anglo-Indian classic, kedgeree.

My favourite, though, is smoked mackerel. Its sweet, rich flesh needs no cooking and is tasty enough to eat on its own. In contrast to salmon, kippers and haddock, there don’t really seem to be small-scale producers or regional or other stylistic variations in smoking recipes. But even the bog-standard supermarket varieties—with the exception of the acrid, pepper-coated versions—are surprisingly good.

Smoked mackerel rillettes make a fantastically easy weekend lunch, either in an open-faced sandwich made with rye crackers or dark bread or alongside cucumber and potato salads (and maybe even some borscht). I haven’t had occasion to do so, but I imagine they’d work well as an hors d'œuvre before a more formal dinner.

Many recipes I’ve seen call for cream cheese. You could try this, but the tang and lighter texture of crème fraîche seem preferable. If crème fraîche is hard to come by, sour cream is a perfectly suitable alternative. The horseradish, though not essential, adds a welcome hint of piquancy. Even creamed, jarred horseradish would probably add something. In France, where hot-smoked trout is widely available, I’ve used that instead of mackerel. The only categorical guidance I would give is to avoid the food processor. Not only does it add to the washing-up, but the end-result will have an unwelcome resemblance to wallpaper paste.

If you’ll be drinking with this, non-vodka options could include a Muscadet, an Old World-style Riesling with a bit of residual sweetness, or a beer that picks up the mackerel’s smokiness.

Smoked mackerel rillettes

Serves 2

Total time : 10 minutes ; Active time : 10 minutes

150 grams plain, undyed smoked mackerel filet

crème fraîche

lemon

fresh horseradish root

small handful fresh chives and/or dill

Strip mackerel from its skin and place in a medium-sized bowl. Lightly mash with a fork until there is mix of coarse paste and bite-size chunks. Add crème fraîche one teaspoon at a time, mixing through with each addition. You’ll likely want several teaspoons to get a spreadable but not overly sloppy consistency.

Loosen the mixture with a good squeeze of lemon juice. Using a microplane, grate in horseradish to taste. (I tend to use about one teaspoon.) Chop or snip in herbs.

Check seasoning (you likely don't need additional salt) and serve.

Bonnes Addresses Brixton

2010-09-19T14:15:00.005Z

Coming back to London after a few days vacation in Paris was unsurprisingly difficult. Part of it, of course, was that returning home also meant returning to work, to commuting and to all the rushing and hassle that was virtually absent from our Paris stay. But I had also become re-accustomed to the convenience and proximity of things I consider important to my daily quality of life: bakeries, a butcher, vegetable stands and a cheese shop, a convivial local café, a knowledgeable wine merchant and some interesting places to eat out. In my old Paris neighborhood, which we visited again over the August Bank Holiday, each of these was represented with a choice and quality that usually made it unnecessary to venture outside a 10-minute radius.

Brixton doesn’t yet provide all of these amenities. Top-quality meat is still a tube journey away, as is a full selection of cheese and an independent wine merchant. Though there’s wonderful bread, it can’t be bought after work or on a Sunday. But, fortuitously, my return to the neighbourhood has coincided with the opening of some food-related businesses which aren’t merely local, but genuinely good. (And if you don’t believe me, the New York Times is on the trail too.)

Bellantoni

First was the pizza, now we have pasta too, another tiny, unprepossessing joint delivering seriously impressive food. Six days a week, Dario Bellantoni turns out a few pans of deceptively simple vegetable lasagnas, some homemade fruit tarts and plates of antipasti. Fresh pasta can be made to order with a few hours notice. His little brother shows up to bus tables and make coffee on Thursday evenings, the one night the market arcade stays open late. A gelato machine is on the way, due to arrive from his mother in Italy later this month. (His mother’s influence can also be seen in the frequent appearance of red cabbage, popular in Italy’s formerly Austrian and Yugoslav territories, and in an occasional, strudel, tender and flaky.)

I’d come just for the lasagna, but welcome, banter and little extras make me feel like I’m being fed by a (very talented) friend.

Federation Coffee

London’s Antipodean population has done much to raise the standards of local coffee provision, bringing with them flat whites, well-sourced beans and an admirable blend of precision and laid-back charm. The latest outpost for their talents is another daytime-only spot in Granville Arcade. Service is switched-on and friendly, cakes and homely and well-priced (the blueberry friand and anything with streusel are particularly recommended) and the coffee—small batches roasted just off Brick Lane— the best for miles around.

Lido Cafe

Brockwell Park is an easy 20-minute stroll away from the centre of Brixton. While lacking the pulling power of more famous parks north of the river, it does boast views of the City of London, a walled garden, greenhouses (on which more soon) and a rambling historic house. Its most unusual feature, though, is a 1930s outdoor swimming pool, or lido. Recent restoration work added a poolside café. It’s far better than it needs to be, with an interesting list of drinks (including grüner veltliner by the glass and a lovely Champagne-style Cornish cider) and good brunch options. On a bright day, when the sun glints off the pool, the world feels, for a moment, practically perfect.

And without forgetting:

A &C Continental Grocers

I’m embarrassed to discover that I’ve never written about this long-established favourite. It deserves at least one blog post all its own.

Wild Caper

There’s a bit of an identity crisis going on here, but the bread, particularly the rustic sourdough cafone, and the German-style seeded rye, remains unimpeachable.

Brixton Farmers’ Market

In a neighborhood where people of different ethnicity and income level often shop in separate locations, the Sunday market provides a bit of common ground. The pumpkins and apples are multiplying each week now, though the last beans and berries are still lingering on. My favourite? The orange-yolked eggs sold by a perpetually-sunburned Pole.

Epaule d’agneau (Shoulder of lamb)

2010-08-28T17:56:00.007Z

During a recent visit to the Lake District, I fell a little bit in love with the local lamb population. They dotted the landscape, clustering in just-visible fields, clambering onto the fells and meandering along the private road. Even when out of sight, I could still hear their plaintive bleating. I found them comical,characterful and quite adorable.

In what has been an inadvertent project of connecting the contents of my plate to their living source, I’ve been eating lots of lamb too. On the trip it was chops, their garlicky marinade filling up the old stone pantry. The following weekend it was a Spanish-style braise, redolent with saffron, olives and tomatoes. There were homemade kofta too, flavoured with harissa, coriander and freshly-ground cumin.

My favourite has been a shoulder cut, seasoned with a Franco-Italian mix of anchovy, lemon, garlic, rosemary and thyme. The meat came from Ginger Pig, whose North Yorkshire lamb tastes like the happy creature it no doubt was. I hadn’t cooked shoulder before, but the butcher recommended it as the sweetest and tastiest cut, provided it was cooked long and slow.

I took that seriously, roasting the lamb on a very low heat for the better part of 7 hours. The herb rub permeated the flesh, which was soft enough to be pulled apart with a fork. It was sweet and deeply earthy, with a hint of freshness and acidity coming from the lemon. Judged by a ratio of effort to pleasure, it was perhaps the best thing that has ever come out of my kitchen. Judged by most any another standard, it was still pretty damn good.

Slow-roasted lamb shoulder with anchovy, lemon, garlic and herbs

adapted from Clotilde Dusoulier’s Chocolate & Zucchini: Daily Adventures in a Parisian Kitchen

As the meat doesn’t produce any gravy, accompany it with a moist, interesting starch. I made a warm farro salad with chopped tomato, chives and fresh oregano, and topped it with a lemon juice and olive oil dressing. Another good option would be crushed new potatoes with black olives and thyme. A spicy, well-structured French or Italian wine would be my pick: the former from the Rhone, Provence or Corsica.

Serves 4

Total time: 7-10 hours; Active time: 10-15 minutes

½ lamb shoulder

6 anchovy filets

4-5 cloves garlic

handful fresh rosemary and thyme

lemon

olive oil

In a mortar and pestle or small food processor container, combine anchovies, garlic and herbs. Grate or microplane zest of ½ lemon and add. Moisten with enough olive oil to make a coarse paste.

Line a roasting tray or baking dish with a double layer of foil large enough to fold an envelope. Place the lamb on the oil. Use your hands to massage herb paste into the meat, particularly any pockets in the flesh.

Set aside for 2-3 hours. (If it’s warm in your kitchen, do this in the fridge, letting the meat come back to room temperature before cooking.)

Set the oven to 100C. Cook the meat for at least 5 hours, and up to 7. Because of its natural fat and the sealed foil package, it doesn’t need basting or turning. Turn off ½ hour before serving.

Remove from foil and place on carving board. Slice meat against the grain into large chunks. Serve warm.

Légumes braisés pour l'été (Braised summer vegetables)

2010-07-31T19:00:00.003Z

After many years without a reliable oven, I have come to regard myself as quite competent at braising. But even though the summer temperatures in northern Europe can sometimes be more conducive to stews than to cold food, my casserole pots don’t tend to get much use until autumn has unquestionably arrived.

It turns out I’ve been missing a trick. For while the youngest and most tender summer vegetables require practically no cooking, many of the most flavourful and memorable dishes I’ve had have been the result of a long, slow simmer. A quick glance around the Mediterranean—where fantastic vegetables are in abundance—shows up scores of summer dishes which are variants on braises: imam bayildi from Turkey, Italian peperonata and caponata and French ratatouille are perhaps the best known.

These are clever dishes in more ways than one. Not only can they be prepared in advance, taking advantage of whenever it is coolest, many taste better after sitting. They also can turn even older, starchier—or just later-season—vegetables into something succulent and sweet. This summer, I’ve been braising lots of beans. Runner beans are too coarse to eat raw, and the kind of quick boil which suits thin French or string beans doesn’t yield much of interest. The same is true of all but the smallest and earliest broad beans. But within thirty minutes, little of it active time, they are slippery soft and richly-flavoured. The colours may not be beautiful, but no apologies are necessary when vegetables taste as good as these.

Haricots plats aux ail, tomates et origan (Runner beans with garlic, tomato and oregano)

This will also work with fat, starchy green beans or what are known in the US as romano beans. I like to serve these alongside roast chicken or as part of a main-meal assortment including things like bruschetta, olives, roasted peppers and cheese.

Serves 2

Active time: 5 minutes; Total time: 25-30 minutes

200-250 grams beans

2 medium-sized tomatoes

2 cloves garlic

olive oil

several sprigs fresh oregano

Top and tail beans and cut into bite-size pieces. Chop tomatoes roughly. Peel and slice garlic.

Heat a thin film of oil in a heavy, lidded pan placed over moderate heat. Add beans, tomatoes and garlic and stir to combine. Add 1-2 splashes of water (depending on the juiciness of the tomatoes), and season with salt and pepper. Lower the heat, cover and cook for 5 minutes.

Strip the oregano from its branches. If leaves are large, chop or tear coarsely. Add to the beans and stir to distribute.

Cook the beans for another 15 minutes, or until the beans are completely soft and olive-gray in colour and the tomatoes have formed a thick sauce. (You may need to add a bit more water.)

Adjust seasoning, allow to cool slightly and serve.

Feves braisés a l'aneth (Broad beans braised with dill)

These are delicious warm or at room temperature, either with simply cooked fish (perhaps mackerel) or as part of a mezze assortment. If preparing in advance, add the 2nd half of the dill just before serving.

Serves 2

Active time: 15 minutes; Total time 25-30 minutes

500 grams broad beans (unpodded)

2 tbsp olive oil, plus more to serve

handful dill

lemon juice

Strip beans from pods, discarding any which are split or discoloured. While podding, bring a pan of water to the boil.

Boil the podded beans for 3 minutes, then drain and cool. When they can be handled, remove outer layer of skin and discard.

Place the double-podded beans back in the pan. Add 2 tbsp of oil and an equal quantity of water. Tear ½ the dill and place on top. Finish with salt and pepper and a squeeze of lemon, cover and return to a low heat.

Cook for 10-15 minutes, or until liquid has absorbed and beans are quite soft. Adjust seasoning, tear over remainder of dill and serve.

Gelato a Londres (Gelato in London)

2010-07-11T16:17:00.007Z

It’s rare that I have business ideas, much less good ones. But on several occasions over the last 5 years I had mused that what central London really needed was a high-quality ice cream shop, one which stayed open late enough to be an end-of-evening alternative to the ubiquitous, crowded, loud (and at that time smoky) pub.

The suggestion did not meet with widespread enthusiasm. Londoners, I was told, would not swap their last beer for ice cream. They considered Ben and Jerry’s a luxury product. Unlike Italians, it was argued, they wouldn’t eat ice cream unless it was genuinely hot. In essence, then, this was a business which would attract a very limited swathe of teetotalers and professional food types for at most 2 weeks a year.

It has been an unusually hot and dry summer. There is a hose-pipe ban in force, Hyde Park looks as parched as a Mediterranean hillside and anything which can be barbequed is selling out at the butcher’s. Perhaps that’s why Gelupo, a new artisanal gelataria, is garnering the type of praise and crowds usually associated with major restaurant openings.

Lineage is undoubtedly also playing a role. The shop was conceived by Jacob Kennedy, a young and ambitious chef with the (obvious and clever) idea of serving serious but affordable Italian food in the heart of Soho. Gelupo, his second business, has therefore gained immediate notice from the food cognoscenti. (It can’t rely much on passing trade. Located at the end of an insalubrious side street, the closest landmark is a club whose neon signs advertise table dancing.)

The shop’s manager is charming and eager to please. Queries generated a half-dozen tastings and a promise to include my chosen combination of blond almond and sour cherry granitas on the new suggestions board. About two dozen choices are available, distributed almost equally amongst gelatos, sorbettos and granitas. The latter two follow the seasons, with melons and berries currently featuring. While traditional gelato flavours like pistachio and stracciatella are on offer, the real excitement centres on uncommon but Italianesque pairings like fennel seed and pine nuts or a rum, chocolate and amaretti biscuit concoction named after a classic Piedmontese dessert.

I've been told that there is sometimes brioche to be gelato-filled, as they do in Sicily for breakfast. And to further the theme of sweet before savoury, the back of the shop is given over to a well-edited collection of Italian produce and pantry items, alongside packages of the handmade pasta and sauces served across the way at Kennedy’s restaurant.

After two visits, I’m prepared to say that Gelupo may be nearly equal to Grom, which is just as good as I’ve ever had. And if it stays this crowded and this good, well, I can just point out that I had the idea first.

Gelupo

7 Archer Street

London W1D 7AU

Su-W 11:00 – 23:00; Th-Sa 11:00 – 01:00

Tube: Picadilly Circus

Macarons fait Maison (Hand-made Macarons)

2010-05-22T17:50:00.004Z

My baking efforts tend to be of the rustic, craggy variety: crumbles, muffins, quick breads and cakes unacquainted with icing. This reflects, no doubt, my own shortcomings in making food look pretty and dainty. To be fair, though, most frilly desserts don’t appeal even when someone else is doing the baking. I can do without the rich fillings and toppings, and I much prefer my fruit inelegantly chunky and my chocolate unadulterated by anything creamy.

The great exception, of course, is macarons, as delicate a pastry as can be found. I’ve long adored eating them (particularly if they come from my favourite shop). But a very unsuccessful attempt, and reports of the difficulties encountered by those far more skilled and experienced, eliminated any aspirations I had to master them at home.

A gloriously messy afternoon spent with an ex-colleague turned serious amateur patissiere didn’t altogether shake my convictions. If anything, the difficulties I encountered piping even circles of egg white-almond batter out of a pastry bag, and spreading ganache over the cooled cookies, reminded me of why I could never earn a living with my hands. My friend was disappointed that many of the macarons cracked in the oven. While not affecting the taste, this was a blow to her ego. And the effort: even with 2 people and an ample supply of baking sheets, it was nearly 4 hours from start to finish.

Yet what an outcome! On the day, they were merely extremely good. But my mid-week, the flavour had become more intense, and the exterior had softened to become gloriously moulleux. Barring the cracks, they were the equal of most available in Paris.

As for Paris, the macaron-baking session took place on one of my last days there. I’m now a Eurostar journey away from ubiquitous pastry shops and free, individual pastry lessons. Though I’ve heard Herme has come to London. And with my new kitchen scales and accurate oven, I suppose I could give the macarons a try. There’s an extra macaron-eater around now too, one who also values taste over appearance.

But did I mention the mess? As extraordinary as the macarons.

Salade aux carottes a la marocaine (Moroccan carrot salad)

2010-03-30T16:42:00.010Z

Seasonality is a wonderful thing. But this time of year, it’s often not clear what season it really is. One day it seems almost appropriate to break out the chilled rosé, on the next the only enticing beverage is a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

Adding to the challenge is the paucity of enticing fresh produce. Faced with a choice between wintered-over apples and yet more cabbage, a pizza suddenly seems like a very good idea.

Carrots span any number of seasonal interregna, and with any luck, the ones available now will be young and fresh-dug. On the warmest of days, copy the French and serve a plate of raw, grated carrots, tossed in a sweet-sharp dressing, to awaken the palate.* Or braise carrot batons in stock and a bit of butter, finishing the dish with tarragon or chervil.

I’m partial to a Moroccan-style carrot salad in most seasons. At this time of year, though, it is particularly enticing, filling and substantial, yet bright in colour and flavour. Serve it now with roast lamb or chicken. And when it’s finally time for barbeques and picnics, make it as a side dish for grilled merguez (thin, spicy lamb sausages) or alongside tabbouleh, grilled peppers, feta and the like.

Finally, as I discovered last night, it’s a good make-ahead contribution to dinner parties or pot-lucks: pretty on the plate, able to survive a wait (or a trip on the Paris metro in rush hour) and complementary to a wide variety of foods.

Moroccan Carrots

Adapted from Jenifer Joyce and Victoria Blashford Snell’s Diva Cooking
Serves 4
Active time: 25 minutes; Total time: 3-4 hours+

Try to use the best carrots—fresh, sweet, not woody—for this dish. If you only have ground cumin and coriander, this salad is still worth making. Just ensure that the spices are recently bought and well amalgamated into the dressing.

½ kilo carrots
1 tablespoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon coriander seeds
½ tablespoon smoked paprika (sweet or hot, as per preference)
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 ½-2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
Parsley or coriander (cilantro)

Peel carrots and slice into coins of (relatively) even thickness. Cook in salted boiling water until tender but not disintegrating. This can take from 7-15 minutes depending on the size and thickness of the sliced carrots. Drain and set aside.

While the carrots are cooking, make the dressing. Peel garlic and crush to a paste in the mortar and pestle. (A pinch of salt helps to add grip.) Add cumin and coriander seeds and continue grinding until seeds are thoroughly broken up.

Transfer spice mixture to a bowl and measure in smoked paprika. Add olive oil gradually, stirring to combine with the solids. Squeeze in lemon juice until the dressing is pleasantly sharp (somewhere between a 2-1 and 3-2 ratio.) Salt and pepper to taste.

Pour the dressing over the carrots, mixing thoroughly. Refrigerate for several hours or overnight to combine flavours.

Allow the salad to return to room temperature. Just before serving, check seasoning and add chopped herbs to taste.

*Carottes râpées are sold in traiteurs and supermarkets and served as a first course in bistros. The pre-prepared versions often sit too long, turning unpleasantly acidic. But made with care, as per these recipes, they're a simple, refreshing salad.

Jean-Michael Rochoux

2010-03-28T19:03:00.005Z

It was a few years ago, standing in the line at Pierre Hermé, that I began to appreciate the ideal of affordable luxury. In Paris, €5 buys several metro rides or a sandwich and soda lunch. Yet, as I quickly discovered, it could also buy three small macarons from the city’s most renowned patisserie, each displayed and selected with the care ordinarily reserved for fine jewels.

My purchase that day comprised perhaps 12 (delicate) bites. Gone within a few minutes, it was sheer perfection.

Paris may not have the monopoly on affordable luxury, but opportunities to enjoy it abound. At even the most elegant cafés, an espresso at the bar doesn’t top €2. The product is the same as that enjoyed at the pricey sidewalk tables, the service and atmosphere often better. Pastry shops are ubiquitous across the capital, and the pricing gap between humble and exquisite surprisingly small. Likely prompted by declining consumption, more restaurateurs and bar owners are making serious wines available by the glass.

In pricey surroundings, where others may be spending five or 10 times more, social discomfort could easily arise . Yet on the whole, small purchases—a few macarons, one or two slices of the most expensive cured meats—are handled with attention and care. This attitude, is I think, both a function of innate respect for the product being sold and a response to patrons’ own level of social comfort. The size of a purchase is rarely explained or justified, as is so often the case when Brits or Americans self-consciously indulge.

I was thinking again about affordable luxury after two recent visits to Jean-Charles Rochoux, an artisanal chocolate maker situated in one of Paris’ most expensive quartiers. Rochoux is famous for his whimsical chocolate sculptures—a man’s torso worthy of Michaelangelo recently graced his window—and truffles. The latter include tiny squares of velvety ganache, lightly dusted with the finest cocoa powder. Packed into a package hardly bigger than a matchbox, 6 of these marvels sell for 3 euros.

Though I was purchasing what was by some margin the cheapest item in the store, the transaction charmed with its attention to detail. Storage instructions were given (though the owner and I agreed that this was unlikely to be an issue), a copious bag was produced for the other items I was carrying and I was escorted to the door as if I had been that day’s big-spender.

Exceptional? Perhaps. But so were the chocolates.

Jean-Charles Rochoux
16 rue de Assas 75006
Metro: Rennes or St Suplice (currently closed)
01 42 84 29 45
Open M 2 :30-7:30; Tu-Sa 10:30-7:30

Les Tisanes (Herbal Infusions)

2010-03-16T15:17:00.011Z

It would be difficult for a French novel or film to avoid a coffee scene. All the clichéd symbolism of café-sitting and espresso-sipping aside, it’s simply a staple element of daily life. By contrast, tisane may have its only literary outing in Proust’s endlessly-cited, never-read tome, À la Recherche du Temps Perdus. But though relatively unsung and unexamined, tisane is the third element in the French triptych of beverages, the soothing counterpoint to regular doses of wine and caffeine.

The umbrella term for herbal “teas” or infusions, tisanes span the culinary and medicinal worlds. They are meant to taste nice, and most of them do, but a great many also claim the ability to aid everything from sleep to digestion to weight loss. Their soothing qualities make them popular après-diner or avant-coucher; while available in cafes and restaurants, they seem to be something that’s consumed mostly at home.

French supermarkets boast enormous shelves of tisanes, and herboristes (shops devoted to natural remedies, oils and the like) will compose unique blends. Luxury tea shops like Le Palais des Thés and Mariage Freres don’t usually stock tisanes; the only caffeine-free varieties available there tend to be made from Southern African roiboos.

Amongst the hundreds of choices available, verveine (lemon verbena) and tilleul (lime blossom or linden flower) are both classics and personal favourites. (The latter makes its star turn alongside Proust’s madeline.) Verveine, though not wholly dissimilar to chamomile, has a deeper fragrance and citrus finish, while tilleul is floral and woody on the nose and a bit sharper on the tongue. Buying teabags—even Lipton makes them for the French market—is the easiest way to prepare them, and I’m told that a certain famous restaurant serves infusions made from garden-fresh verbena leaves. As for me, I have sacks of whole dried leaves, each one identified with the characteristic loopy handwriting of the Graineterie’s owner, José.

Sometimes it is just the thing to finish the day. Back home last night from a rare and uncharacteristically glamorous evening out, nothing, to my mind, could have been preferable to curling up on the couch with a mug of tisane, the dulcet tones of BBC’s Radio 4 warbling in the background.

Une Salade Betterave, Mâche, Noix et Fromage Bleu (A Salad of Beetroot, Lamb's Lettuce, Walnuts and Blue Cheese)

2010-02-27T21:26:00.014Z

Though I’m only occasionally attentive to the language’s humorous quirks, I’ve lately found a number of delightful French turns-of-phrase. Sleet is a mélange of rain and snow, while a treadmill is known as a tapis roulant, or rolling carpet. Most entertaining is a variety of roasted beet known as crapaudine, a name likely bestowed because of the similarity between the beet’s rough, pock-marked skin and that of the crapeau, or toad.

While the lettuce here usually requires washing and spinning, and the best carrots are thoroughly encrusted with soil, beets come handily pre-boiled or roasted. The former are often vacuum-packed and sold in supermarkets. (While perfectly serviceable—and far superior to their vinegar-soaked British counterparts—they lack the earthy sweetness brought on by roasting.) The latter can easily be found at outdoor markets, where they are speared out of packing crates with long forks. Select vendors should have crapaudines.

A heritage variety thought to date back several centuries, crapaudines can immediately be distinguished from ordinary roasted beets by their shape: conical instead of spherical. A closer inspection reveals the distinguishing texture and, usually, a higher price tag.

I’ve used crapaudines to make a quick, extra-flavourful borscht. But most often, I settle for a composed salad. A classic plate begins with a bed of soft lettuce—I like the gentle grassiness of mâche, or lambs lettuce, though watercress or a mesclun mix are also suitable. Next, fresh-roasted walnuts or hazelnuts bring crunch, while echoing the earthiness of the beets. Finally, soft, crumbly cheese adds richness and lactic tang. A creamy, mild blue like Fourme d’Ambert is classic, though nubs of pure-white goats cheese (you could try a young crottin or Maconnais, both squidgy and rindless) make for a particularly attractive presentation. A nut oil dressing sharpened with red wine or sherry vinegar melds the ingredients.

Accompanied by good bread, this can stand alone for lunch. It would also make a visually striking starter before a monochrome main course such as roast chicken. Just two caveats. The beets and dressing make this a challenging match for wine. And the salad should be made just before serving, to avoid the beetroot bleeding onto the cheese.

Roasted Beetroot Salad with Mâche, Walnuts and Cheese
Adapted from Amanda Hesser’s The Cook and the Gardener
Serves 2
Total time: 20 minutes; Active time: 20 minutes

1 handful walnuts
2 handfuls mâche
1 medium-sized roasted beetroot
2 tablespoons walnut oil
1 heaping teaspoon sherry vinegar
½ teaspoon Dijon mustard
80-100 grams Fourme d’Ambert

Place a heavy-bottomed pan over a low heat. Add walnuts, turning occasionally, until browned in spots, 7-10 minutes. Remove from heat to cool.

While the nuts are toasting, pick through mâche, removing any wilted leaves or large stems. Wash thoroughly in cool water and dry in a salad spinner.

Remove any remaining skin from the beetroot and slice into half-moons.

Pour oil into a cruet or small bowl. Drip in vinegar, add mustard and season to taste. Whisk until well-emulsified.

Arrange mâche on a serving plate. Cover with slices of beetroot. Crumble walnuts over the vegetables. Cut the cheese into small chunks and scatter on top. Drizzle over dressing and serve.

Tomme Fleurette

2010-02-05T12:51:00.004Z

Forget the picture of the sweet, flower-munching cow on the wrapping, the pale, innocuous rind and the fact that it’s Swiss. This is deeply sexy cheese, practically feral when left out of the fridge for an hour or two.

Hand-made with raw (unpasteurized) cow’s milk in Rougemount, a tiny town in Francophone Switzerland, Tomme Fleurette is a recent creation by the mustachioed darling of the Swiss cheesemaking world, Michel Beroud. His Fleurette is far softer and creamier than most other mountain cheeses (known as tommes). This is due to its short affinage, or ripening time—just ten days, as compared to 3 months or more for the popular Tomme de Savoie—and the use of damp, moisture-protecting caves. The resulting cheese has a soft, bloomy rind barely containing an unctuous, oozing paté. Its texture calls for good, plain bread, but it is not so stinky as to exclude the use of fingers, while the taste is surprisingly rounded for such a young cheese, milky but not bland, full-bodied though not aggressive. Writing in the popular magazine, l’Hebdo, Jean-Pierre Coffe commented that he could spend an entire afternoon with his eyes closed, just inhaling its aroma.

Coffe, I fear, is rather missing the point. Buy the cheese*, get some wine (a round, not too oaky white or a light red) and bread, and don’t tell me the rest.

Should you be unable to find Tomme Fleurette, try St Marcellin, St Felicien, or even Vacherin Mont D’or, all cow’s milk cheeses made in a similar style in the French-Swiss Alps.

Une Fermeture

2010-01-31T20:15:00.008Z

People come to France to get an education in all sorts of things: philosophy, love, how to live well. I just came here for a job. But once settled, I thought I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to learn about wine.

This was not as easy as I might have expected. Regardless of location, a serious self-education in wine can be an expensive and bilious business. Both my wallet and my liver ruled out things like side-by-side comparisons of two bottles of Burgundy. And my desire to match wine with what I was eating for dinner (at least broadly) made it a challenge to stretch a more distinguished bottle over multiple nights. It soon also became clear that I learned best in conversation; in the absence of another, more developed palate at the table, I found it hard to analyse what I was drinking.

These issues aside, France offers several lifetimes of wine to sample. Translating drinking into knowledge is the real test. Ever the researcher, I went in search of hard data. Anglophone wine labels customarily list the grape type(s) used, describe the vineyard’s location and terrain and give at least some sense of how the wine might taste, when it should be drunk and what it might best accompany. Wine stores (and even some supermarkets) have become proactive too, telling consumers which bottles have won prizes, are the favourites of wine journalists or are just somewhat unusual.

None of this exists in France, and the wine guides in both languages don’t bestow their judgments on sub 10-euro bottles. For a while I was choosing blindly, or limiting myself to wines from the few regions (Alsace, Rhone) with which I had at least minimal familiarity. This all changed when I discovered Aux Caves d’Aligre, a wine shop at my local market.

The stock alone would have soon made me a regular; the shop had a fantastic range of spicy, earthy and affordable wines from France’s south and southwest (spanning the Rhone, Languedoc and the Sud Ouest). But the real draw was Madame Isabelle Gosselin, charmingly—if unambiguously—directive regarding what wines would be best with my meals, and virtually always right. By some miracle, she was also almost fully bi-lingual, though she indulged my piteous French.

I rarely understood more than half of her high-speed explanations of growing environment, composition and taste . Yet over time, I managed to develop both a (limited) wine vocabulary and a far better understanding of what pleased me and why. The time came when I could have walked into the shop and pulled down a bottle likely to suit whatever was on the stove. I rarely did so, though, both because I looked forward to the interchange and because it seemed almost disrespectful not to request—and abide by—her guidance.

Not content with being my personal guide to the world of French wine, Madame Gosselin has decided that she is going to pursue other ventures. Her shop closed today. I consoled myself with a mixed case from the regions which she and I both love best, and, during the final déstockage, a half-bottle of Calvados. The wine awaits weekends, a dining companion and red meat. But the Calvados I opened tonight in her honour. Unsurprisingly, it was delicious.

Un grand merci, Madame, and bonne chance.

Fourme d'Ambert

2010-01-13T16:21:00.003Z

One of my food resolutions for the new year was to try new cheeses, as I’d fallen into a tasty, if predictable, habit of sticking with a few long-established favourites. Accordingly, on my first January visit to the fromagerie, I picked out two sheep’s milk cheeses at random. I was smugly gratified when they turned out to be so obscure that I could find no information about them on the internet. They were tasty enough, but apparently not so memorable, as I can no longer recall either their names or taste profiles.

So when purchasing for a small dinner party last Sunday, I returned to a reliable guest-pleaser that I’d be pleased to nibble at the rest of the week. Fourme d’Ambert is a blue cows’ milk cheese from the Auvergne, a rural region in south-central France. One of France’s oldest cheeses (some date its production back to the Roman period), Fourme d’Ambert takes its name from the old French word for cheese (derived from the Latin “forma”, meaning form or shape) and a town on the eastern plateau. Made in a tall cylindrical shape, usually with pasteurized milk, it is cellar-aged for a minimum of one month. During this time, it develops a thin, dry grey/white crust, and creamy-white coloured interior with even blue veining.

Described on its official website as le plus doux des fromages bleus (the sweetest blue cheese), Fourme d’Ambert has little of the aggressive tang or bitterness which characterizes other blue cheeses. (Certain specimens are even injected with vouvray moulleux, a white dessert wine, during ageing.) Its texture is dense, creamy, and slightly sticky at times, while the taste is round and nutty. It is likeable, moreish even, but neither insipid nor one-dimensional. I’d happily eat it alone for dessert or a snack, but it also pairs nicely with walnuts and hazelnuts, autumnal fruit and root vegetables. And the price, at least in France, is gentle, all the more reason—resolution be damned!—to keep it on the shortlist.

Head over to Chez Loulou around the 15^th for her monthly round-up, Fête du Fromage. I’ll be there, along with other tasty options for raising your Vitamin D intake.

Pâté du Champignons (Mushroom Pâté)

2010-01-06T21:47:00.010Z

Come December, the rafters of Paris’ indoor markets are bedecked with holly, lights and birds. Hung from their feet on butchers’ hoot and still in possession of feathers and beaks, the colourful yet visceral display might be off-putting to a first-time visitor. But a roasted bird is as quintessential to a French Christmas as a turkey is to American Thanksgiving. Turkeys, much smaller than their Yankee counterparts, are on offer, as are guinea fowl (pintade), geese (oie), duckling (canette), capon (chapon) and chicken, including the famous poulet de Bresse. These are well-bred birds, and priced accordingly. The best butchers also sell an equally luxurious range of stuffing, made smooth and rich with liver, studded with chestnuts and dried fruits and lubricated with brandy.

Sadly, neither my budget nor my oven would stretch to a roast, so after due admiration, I left to plot more realistic options. But the idea of stuffing must have remained with me, because I ended up preparing another traditional French variant for my first-ever apero (a casual cocktail party).

L’apero serves a number of functions in French socializing: as a lead-in to dinner at a local restaurant, a first invitation to a new friend, neighbour or colleague or an impromptu get-together. It typically involves drinks (not necessarily very many or very strong) and nibbles, ranging from a bowl of nuts to half a dozen small dishes. (If there’s enough food to fill the stomach, it’s known as an apéro dînatoire.) Depending on the phrasing of the invitation and the company, it can last for an hour or the entire evening.

Homemade gravadlax, served with blini and crème fraiche, provided a small twist on the familiar, likewise warm, roasted cashews tossed with chopped rosemary and smoked paprika. For the third dish, I sautéed minced shallots and mushrooms in butter, then stirred in good quantities of chives and crème fraiche. I called this a mushroom pâté, but it turned out to also be a near-replica of duxelles, a fine mushroom mixture said to have been created by the great 17^th century French chef, François Pierre La Varenne. Used to flavor classic dishes like bouef en croute (Beef Wellington), duxelles are also piped into puff or choux pastry shells. I chose a far simpler—and oven-free—approach, spreading the mixture onto thin slices of baguette.

My guests, already confused by my pidgin French and non-French wine, were further baffled by the appearance of the duxelles/pâté. Either people stopped eating this stuff in the ‘80s, or they just buy it ready-made from the traiteur. Regardless, it disappeared at an almost impolite rate, and was followed by a very polite request for the recipe.

We’ll call this one a reussit.

Pâté du Champignons (Mushroom Pâté)
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen and Melissa Clark
Serves 4-6 for an appetizer (alongside other dishes)
Total time: 30 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

1 large (banana) shallot
Butter
250 grams (just over ½ pound) small brown mushrooms (cremini, chestnut or baby portabellas)
Chives
Crème fraiche

Mince the shallot. Melt a pat of butter on a medium heat in a large frying pan. Add the shallot, season and sauté for several minutes, stirring to avoid sticking. When soft, remove pan from heat.

Clean the mushrooms, removing stems if particularly dirty, and mince. Return the pan to the heat and add mushrooms. Season and cook on medium-high heat, stirring every few minutes, until mushrooms have shed their water and reduced siginificantly in volume, about 10-12 minutes. Remove pan from heat.

Take some chive stems (4-6 should be enough to add a bit of sharpness and crunch) and chop finely. Add to mushroom mixture and stir through. Take a scant tablespoon of crème fraiche and add, combining thoroughly. (You may want a bit more for a creamier, more adherent paste.) Adjust seasoning and serve on baguette or brioche slices.

I’d imagine the pate could be made and refrigerated a day in advance. In that case, add the chives just before serving.

Le “Best of”

2009-12-31T17:15:00.006Z

It has been, by any estimation, a difficult year. Thankfully, though, there have still been opportunities to take pleasure from shopping for, preparing and eating good food. A few of my favourites...

Pastry Assessing on a number of criteria, Le Figaro rated the tarte au citron at Jacques Genin’s Marais shop to be the second-best in Paris. Having not visited any of the close competitors, I can’t make an authoritative judgment. But I was delighted by the elegant, minimalist shop, the intense care shown in selection and packaging and the stripling of lime zest. Genin’s unctuous chocolate ganache tarte was its technical equal.

Restaurant I’d like to think I pipped the critics in discovering Cafe dei Cioppi, an improbably fantastic Italian kitchen-with-chairs serving simple, ingredient-driven dishes like burrata and grilled-vegetable salad, saffron risotto and pumpkin and sausage lasagne. The wines by the glass are unusual, the crowd stylish but not overbearingly trendy and the location, barely more than 100 metres from my front door, unbeatable.

Fruit and veg It will be more than six months before they’re again available at the market, but I’m already anticipating more experimentation with one of my favourite recent discoveries, courgette flowers.

Ingredients A small sachet of juniper berries has been enlivening homemade gravadlax, braised red cabbage and meaty ragus, while bouquets of chervil, pretty enough to put in a vase, have lifted countless everyday dishes like omelettes or leek and potato soup. Fresh Fallot mustard, aromatic and not too hot, has been a relevation, worthy of eating straight from the spoon.

Day out The best burgundies are well outside my budget, but 18 euros paid for a day’s bicycle rental and a map of the Route des Grands Crus. Heading south from Dijon, I passed through the villages and vineyards of Chambolle-Musigny, Vosne-Romanee and Gevrey-Chambertin before lunch, managing three courses and two glasses before a flat, 20 kilometer glide back into town.

Recipe I’m still not sure exactly what elevated my first-ever boeuf bourguignon from satisfying to sublime, but I’m happy to give full credit to the folks at (sadly departed) Gourmet for showing me the way.

Book How did MFK Fisher manage to write about food—and life—in such a spare yet evocative way? My anthology of her writings hasn’t been absent from the bedside table since I bought it last winter.

Wine Drinking Meursault, a fantastic white burgundy, is always a special treat. Having a particularly good glass of it sent over by a fellow patron in a Dijon wine bar was an occasion that I hope to remember for a long time.

Noël chez Pierre Hermé (Christmas at Pierre Hermé)

2009-12-16T13:29:00.006Z

The windows of patisseries both humble and renowned are beginning to fill with bûches de noel, France’s most popular Christmas cake. Even Picard has dedicated an entire freezer case to its selection. Essentially a vamped-up jelly-roll, bûches de noel range from modest to extravagant and from traditional—bark-textured chocolate frosting, mocha butter cream filling and snowdrifts of icing sugar—to creative—Laduree’s bûche passion-framboise (passion-fruit and raspberry)—and sleek—Pierre Hermé’s lacquer-shiny numbers in single-origin chocolate.

Visiting the latter’s shop yesterday, it was impossible not to gasp at the couture-perfect bûches, or at their equally extraordinary price tags. I took ample comfort, though, in a small sampling of the season’s new macaroon flavours. This winter, Herme has chosen to focus on fruit (more exciting than chocolate variations, and more enjoyable than the truffle and foie-gras creations of last season). I managed to try rose-quince, which was perfectly balanced, and the chuao, half chocolate, half cassis, with the rich, bitter chocolate offset by tart cassis berries. I’ll be back soon for the headliners, strangely unavailable that day: fortunella (kumquat and star anise), green apple and angelica, agapé (citron and pain d’epices, a gingerbread-like cake) and envié (violet and cassis berries).

It won’t fill me up or keep me warm, but there is probably no more pleasure to be had for well under 10 euros.

Beajoulais, still (relatively) Nouveau

2009-12-08T17:21:00.007Z

The French take their fun very seriously, particularly during the orchestrated bacchanal of Beaujolais Nouveau. At midnight on the third Thursday of November, bottles of new-vintage Gamay are opened in the wine-producing villages of France’s central Beajoulais region. By the next evening, the wine has arrived in locations as diffuse as Paris, Tokyo and New York, and a global (and highly-profitable) harvest party can begin.

Beajoulais Nouveau celebrations date back more than a century, when vignerons in the southernmost region of Burgundy saw an opportunity to sell off middling wine early in the season and at a good profit. Utilising carbonic maceration—in which wine is produced by allowing barrel fermentation of uncrushed grapes—allowed them to significantly shorten the time lag between harvest and release of the new vintage. Initially, it was mostly consumed by residents of the nearby city of Lyon, who had long regarded Beajoulais’ fruity, low-tannin wines as the ideal accompaniment to their rich, rustic cuisine. But beginning in the 1960s, a combination of improved transport and savvy marketing helped to generate an international market for Beajoulais Nouveau. The real brilliance was to heighten demand and excitement by fixing the date for release; the current date was chosen in 1985.

Wine shops, bars and cafés worldwide still have out signs and banners proclaiming “Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé!” (The Beajoulais Nouveau has arrived!) By now, though, more than half of the Nouveau supply is gone, having been consumed in the 48 hours following release. But it’s still worth trying to buy a few bottles of what is reputed to be a landmark year. Garish labels, usually a sign of indifferent wine, are the norm with Nouveau, and very few of the bottles will be labeled with a village of origin. (It may be possible to find Beajoulais Nouveau Villages, where the wine will have come from the 12 top-ranked appellations in the region.) But any risk involved is mitigated by the wine’s gentle pricing.

Lacking tannins, Beajoulais Nouveau should be drunk within a few months of bottling. The timing is ideal, though, as its fresh fruitiness is an easy match for the hodgepodge of flavours at holiday parties and dinners. Chill the wine lightly and serve it with anything from an appetizer spread to a formal meal of a roast bird and side dishes to a platter of assorted cheeses. A traditional accompaniment would be gougeres, Burgundy’s answer to the ubiquitous cheese biscuit.

Polenta aux Choux Fleur et Oignons (Polenta with Cauliflower and Onions)

2009-12-07T16:29:00.002Z

I was introduced to Italian food—or at least its red-sauce, Italian-American cousin—well before I was sentient. The eastern Pennsylvania town in which I spent my childhood wasn’t a particular ethnic stronghold. It was more the case that Pizza D’Oro and Steve’s Pizzeria were the only places where my family could find vegetarian, kosher-friendly food. Pizza D’Oro was probably the first restaurant I visited, initially in a bassinette, later in a high chair. I even had a dedicated outfit, the clothing in question having become indelibly covered in tomato sauce on my first outing.

Pizza D’Oro’s innovation was a daily all-you-can-eat special. It drew lots of the nearby college’s football and basketball players, who unless they drank as much as they ate, surely generated a net loss. As a spectator sport, however, it was riveting. Steve’s most memorable dish was the exotic-at-the-time white pizza, loaded with a blend of cheeses and lots of garlic.

A good fifteen years before I discovered curry, tacos or sushi, I had learned the difference between penne and ziti and could consume an improbable number of pizza slices. A move during adolescence introduced a far-wider range of eating options, but we remained loyal to Italian-style food, branching out from the old-school eateries to take in the 1990s Californian influences of individual pizzas and pesto.

I traveled a bit in Italy during my early 20s, eating well from Sicily to Bologna. The food I encountered, whether pumpkin-stuffed ravioli in Ferrara or a plate of grilled sardines in Taormina, was instinctively appealing and immensely enjoyable. It’s ridiculous to say that it tasted like home; I’m sure that neither dish has ever been served at my parents’ table. But it was unchallenging in the best sort of way, meaning that it tasted exactly as it should and exactly like what I wanted to eat.

I suspect that Italian food, defined broadly and conventionally, is an unthinking, easy fallback for a great many Americans, who, like me, lack any meaningful connection to Italy. And I also would guess that the comfort, and, most likely, complacency surrounding weeknight pasta dinners or Sunday visits to the local pizzeria means that it’s food we don’t seek to learn about it any serious way. Despite my professed love of Italian food, my repertoire doesn’t extend much beyond a few tomato-based pasta sauces, chicken cacciatore and the odd risotto. And I drink Italian red wine with great pleasure, but with little attention to what can make it distinctive and delicious.

There’s nothing innately wrong with any of this, nor am I likely to challenge the status quo in any more than a dilettantish fashion. For as long as I continue to live in Paris, a hands-on study of Italian cuisine doesn’t present itself as the most obvious of projects. And I also wonder whether there isn’t something I can do in the kitchen which fits more naturally with my background, experiences and day-to-day influences. And yet, in a world where instinctive pleasures are hard to come by, it seems almost perverse not to investigate whether the childlike joy I get when eating a slice of really good pizza or even a simple bowl of gnocchi can somehow be replicated, magnified and, eventually, shared.

All this out-of-character philosophizing was prompted by an improbably delicious bowl of braised vegetables served over soft polenta.

Polenta with Cauliflower and Onions
adapted from Jack Bishop’s Complete Italian Vegetarian Cookbook
serves 2 to 3 generously
Total time 40 minutes; Active time 25 minutes

This cookbook is one of the first I bought and has remained useful even since re-adopting meat. Bishop understands that Italian cuisine celebrates vegetables, starches, legumes and cheese, and that combining them well can make for a wholly satisfying meal.

1 cup medium-grind cornmeal
Olive oil
1 medium onion
1 -2 cloves garlic
1 small cauliflower
1 can whole tomatoes
Fresh rosemary (optional)
Red pepper flakes/dried chili (optional)
Butter
Fresh Pecorino Romano or Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

Bring four cups of salted water to boil in a lidded pot. Lower heat to medium and pour in polenta in a slow, continuous stream, stirring constantly. Continue stirring for another 1-2 minutes as the polenta comes back to a boil and begins to thicken. Lower the heat to a very gentle simmer and cover. Stir every 5-10 minutes. While the polenta will appear cooked after only 10-15 minutes, optimal taste and texture are only achieved after 30-35 minutes.

Once the polenta is simmering, begin the sauce by heating a thin film of olive oil in a sauté pan. Slice the onion thinly and add, cooking on a medium heat until tender and lightly-coloured, about 10 minutes. Chop the garlic and add during the last minute or two of cooking. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Trim the leaves from the cauliflower. Remove and discard the core and stalk and cut or break the florets into bite-sized pieces. If using rosemary, strip the needles from one branch and chop finely.

Add the tinned tomatoes and their juices to the pan, crushing gently with a wooden spoon. Add rosemary and chili, if using. Add cauliflower and simmer on a low heat until soft enough to break with the wooden spoon, at least 20 minutes. If necessary, add a splash of water to prevent the sauce from sticking. Adjust seasoning.

As soon as the polenta is finished, stir in a pat of butter and spoon into individual bowls. Pour over the cauliflower sauce and top with a good grating of fresh Pecorino or Parmigiano. Serve immediately.

Poulet au Cidre et Panais (Chicken with Cider and Parsnips)

2009-11-17T20:37:00.008Z

Cider and crepes are a near-perfect pairing, bringing together two of the most quintessential tastes of France’s northwest. Low in alcohol (the brut, or dry, varieties, are about 4.5-5%, sweet ones less than half that) with a light, frothy fizz, cider is indisputably fun to drink. But like a former boy-band member now attempting a solo career, it doesn’t tend to get a lot of respect. Outside of creperies, it rarely appears on menus. Selection is often limited, with little differentation in the stock at wine shops and supermarkets.* And while high-quality, low-yield ciders are still being produced, neither marketers nor food writers have exploited cider’s history, variety and versatility.

Until the mid twentieth-century, cider followed wine as France’s second-most popular alcoholic beverage. But a growing taste for beer, combined with rising production costs, has resulted in severe, if not yet terminal, decline of the cider industry. At stake is a product central to the culinary—and cultural—identity of large parts of Normandy and Brittany and an underappreciated partner for all sorts of food.

It’s hardly coincidental that dry cider (cidre bouché) is at its best with autumnal produce and cooler-weather preparations like soups and stews. It can be swapped for white wine in classic dishes like onion soup or moules marinieres and is an ideal braising liquid—with or without another regional product, crème fraiche—for chicken, pork or rabbit. Served chilled in a tall pilsner glass, it would complement a plate of cheese, particularly hard, aged ones with sharp and/or caramel notes (Comte, Cheddar) or any with a blooming rind (Camembert, Brie, Waterloo). Cidre bouché won’t become cloying alongside inherently sweet vegetables like pumpkin or parsnip, and, unlike wine, can tolerate vinegar or other acids. Its sweet counterpart, cidre doux, is, admittedly, a bit less adaptable. But it seems a natural alongside traditional Thanksgiving pies and most any other dessert featuring autumn fruit.

The following recipe, from the ever-reliable Art of Braising, can be used as a template for any white meat-cider stew. Should sparkling French cider be unavailable, substitute a dry, crisp (hard) cider, with more of the same to drink.

Chicken Braised with Cider and Parsnips
Serves 2
Total time: 70 minutes; Active time: 50 minutes

1 tablespoon olive oil
4 skin-on, bone-in chicken thighs
1 large shallot
2 cups (500 ml) cider
Fresh thyme
3/4 pound (330 g) parsnips

Heat a lidded skillet or braising pan over a medium heat. Add oil. When it shimmers, add chicken thighs, skin-side down. Season with salt and pepper. Turn as needed until browned on all sides, 5-8 minutes.

While the chicken cooks, finely chop the shallot. Remove the browned chicken and set on a plate. Add shallot and soften for a minute, stirring to avoid sticking. Raise heat and pour in cider. Scrape the bottom of the pan, then allow the mixture to boil for 10-15 minutes. The cider should reduce to about ¼ of its original volume.

Peel the parsnips and remove any woody core. Cut into long, thin sticks, about the shape of an index finger. Add the parsnips and thyme to the reduced liquid and place the chicken on top. If the pan is deep, use parchment paper or aluminum foil under the lid to get a tight, close seal. Turn the heat down to low and simmer very gently until the chicken is fully cooked and pulling away from the bone, 30-35 minutes.

Remove the chicken to a serving plate. Taste the parsnips for tenderness and the sauce for concentration. The latter should be sweet and glossy, but not thick enough to coat a spoon. If required, cook one or both on a gentle heat for another 5-10 minutes. Adjust for seasoning, arrange parsnips on the serving plate and pour over sauce.

* In Paris, a wide selection can be found at Breizh Café and Pomze.

Chinatown

2009-11-11T18:43:00.014Z

Sunday afternoons in Paris can be dispiriting. It’s a time traditionally spent with family, and while I’m surely not the only one without any to hand, it can sometimes feel that way. What to do? Shops on the Champs Elysees have a special exemption to stay open, and outer-city warehouses like Ikea simply ignore the government’s trading restrictions. But if neither of these appeal—and how could they?—there’s not much in the way of retail diversion. All but the most boring museums are uncomfortably packed when the weather is foul, while the quais and parks have little free real estate if the sun emerges. The Marais, where the historically Jewish-owned business have swapped closing days, is a natural destination. Thousands of tourists and residents have had the same idea, though, as the lines for falafel and the slowly-parading crowds on the main shopping drags attest. As for restaurants, perhaps one in ten is serving, none on my must-visit list.

When I have my wits about me, I head to Chinatown. Located in the southern 13^th arrondissement, it isn’t on the way to or from anything. Its architecture—tall ‘70s buildings on long, windswept avenues—has little to recommend it. And the ingredients needed for occasional curries or noodle soups don’t require a special trip here. Come Sunday, though, the neighbourhood has a bustling energy, as eaters and shoppers from all over Paris (and beyond) descend. Dim sum palaces are the destination of many; modest pho joints are also highly popular. The menu at a popular Laotian restaurant, Lao Lane Xang, is unusually differentiated; most establishments would appear to derive their custom solely from reputation and tradition.

The heart of the neighbourhood is a bit further south, in and around a particularly ugly and run-down apartment and retail complex. On the sidewalk, vendors peddle counterfeit DVDs, phone cards and homemade fried snacks. Inside the mall are more restaurants, travel agencies and knick-knack shops. A Buddhist temple can apparently be accessed through one of the underground parking lots, though I’ve never located it.

The main draw is an enormous food shop, Tang Frères. Housed in a old railway warehouse on the avenue du Ivry, it is both the largest Asian supermarket in Europe and the flagship of a highly-successful food import and retail business. In the forecourt, fast food-style vendors offer barbecued pork, noodles and fresh coconut juice. An annex to the right sells kitchenware. The main, hangar-sized space boasts a daunting variety of fresh, frozen and packaged ingredients, ranging from the obvious to the esoteric. There are dedicated rows for fish and soy sauces, sacks of rice bigger than a toddler, even a stand piled with the noxious-smelling durian fruit. The only thing I’ve ever failed to find is fresh kaffir lime leaves; legislation apparently requires them to be frozen before importing.

Some families are clearly bulk-shopping for the coming week, others are in search of one or two speciality items. And at least a few must also be drawn by the cheapest bottled beer (Lao, 65 centimes) and free-range chickens in town. The latter has been fueling a series of home tutorials on butchering. (Though I’m a direct descendant of a butcher, knife skills are apparently not genetic.) Mastery will require a few more chickens, perhaps a cleaver—only 8 euros in the kitchenware shop—and most certainly some more beer.

Tang Freres
48 avenue d’Ivry 75013
Metro: Olympiades or Place d'Italie

Le Square Trousseau

2009-10-20T13:30:00.003Z

Just down the road, at the edge of large, elegant square, is a turn of the century cafe/bistro so perfectly preserved that it has featured in movies and photo shoots. Inside the L-shaped room, the walls are sepia-toned and lined with leather banquettes and mirrors reflect the light from tulip-shaped chandelier bulbs. On the pavement, small tables and rattan chairs are arrayed so as to best take in the sun, trees and passers-by. No detail is missing: gleaming, zinc-topped bar, waitresses in long, white aprons, even the resident dog.

A bit more polished and expensive than its competitors, Le Square Trousseau nonetheless remains a locals’ joint. I could imagine putting on heels and crimson lipstick and having a decadent dinner there. But its timeless quality might be best appreciated with a coffee in the off-hours. Spring afternoons on the sidewalk-cum-terrace are predictably glorious, angling for the sun on my shoulders, watching after school errands segue into pre-dinner drinks. But I’ve begun to prefer indoors, where the gentle bustle of the square is replaced with old jazz standards and the whir of the coffee machine.

One day last week I arrived late, 11 am or so. The kitchen emitted smells of stew and chocolate cake, and the waitresses were preparing for lunch. On each table they set out a square of brown paper, a pepper grinder, wine glasses, flatware and white linen napkins. Two enormous loaves of bread arrived, a round of cheese was whisked off to a serving table, wobbly tables were righted with the help of lozenge-shaped metal disks.

Seated further down the banquette was the only other customer, a middle-aged woman reading the Sunday magazine supplement. The dog, a white and black Jack Russell, perched on the banquette between us, his posture perfectly erect. As the French would say, tous comme il fait (everything as it should be).

Le Square Trousseau
1 rue Antoine Vollon 75012
01-4343-0066
Open daily from early to late, limited café seats during peak eating hours

Bánh mì

2009-09-30T19:29:00.011Z

Reading through Gourmet’s recent reports on the best street food worldwide, I thought about tacos and why Paris didn’t merit mention. It was, to be fair, hardly an egregious oversight. There are half a dozen falafel stands in the historic Jewish heartland of the Marais (most famous is the Lenny-Kravitz-approved L’As du Felafel), serviceable crepe stands in parks and tourist areas and forgettable filled baguettes on nearly every commercial strip. This limited quality and variety reflects a culture which is still adapting to changing eating habits. While the midday three-courses with wine is increasingly giving way to lighter and faster fare, excellence at lunchtime is somehow not altogether expected. And consuming a meal while standing up, walking down the street or riding public transport remains suspect.

But in the city’s outer arrondissments there’s an authentic quick eat with great potential to go mainstream. It’s even served on a baguette.

Bánh mì (literally sandwich on French bread) originated mid-century in Vietnam, then under French colonial rule. At first, it was a luxurious foreign import, a baguette lined with cured meats, butter and cornichons. But after France’s ignominious retreat post ‘54 it was transformed into a thoroughly local, immensely popular, cheap meal. Baguettes had remained, and the local paté was not a huge departure from the original. The Vietnamese touches came through in the garnishes—pickled vegetables (carrot and daikon) and fresh herbs—and the inclusion of some chili heat.

Still served at street-side stalls and mobile restaurants throughout southern Vietnam, the bánh mì also migrated west during the 1960s and 1970s, providing a taste of home (and entrepreneurial opportunities) for refugees resettled in southern California, Paris or Virginia. Here, it has undergone another series of adaptations, spurred by ingredient availability and acculturation. As well as the classic paté, fillings now include Chinese-style roasted pork, chicken, meatballs, even sometimes tofu. And some are experimenting with upmarket or avant-garde treatments. But whether in Belleville or Brooklyn, the bánh mì remains the quintessential lunch on the go: available for a handful of change in a fluorescent-lit setting ill-suited to lingering.

Real estate may be the only thing preventing the bánh mì from dominating lunchtime trade. Here in Paris, it can just be found in the two “Chinatowns”, each a good 20 minute journey from the city’s commercial heart. The physical proximity of Manhattan’s Chinatown to downtown offices makes the bánh mì more accessible to New Yorkers, though I’ve never seen one above 14^th Street. And in London, the search for a bánh mì would likely extend until afternoon tea.

For now the answer—which also conveniently resolves any qualms about eating super-cheap meat—is to make it at home. But should anyone be looking for a new business partner, remember who gave you the idea.

Bánh mì

Outside of Vietnamese population centres, it’s almost impossible to find made-for-purpose baguettes: slim, light and constructed partially with rice flour. Here, though, otherwise inferior fluffy baguettes come into their fore. If necessary, crisp them before serving and/or remove a bit of the interior. And while I’ve only encountered chicken bánh mì with plain steamed meat, the marinade ingredients are all used in other Vietnamese poultry dishes.

Adapted from Food Woolf and The Traveler’s Lunchbox
Serves 2
Total time: 2-4 hours; Active time: 30 minutes
Special equipment: mortar and pestle

Chicken
2 chicken breasts
1/3 star anise flower
1 large clove garlic
1 small finger ginger
Pinch 5 spice powder
Chili (dried or fresh, to taste)
1 heaping tbsp brown sugar
2 tbsp fish sauce (nam pla)
Splash rice vinegar

Sandwich and Filling
2 small carrots
1/8 cup rice vinegar
1 tbsp brown sugar
1/2 cucumber
1 baguette
Mayonnaise (to taste)
Sricha chili sauce (to taste)
Small handful cilantro (coriander)
Lime juice

In advance:
Rinse chicken breasts, remove any skin and/or fat and place on a large plate or shallow dish.

Using the mortar and pestle, grind the star anise finely. Peel the ginger and garlic and chop the ginger coarsely. Add and grind. (You may find that coarse salt helps the mixture to coalesce) Mix in a pinch of five spice powder. If using dried chili, add to paste and grind. Fresh chili can be chopped finely and then combined. Stir in brown sugar, fish sauce and rice vinegar. Taste for a sweet-salty-sour balance.

Pour marinade over chicken, turning to coat. Cover and refrigerate.

Grate the carrot coarsely using a grater or food processor. Combine rice vinegar and sugar in a large bowl, adding about ½ cup body-temperature tap water. Stir to dissolve. Add carrots, stir and refrigerate.

Just before eating:
Heat grill or grill pan on a medium-high heat. Remove chicken from marinade and cook, turning when firm and cooked. Remove from heat and let rest for at least 5 minutes. Slice into cubes or strips.

Cut cucumber into long, thin strips. Slice baguette in half, opening up to make 2 sandwiches. Place desired quantity of mayonnaise in a small bowl. Season with Sricha and spread on bread. Drain carrots and add to sandwich, along with sliced cucumber. Tear or cut coriander into small sprigs, discarding stalks. Add chicken to the sandwich. Finish with coriander and a good squeeze of lime juice.

Dijon et Poireaux Vinaigrette

2009-09-11T14:45:00.015Z

“We lived for almost three years in Dijon, which the Burgundians called without any quibble and only half-hearted contradictions ‘the gastronomic capital of the world.’ We were lucky to… be within ourselves eager, interested, and above all husky-gutted. Most of our orgies were voluntary, but even so I doubt if more jaded livers than ours could have stood the thousand bilious blows we dealt them.” MFK Fisher, The Gastronomical Me

In the world’s northernmost fine wine region, Burgundy’s vineyard owners play an annual game of chance with the weather, hoping that limited sun and heat will produce wines which are delicate, rarified and aromatic, rather than thin and mean. As if to compensate for this, the food is rich and abundant, reliant on butter, meat and wine-enriched sauces. The eponymous boeuf bourguignon is only the most famous of a local repertory which includes coq au vin (with chicken usually taking the place of the traditional rooster), ouefs en meurette (eggs poached in a sauce of butter, red wine, mushrooms and bacon), jambon persillade (a gelee-topped coarse pork paté) and snails with garlic butter (escargot).

Ignoring the atypically hot August weather, I managed a fair sampling of typical Burgundian dishes during a recent visit to Dijon and its environs. At a stylish bistro just across from the Eiffel-design central market, where the waitress sported henna tattoos and Gaultier leggings and the patrons were well-fed and equally well-coiffed, I began with a slice of the local paté. It was true to what I’ve seen at charcuteries across Paris, the only concession to fashion being a green, mousse-like top layer of parsley, instead of finely-chopped leaves throughout. Bouef bourgignon provided a satisfying first impression of the dish, the rich, glossy gravy soaking perfectly into the pommes purees. To finish, a sharp, boozy sorbet made with cassis (blackcurrants) and the local liqueur, crème de cassis.

There was a repeat of the bouef bourgignon the next day, the 12 hours of cooking rendering the beef so soft as to require only a spoon. I was delighted by the presentation in an individual Staub casserole, though mashed potatoes were sorely missed. Here the highlights were a poached egg in a cream of summer truffles, the cheese plate, featuring Epoisses from a producer only 10 minutes up the road and the bucolic setting in the centre of the blink-and-you-miss-it wine town of Gevrey-Chambertin. Eating such a meal—complete with matching glasses of wine at each course—was perhaps ill-advised on a day when I still had some 20 kilometres to cycle in hot sun. But both the scenery and the menu were too good to justify compromise.

Once cold temperatures and company coincide, I hope to pull out my own Staub and attempt Julia Child’s iconic recipe. For now, though, I’m concentrating my efforts on slightly lighter fare.

Poireaux vinaigrette is another Burgundian classic, combining leeks (usually poached or boiled) with a dressing made from local Dijon mustard. Tangy and full-flavoured, it would provide an excellent lead-in to a rich, winey stew. Less traditional, but also less stultifying, would be to make a few more leeks, buy a baguette and follow with some good cheese. Let your liver guide you.

Poireaux Vinaigrette

It’s rare that I gravitate towards more complicated versions of simple recipes. But here the extra steps yield real improvements: tying the leeks with a twist of their greens keeps them intact through two stages of cooking. Likewise, replacing boiling with sautéing and braising dramatically deepens flavor and eliminates any potential stringiness. The sauce’s acidity makes this a poor match for more serious wine; pair with a simple, not-too-austere Chardonnay (like a Macon-Villages)

Adapted from Williams-Sonoma French
Serves 2*
Total time: 35 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

4 slender leeks
Olive oil
3/4 cups chicken stock
1 scant tablespoon grain or Dijon mustard**
Lemon juice or wine vinegar
Salt and pepper
Special equipment: large frying pan; tongs

Trim leeks, retaining the green ends, and split along length. (If they are too long to fit across the base of your largest frying pan, split once across width.) Rinse each under the tap, lifting the layers to remove dirt, but being careful to keep intact. Using a thin length peeled from the trimmings, tie each leek around its middle.

On a medium-high flame, heat just enough oil to film pan. When hot add as many leeks as will fit in one layer. Season with salt and pepper. Turn occasionally until both sides are golden and have spots of deeper caramelisation, about 8-10 minutes. If required, remove to plate and repeat with remaining leeks.

Return all leeks to the pan. Add chicken stock and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook until the leeks are very tender and most of the liquid has evaporated, 10-15 minutes. While they cook, make the dressing, mixing the mustard with just enough olive oil and lemon juice to make a sharp, very thick sauce.

Pour over leeks and check seasoning. Serve immediately or at room temperature.

* While the recipe can easily be doubled, it becomes time-consuming without access to several large frying pans.

** I particularly like this one. The only brand still made with locally-grown seeds, it has an elegant, sprightly flavor. Whatever you use, make sure your mustard is fresh.

Pan Bagnat

2009-09-07T16:58:00.009Z

John Ash tells of being invited for lunch by the great food writer MFK Fisher. As they chatted, she prepared a large sandwich, wrapped it tightly and handed it to him with instructions to sit upon it until it was time to eat. After an hour or so it was retrieved from its resting place and served in thin, neat slices with cornichons and Californian Pinot Noir.

According to Ash, lunch that day was a ham and cheese sandwich, bound together with a tangy mix of mayonnaise and mustard. But it seems likely that Fisher, who spent many years living in the south of France, borrowed the melding technique from the classic Nicoise sandwich, pan bagnat. Best translated as "bathed bread", a pan bagnat sandwiches tinned fish, hard-boiled egg, tomato and condiments in a large roll, using weights, time and good amount of olive oil to turn the whole into a deliciously marinated mess.

Sturdy and able to keep, pan bagnat makes perfect picnic food. So when the idea emerged to spend an afternoon cycling in the parks surrounding the Chateau de Versailles, I knew exactly what we'd be having for lunch. By chance, the one local bakery selling ciabatta had reopened the previous day, and we had discovered a particularly tasty brand of oil-packed anchovies. I made the sandwiches early in the morning, layering on the tuna and anchovies, egg and sliced tomato and seasoning with herbes de provence, the remaining oil and a splash of lemon juice. Double-wrapped, the sandwiches went into my backpack under 4 bottles of water and other paraphernalia. By the time we had dragged the bikes out to Versailles and found a sunny spot facing the Chateau, they were nicely squashed and moist throughout.

I was distracted from taking photos by the swarm of alcoholic wasps who also attended our picnic, eventually meeting their demise in a half-bottle of Saumur Rouge. But the sandwiches, along with what wine we could retrieve and a bag of Reine Claudes, provided sufficient ballast for several hours of charging through the woods and gaping at the grandeur.

Pan Bagnat
Adapted from the New York Times
Serves 2
Active time: 30 minutes; Total time 3-10 hours

2 portion-sized or 1 large ciabatta, either olive or plain (substitute a small white country loaf)
1 medium-size tin tuna packed in olive oil
1 small or medium tin of anchovies packed in olive oil
1 tomato
Small handful olives (optional)
Basil leaves or a small handful of rocket (optional)
Herbes de provence
Lemon juice
Olive oil
Salt and pepper

Hard-boil eggs according to preferred method. Split the ciabatta, removing a bit of the interior if desired. Open the cans of fish. Spoon a bit of the residual oil onto the bread. Add the tuna, followed by the anchovies. Slice the tomato and place on top. Stone the olives, cut in half and add.

Once sufficiently cool, peel eggs, slice and add to fish and tomato. Top with leaves. Season to taste with herbes de provence, lemon juice, olive oil and salt and pepper.

Wrap sandwiches in a double layer of foil, place on a plate and refrigerate, using a heavy pan or some canned goods to compress. Bring to room temperature before serving. Sandwiches will keep for at least a few hours outside the refrigerator.

Chez Moi

2009-09-04T14:46:00.014Z

With too much time on my hands these days, it is tempting to explore making more things from scratch. I heard recently that canning is achieving new-found popularity. Why not make some jams and chutneys with the last of the summer produce? Or yogurt—homemade is meant to be excellent, and cheap too. Ice cream and bread are out due to lack of equipment, but many of the things on my fridge door—ketchup, curry paste, tapenade—could be attempted.

Yet while my homemade jam is perfectly nice, it falls short of even good-quality supermarket brands. Tapenade prepared in my mortar and pestle boasts an appealingly rustic texture, but it’s expensive, messy and has a shorter shelf-life. As for yogurt, I don’t share the French passion for eating it multiple times a day, which would seem necessary to make it worthwhile. Ketchup is only called into service for steak tartare; Heinz works just fine there, additives be damned.

Undoubtedly, a more skilled jam-maker or a larger household might reach different conclusions. But for me, these types of projects seem justified only if undertaken for the pleasure of the process; good results are strictly a bonus.

Boredom may yield some additions to last year’s stash of homemade plum chutney (a bit too sharp, and less versatile than I imagined). At least I’ve found one made-from-scratch project which is impressively simple, cost-efficient and tasty:

Homemade gravadlax involves nothing more than topping a salmon fillet with some greenery and seasoning, then weighting it down in the fridge for a few days. Given the length of the lines at my local supermarket, the initial preparation takes less time than visiting the chilled fish aisle, plus I’m able to buy two or three times the quantity of fresh fish for the cost of a small packet of cured. After two or three days in the fridge, homemade gravadlax has a brighter, fresher taste than its commercial counterpart. It is also easy scalable; anything from a 200 gram (1/2 pound) fillet to a whole side of salmon can be cured.

Sliced into strips, piled onto blini or thin toast and topped with sour cream, the gravadlax makes an elegant starter. Though its texture is less dense and oily, it can also stand in anywhere smoked salmon is used: eggs, salads, sandwiches. Most recently, we served it whole as a main course, accompanied by potato salad.

So, at the risk of sounding like one of missionary types who wants you make your own jam, I can only say: buy the salmon. It’s worth it. And have I mentioned that it’s easy?

Gravadlax
adapted from Cooking for Engineers
Serves 4 as a starter or 2 as a main (can be easily doubled or tripled)
Active time: 10 minutes; Total time: 2-3 days
Special equipment: mortar and pestle

1 salmon fillet, about 200 grams (try to find one of equal thickness throughout)
1 scant tablespoon coarse sea salt
1 heaping tablespoon granulated sugar (I used light brown)
1 heaping teaspoon black peppercorns
1 heaping teaspoon juniper berries (optional but recommended)
Handful fresh dill

If possible, peel or cut skin from salmon fillet. Examine for pin-bones by draping over hand, removing any with fingers or thin tweezers. Place fish in the center of a double layer of foil.

Measure salt and sugar in a small bowl. Grind peppercorns and juniper berries coarsely in a mortar and pestle and add to sugar-salt mixture. Stir to combine. Spoon mixture over both sides of fish, pressing gently into flesh.

Place dill fronds under and on fish fillet, snapping off protruding stems. Wrap fish into a tight package with the first layer of foil. Repeat packaging with second piece of foil. Place in a shallow dish and weight down evenly with cans and/or a heavy pan.

Turn 2 times/day, leaving package wrapped. After two or three days, unwrap package, brush or rinse off any excess cure and serve. Unused fish will keep covered for another week or so.

Cafe dei Cioppi

2009-09-03T15:32:00.020Z

In stark contrast to Londoners and New Yorkers, Parisians are not in thrall to either a real or imagined dolce vita. At the simplest level, many believe that France contains the ne plus ultra of all that is significant: culture, history, language, cuisine and natural beauty. Accordingly, Parisians are far more likely to take their holidays domestically: in Brittany, the Dordogne or on their own (sizeable) Mediterranean coastline. Even with a long shared border, spanning from the Alps south to the Riviera, Italian cultural permeation is limited.

Add to this the absence of any significant Italian immigration to the French capital, and it is perhaps unsurprising that even the simplest red-sauce restaurants tend to disappoint. I was therefore dubious when a shoebox of an Italian cafe opened down the street a few months back. What were the chances that a kitchen smaller than mine would be turning out anything more than mediocre, overpriced pasta?

A few glowing, big-gun reviews were necessary before I realised that I was, quite possibly, entirely wrong, a fact which has been subsequently—and joyfully—confirmed over three of the best restaurant meals I’ve eaten in Paris. The kitchen has a talent for making the most unassuming dishes on the seasonal, pared-down menu—a cold courgette and mint soup, or pasta puttanesca—not only worthwhile to order, but befuddlingly delicious. Lasagne is another unlikely star; last week’s pumpkin and sausage rendition was rich with béchamel and lustily seasoned, the Platonic ideal of a season-shifting dish.

A simple salad of burrata, vegetables and leaves shows off good sourcing, and someone in the operation has an eye for unusual wines (all available by the glass). Even desserts, rarely a high point of Italian meals, are near-perfect. A dollop of mascarpone would have been lovely with the fig and ricotta cake, though you can see we had no difficulty in going without.

On our first visit, an outside table was occupied by some larger-than-life artist and designer types, with the leader of the pack, a Christian Louboutin look-alike, sporting a T-shirt that matched his saffron-rich risotto. None have been so obviously colourful since, but the close quarters, the alley-way full of hanging vines and bicycles and Franco-Italian mix of staff and customers all yield an unselfconsciously cosmopolitan atmosphere.

My living room, though a mere 150 metres away, is probably a bit too far for overflow seating. But I wonder whether they might be amenable to a dishwashing-lasagne exchange. Best reason I can think of to work on that glass-polishing...

159 rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine 75011
01-43-46-10-14
Monday-Friday lunch; Wednesday-Friday dinner
Metro: Ledru-Rollin

Courgettes et Fleurs de Courgettes (Zucchini + Zucchini Blossoms)

2009-08-12T21:12:00.011Z

If the courgettes in your corner of the world have grown huge and out of control, this recipe will have to wait until next year. But here in Paris, I’m still coming home from the market with relatively lilliputian ones. With thin skins and a refined flavour, these require nothing more than a quick softening in olive oil before tossing with fresh herbs and cheese, or combining with eggs. Using mandolin-fine slices, the cooking can be skipped altogether.

Tasty, easy and cheap, variations on courgette frittatas and salads are in frequent rotation right now. But good as they can be, none have approached the practically sublime pasta dish I made recently with sautéed courgette, basil and courgette blossoms. The vegetable base got an extra layer of flavour from chicken stock (obvious, perhaps, though I rarely use it in quick dishes), while the julienned basil and blossoms were thrown in just at the end, allowing them to retain a bit of texture and, more importantly, distinct flavours. Tossed with thin pasta and finished with fresh Parmesan, it was rich and fragrant, the kind of dish that warrants total attention while eating.

Served with an acidic, lightly floral Italian white wine (perhaps a Vermentino or Falanghina), it would make an elegant dinner for two. Yet even without someone present whom I could impress or seduce, it more than justified the (relatively modest) cost and time required. One for the files.

Pasta with Courgettes and Blossoms
adapted from a Chez Panisse recipe by David Tanis
Serves 2
Total time: 30 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

Tanis’ original recipe used corn kernels and scallions. As both of those are hard to find in Paris, I substituted onion and upped the quantity of courgettes. In order to avoid overwhelming the delicate flavour of the blossoms, be sure to use courgettes which are small, firm and virtually seedless. Also, as the flowers will wilt quickly, this is a recipe to make on the same day as your market visit.

1-2 tbsp olive oil
3-4 slim, very small yellow or green courgettes (if your blossoms have tiny courgettes attached, use those in part)*
1 small onion
100-125 ml stock, preferably chicken
300-400 grams dried fettuccine or linguine (I like De Cecco brand)
4-6 courgette blossoms
Small handful fresh basil
Parmesan

Begin heating up the water for pasta. Dice the courgettes (it shouldn’t be necessary to peel them) and onion. Warm the olive oil in a large, heavy sauté pan over medium heat. Add the vegetables, season and sauté, stirring regularly to avoid sticking or excessive browning. When they are soft—up to ten minutes—add a good splash of stock and continue to cook, lowering the heat slightly. Put the pasta on to boil.

Allow the stock to reduce by ½ and the flavours to combine, another 5 minutes. Remove the stems and stamens from the courgette blossoms and julienne. Tear or cut the basil.

Add both to the sauce and toss to wilt. Drain the pasta and add to the sauce mixture, stirring well to combine and coat. Remove from the heat, adjust seasoning and serve immediately with grated Parmesan.

*A wide variety—along with the blossoms—can currently be found at Joel Thiebault’s market stall.

So English!

2009-08-07T12:00:00.004Z

Surfing the website of Elle à Table recently, I was amused to discover articles entitled “Cheese Party” and “Notre Best-Of Des Recettes du Pasta”. This month’s Vogue Paris is equally generous with Anglicisms, referencing “globetrotter”, “top model”, “easy attitude”, “jet-set” and “world class.” Even my gym instructor peppers her instructions with exhortations of “let’s go” and “extra-slow.”

The pollution of French language and culture is a favourite topic of columnists and TV pundits. But whether it’s the glowing reviews for restaurants opened by foreigners (most notably Paris’ Spring) or the current trend for cupcakes, the culinary battle-lines may have softened somewhat. Even the gastronomic reputation of France’s closest Anglophone neighbour seem to have increased of late, a claim given some weight by the new Fortnum & Mason concession at Bon Marché food hall, the proliferation of books devoted to crumble and the extraordinary popularity of Paris’ Rose Bakery, a high-end café serving scones, Neals Yard cheese, even Marmite.

While I’ve bought enough British meat, cheese and produce to know that it can be the equal of its French counterpart (I actually prefer British beef, which tends to be longer-aged, though France’s cheese selection is unsurpassed), the meals I produce in London still tend to reflect a Franco-Mediterranean sensibility. And yet on a recent weekend, in between the Alsace wine and goose rillettes, and the herbes de provence-roasted lamb and Minervois, we enjoyed an accidental assemblage of thoroughly British food as good as anything Continental.

My morning trip to Borough Market had begun with a visit to its most-renowned butcher, The Ginger Pig. Waiting in line to purchase a leg of lamb, I found myself quite unexpectedly drawn to an enormous savoury pie filled with chicken, tarragon and chervil. And while pies are generally something I associate with bad pub or service station food, I knew that one here—with proper lard or butter pastry, and high-quality filling—would be an excellent introduction to the genre.

Lunch evolved from there: a side of watercress salad and glasses of Sam Smith’s ale, the preferred drink of my second-favourite literary detective, Inspector Morse. To finish, a few dregs of beer accompanied Welsh Caerphilly cheese and some thin Scottish oatcakes.

For dessert the following night, we made a retro summer classic: Eton mess. Nothing more than semi-crushed strawberries combined with whipped cream and bits of meringue, it had my ever-so-proper (and astonishingly slender) friend licking the bowl. I did sneak in a splash of crème de cassis to the macerating berries. But I think the real credit is due to the ever-reliable Delia (whose cultural significance in the UK is somewhere between that of Julia Child and Martha Stewart) and to middle England’s favourite grocer, Marks & Spencers, who supplied Kentish strawberries, double cream and irreproachable meringues.

There may have even been some cricket, though I will only admit to intermittent pauses in front of the TV. Some joys remain to be discovered...

Tagine aux Sardines

2009-08-02T12:11:00.009Z

Were I to tell my tomato and herb vendors that I hadn’t yet developed a taste for North African pastries, it’s likely that they would leave their stands in the care of underlings, escort me to any one of a number of local shops and present me with a plate of assorted sweetmeats. Yet if I were to mention that I had developed a method for fish tagine* that might yield better results than those their mother or grandmother used, I doubt that I would be invited into their kitchens for a demonstration.

Taste memory is unassailable, so too authenticity. And while it may have suffered from the ubiquity of time-saving ingredients—instant couscous, bouillon cubes and premade spice mixes—traditional North African food is something that, for much of Paris’ population, is as familiar and evocative as Friday night challah is to me. And so just as I’m dismissive of every loaf which isn’t my mother’s, I can understand why my tagine, though avoiding the common problem of overcooked fish and undercooked onions, would not past muster at the market. In the interest of ensuring my supply chain for tomato and basil salads, I’ll therefore be keeping this more or less to myself.

Sardine Tagine

Serves 2; can easily be doubled or tripled
Total time: 45 minutes; Active time: 15-20 minutes

Unlike traditional tagines, in which all of the ingredients are cooked together for the same length of time, this vegetable and herb base is virtually ready by the time the fish is added. This allows the fish to retain structural integrity and the spice rub to be fresh and unmuddied . Sardines are delicious and inexpensive, but their high oil content means they spoil quickly. If you can’t access good ones, try this with mackerel fillets or a full-flavoured white fish, perhaps mullet or bream. Either add to the fish’s cooking time or cut the fillets into large bite-size pieces.

Olive oil
1 medium onion
1 small bulb fennel
2 small tomatoes
Large handful coriander
Large handful parsley
2 cloves garlic
A few slices lemon peel
Harissa (substitute hot paprika or red pepper flakes)
400 grams sardine fillets (from 600-700 grams whole fish)
Large pinch each cumin, coriander and fennel seed
Lemon juice

Over a low heat, warm enough olive oil to just cover the surface of a heavy, lidded pan. Slice the onion and fennel bulb thinly, add, season and fry gently until just soft, 5-8 minutes. While these cook, chop tomato and herbs coarsely. Add all the tomato and half the herbs to the pan. Pour in a few tablespoons of water and cook the mixture until the tomato begins to break down and the other vegetables are fully softened, another 10 minutes or so. Slice or chop garlic and add once the mixture is nearly cooked. Add lemon peel and harissa to taste. Take off heat and set aside.

Rinse the filets and place flesh side up on a large plate. Grind the cumin, coriander and fennel seeds in a mortar and pestle or spice grinder. Using a teaspoon, distribute the ground spices evenly over the fish.

Warm the sauce over a low heat. Sandwich the fish fillets (spice-side in) and distribute over the sauce. If the mixture looks dry, add another splash or two of water. Cover and cook on a gentle heat until the fish is just cooked through (as little as 5 minutes depending on the size/thickness of the fillets). Add lemon juice, adjust seasoning and serve warm or at room temperature with remaining herbs, couscous or flatbread.

* This Arabic word describes both a conical, earthenware pot and any meat, fish or vegetable dish cooked in it.

The Skinniest Month

2009-08-01T20:43:00.003Z