Pistachio and olive oil cake

This is the kind of cake that pleases all comers, without being wholly predictable. It can easily stand alone, but would also take well to crème fraiche, a scoop of good vanilla ice cream or even some Greek yogurt, some raspberries, cherries or apricots at one end of the seasonal spectrum and citrus at the other.

I can’t see any reason why you couldn’t use almonds, but the colour and perfume of the pistachios is worth the admittedly small splurge.

Pistachio and olive oil cake

adapted (barely) from Diana Henry in the Telegraph

Serves 8

Total time: 70 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

Special equipment: food processor or (clean) coffee grinder

150g (5½oz) unsalted pistachios 
50g (1¾oz) soft bread crumbs
285g (7oz) caster sugar 
2½ tsp baking powder 
2 lemons

4 medium eggs
200ml (7fl oz) olive oil 

Grind 115g (4oz) of the pistachios to a slightly coarse powder using the food processor or coffee grinder. Pour into a large mixing bowl and add crumbs, 200g of the caster sugar and baking powder. Zest one of the lemons and add.

Break the eggs into a separate bowl and beat lightly. Pour in the olive oil and combine, before adding this to the dry ingredients.

Scrape into an oiled and base-lined 20-23cm (8-9in) cake tin and place in a cold oven. Set the oven to 180°C/350°F and bake for 50 to 55 minutes. The cake should be well-risen and lightly browned, and the sides slightly coming  away from the tin.

While the cake is in the oven, juice the lemons into a small pan. Add the remaining sugar and 100ml (3½fl oz) water. Bring to a boil, then turn down the heat and simmer for five minutes.

Turn out the cake, peel off the paper and place on a plate. While it is still warm pierce all over with a skewer. Slowly pour on the syrup and leave to cool and sink in.

Bash up the remaining pistachios by placing in a sealed bag and crushing with a can or mallet. Scatter over the top of the cake just before serving.

Istanbul

I arrived back from my trip to Istanbul less than 72 hours ago. Already, there’s only one piece of the sublime pistachio baklava left—supremely buttery but not overly sweet. The chewy, almond-orange biscuits from a sepia-toned bakery in the Besitkas neighbourhood are gone completely, and we’ve made considerable inroads into the pistachio-sesame halvah, bought from a shop that’s been in the same family for nearly 150 years. For folks who claim not to have much of a sweet tooth, that’s an awful lot of sugar.

In between, I’ve been cooking up some savoury dishes with my new stocks of grains and spices. Last night, we began with a winter salad of bulgur, celery, walnuts and pomegranate from the Moro 3 cookbook. Our main course was minced lamb kebabs, seasoned with fruity-hot red pepper flakes (aci biber), dried mint and oregano and garlic, and served with flatbread and a salad of onions, parsley and sumac.

For breakfast this morning, we used the rest of flatbread to scoop up a take on the Turkish scrambled egg and pepper dish, menemen. Lunch was somewhat more ambitious, a spinach and cheese borek, or savoury pastry. Some compromises were necessary: we used Greek filo pastry (the slightly thicker Turkish yufka only being available in a few North London shops), and a mix of feta and ricotta in place of Turkish white cheeses. The filling was made savoury with sautéed onions, to which I also added some more of the aci biber and dried mint. In a change from the Greek versions I’ve had, the remaining yogurt-oil-egg mixture used to moisten the pastry sheets was poured over the assembled dish, softening the crust but becoming almost soufflé-like in the oven.

I have plans for pilaus, other types of kebabs and lots more salads and dips, as well as most anything which will make good use of my ample dried mint supply. And as soon as I get my notes and photos in order, I’ll have plenty more ingredients, vendors and dishes to write about.

For now, though, my ambitions centre on that last piece of baklava.

Gelato

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

Macarons fait Maison (Hand-made Macarons)

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.

Compote d’Abricots á la Lavande (Apricot and Lavender Compote)

Even a mediocre peach is worth eating out of hand, so too a bowlful of less than perfectly sweet cherries. But an underripe apricot—dry, wooly-textured, with almost a tannic bite—has few redeeming virtues. Despite this, impatience and whiff of honeyed perfume have seduced me more than once, only to discover, once home, that the abricots’ rosy-tinged shoulders are only slightly more tender than my own laptop-wrecked ones.

Were it not for the fact that Michelin-class patisserie is available just down the road, I might have attempted a tart. Jam was likewise eliminated, as I doubt I could improve on that supermarket standard, Bon Maman. After a few days on the counter, by which time the apricots were infinitesimally rosier but no softer, I settled on a lavender-scented compote, courtesy of Clotilde Dusoulier’s Chocolate and Zucchini.

I must confess to being a bit jealous of Clotilde’s fame. But it’s undeniable that her recipes not only work, but tend to offer a creative twist on the simple, market-driven French food I like most. The compote is a perfect example: judiciously used, the lavender adds sophistication and complexity, while an intelligent use of heat (and butter) creates an unctuous glaze for the fruit without turning it into mush.

The recipe suggests serving this alongside butter cookies. I usually have it alone or over yogurt, but it could easily dress up some good vanilla ice cream or buttery cake. And should unsprayed lavender be hard to find, either dried verveine (lemon verbena) or even a bit of fresh thyme might make interesting substitutions.

Compote d’Abricots á la Lavande (adapted from Chocolate and Zucchini)

Serves 2-3

Total time: about 20 minutes: Active time: 10 minutes

1 tbsp unsalted butter

1/8 cup granulated sugar

Small pinch sugar

Just over a pound of apricots, stoned and halved

1 tsp dried unsprayed lavender flowers

Gently melt the butter in a frying pan big enough to fit the apricots in a single layer. Add the sugar and allow to melt without stirring for 3-5 minutes, by which time it should be lightly caramelised. Add the salt and abricots and stir to coat. Cover and cook on a low to medium heat until the fruit is just tender, about 8 minutes.

Remove the fruit with a slotted spoon and set aside. Sprinkle the lavender over the remaining pan juices, turn up the heat to medium-high and cook uncovered until thick and syrupy, about 4 minutes. Lower the heat and return the apricots to the pan, stirring gently to coat. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Gâteau Rhubarbe et Polenta (Rhubarb-Cornmeal Cake)

When asked where I live, I often respond that I spend 85% of my time in Paris, 10% in London and the remaining 5% on the Eurostar. While I have been known to board the train without my computer adaptor, cell phone or British credit card, I rarely travel without at least one bottle of inky, spicy southern French wine, a few jars of tapenade and a sack of cheese which grows ever-stinkier as London draws near.* Good wine and cheese can certainly be found in London, if not with comparable ease. But I’ve come to enjoy the pre-travel ritual of rounding up treats in my local shops and the post-travel one of a picnic-like Friday night dinner, together, watching some silly TV.

A few weeks ago, having made the wine and cheese rounds, I stopped in at a local pastry shop to buy dessert for that evening’s meal. I selected what I thought to be a sturdy tarte aux poires and asked the saleswoman to package it for a train trip. To my surprise, she asked how long the journey was and whether I planned to eat the tarte in transit. When I explained that I was taking the Eurostar to London, she shook her head firmly and explained that the item would not be at its best after 3 hours. I tried again with a tarte citron, but this too was rejected. Finally, we agreed that I would be allowed to purchase a sack of financiers, unadorned, ingot-shaped cakes tasting of almonds and very good butter.

While the proprietor was undoubtedly a bit overprotective of her wares, in this season of picnics and "staycations", it is perhaps worth considering a few other cakes able to make it to their destinations intact. One obvious candidate is gâteau au yaourt. Often the first cake a French child learns how to make, it gets its name from the glass pot of yogurt which moistens the batter and provides a handy measuring cup for the other ingredients. Not too sweet, it could be eaten any time of day and takes easily both to adornments like coulis or whipped cream, as well as nuts, fruit or bits of chocolate.

Nigella Lawson’s rhubarb cornmeal cake, which was eaten far too quickly last weekend to be road-tested, is in fact an Anglo-Italian variation on this classic. Cornmeal or polenta, substituted for half the volume of flour, provides crunch and heft, while small chunks of rhubarb add hits of sweet-sour tang. The most significant variation—in structural terms at least—is in creaming soft butter with eggs, rather than using liquid fat. (Vegetable oil is traditional in the French recipe, most likely because it is easier and less messy than melting butter.)

Perfect just as it is, the recipe could certainly be adapted to other ingredients: creme fraiche (thinned with a bit of milk), sour cream or buttermilk in place of the yogurt, other seasonal fruits and more prominent seasoning instead of, or in addition to, the vanilla. Come September, plum-hazelnut cake with a bit of nutmeg would be wonderful. But for now, I’m just hoping that the rhubarb sticks around until that next Eurostar journey, at the end of which is a functioning oven and someone who, despite his protestations, appears to enjoy a good piece of cake.

Rhubarb Cornmeal Cake (adapted from Nigella Lawson’s “How To Be A Domestic Goddess)

Serves 8
Total time: 1 hour 20 minutes; Active time: 20 minutes

While I’ve left the original proportions below, I adapted this to fit an 18 cm (7 inch) pan, cutting everything in half except the bicarbonate and salt. It took about 50 minutes to bake.

500g rhubarb (these should ideally be even-sized, not too thick stalks; the cake will be prettier if they are more pink than green)
300g caster sugar
150g plain flour
155g fine polenta or cornmeal (I used instant polenta without any problem)
1tsp bicarbonate of soda
¼ tsp salt
2 large eggs
125g unsalted butter, room temperature
1 tsp vanilla extract OR ½ a vanilla pod
250g plain yogurt, either full fat or lowfat
Special equipment: 23cm springform cake tin, greased with butter and base lined

Preheat the oven to 180C. Trim the rhubarb and cut into 1/2cm slices. Macerate in a bowl with 100g of the sugar while preparing the other ingredients. Mix the dry ingredients (flour, cornmeal, bicarb, salt). Place the butter and sugar into a large bowl. With either a wooden spoon or a hand mixer, cream the mixture until light and fluffy. Crack in the eggs one at a time, mixing gently. Add vanilla extract, if using.

Add the dry ingredients and yogurt to the butter-sugar-egg mixture in alternating batches, mixing as little as necessary to combine. If using the vanilla pod, scrape in the seeds. Fold in the rhubarb and any juices that accumulated in the bowl.

Pour into the greased tin and put in preheated oven. Bake for approximately one hour or until the top is springy and a skewer comes out almost clean. You may need to cover the cake after 40 minutes. Let it cool, in the tin, on a wire rack. Due to its high moisture content, the cake should keep well-covered for several days.

* I used to bring bread as well. But the loaves being baked at this local Brixton deli are as good as anything I can buy in Paris.

Riz au Lait (Rice Pudding)

For a nation which stakes such pride in its butter and cheese, the French take a strangely indifferent attitude towards milk. The supermarkets ostensibly offer some choice, but sterilized UHT* milk, stacked in six-pack cartons alongside the bottled water, makes up 95.5% of total consumption, both domestic and commercial. Although long-life milk is cheaper and more readily available than fresh, it’s not marketed as an economy product and is as likely to top-up the coffee served at the chic Cafe Beaubourg as one in the grungy bar next to my apartment.

Nor do the French see milk as a marginal part of their daily diets. While they may have less of a breakfast cereal culture than either Americans or Brits, I would guess that in a great many households a bowl of muesli—or even corn flakes—with milk has overtaken the croissant. In the mornings, at least, a cafe crème (like a cappuccino) or cafe au lait is very popular. And béchamel (white) sauce is a staple ingredient in filled crepes, gratins, and the ubiquitous cheese and ham sandwich, croque monsieur.

Though my one-time status as a skim milk-user probably undermines my credibility, I nonetheless find UHT milk bland and a bit off-putting. But as the only milk available in small quantities, it’s what I usually bring home when the (rare) need arises—usually for hot chocolate. So when I happened to come across not just farm-fresh, but raw, unpasteurised milk, this past weekend, I was excited in principle, but dubious as to whether I’d either be able to finish it or to appreciate it fully. I briefly considered butter-making, but couldn’t justify it as anything more than an experiment. (After all, Bordier, reputedly the best butter in France, is available just down the road.) The same was true of crème fraiche. Cottage cheese was another option, but eating it has always felt like a chore. I eventually settled on rice pudding (riz au lait), something I’ve loved ever since I ate it at a New Jersey diner in the early 80s.

It can be found dressed-up with all sorts of flavourings and toppings, but riz au lait is generally considered to be a homely, grandmotherly sort of dish, one which old-fashioned bistros serve out of a big bowl, sometimes with a bit of jam or compote. I retained tradition by using a vanilla bean, currants and a big bowl—just for me.

Riz au lait (adapted from Cooks’ Illustrated)

The ever-fastidious CI recommends using medium-grain rice, starting the rice cooking in water and then, when it’s mostly absorbed, adding a mixture of cream and milk. I made the pudding with a medium-grain paella rice and started it off in water, but ignored the cream recommendation. The result was just rich and thick enough, and had the extra benefit of not being too sweet. All the better for breakfast.

Total time: 1 hour-1 hour 15 minutes
Active time: just a few minutes, though be nearby for regular stirring
Serves 3-4

½ cup medium grain rice
pinch salt
2 ½ cups whole milk, plus a bit more for reheating
1/3 cup sugar (though they recommended white, I used granulated light brown, the only thing I had)
½ vanilla pod
small handful moist currants or raisins

Bring 1 cup water to boil in large, heavy pot. Stir in rice. Add salt. Cover and simmer over low heat, stirring once or twice until water is almost fully absorbed, 15 to 20 minutes. Add milk, sugar, vanilla and currants. Raise heat to return to a simmer, then reduce to medium-low. Cook uncovered, stirring frequently, until mixture starts to thicken, about 30 minutes. Reduce heat to low and continue to cook, stirring every couple of minutes to prevent sticking and scorching, until a spoon is just able to stand up in the pudding, about 15 minutes longer.


*Ultra high temperature or ultra heat treated

Les Plus Grandes Biscuits du Monde (The Biggest Cookies in the World)

As I pottered in my kitchen this afternoon, cooking, cleaning, and cursing the unfinished corners that always seem to be collecting grime and goo, I thought about two things which my apartment lacks. The first, of course, is a dishwasher. Though a rarity in all but the most elaborate Parisian kitchens, even regular washing-up practice hasn't noticeably impacted my ability to dry glasses well. The second thing missing is neighbours. Sure, there's the Anglo-French couple next door who once watered my plants, and with whom there is sometimes vague talk of getting together for a glass of wine, and the woman upstairs who is formal but friendly when she greets me in the stairwell. But what I'm after are neighbours cum friends--the kind who would eat your leftover baking experiments without thinking you're trying to poison them, who would lend you chairs for a dinner party which had grown beyond 4 people, and who, at least from time to time, would occupy one of those chairs at your table.

One of my favourite aspects of the first two years I spent at Oxford was the sense of being part of a neighbourly community. The Manor was, at least to the outsider, simply a college dorm occupied by 20-somethings, with the same dirty shared kitchens and wine bottles overflowing from the recycling bin. But it was exceptionally convivial--and, I'd like to think, somewhat more sophisticated than its undergraduate counterpart--when it came to preparing and sharing food. Within my extended circle there was a regular tradition of expansive Sunday evening dinners and Tuesday night "tea and cakes," as civilized as the former were often raucous. But whether in search of another mouth to feed, a uncracked wine glass or some washing-up liquid, it was rare that an evening was entirely self-contained or self-sufficient.

The nostalgia wanes somewhat when I remember the constant piles of unwashed dishes, or the frequent migration of food and utensils from kitchen to kitchen. But I do miss the casual interactions around food which were commonplace then and all too rare now. I hope that when I again live full-time in a country where my neighbours and I speak the same language, that there will be more knocks on the door in search of flour and, perhaps ultimately, friendship.

* * *

For the time being, though, I take extreme pleasure in the fact that one of the veterans of "tea and cake"--and an extremely dear friend--has moved just a 25 minute walk from my part-time London home. It's not quite close enough to be officially neighbours, but given that he and his wife were last living some 5,000+ miles away in Delhi, I'm willing to overlook the technicality. When we were invited to see their new place, I also had the opportunity to make a home-made housewarming gift, something I'd been looking foward to doing for years.

The molasses spice cookies I chose to bake, as if aware of the auspiciousness of the occasion, expanded exponentially in the oven. But full of spice and molasses (I used heaping measures of the former and a very flavourful version of the latter), they were very tasty, if comically large. If I'm lucky enough to impose more baked goods on nearby friends such as these, I'll be very lucky indeed.

Molasses-Spice Cookies

Adapted From the Cooks Illustrated Best Recipe Cookbook, via Smitten Kitchen

2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon ground ginger

3/4 teaspoon ground allspice

12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

1/2 cup dark brown sugar, packed (I used molasses sugar)

1/2 cup granulated sugar plus 1/3 cup for rolling cookies (here, I used, at least in part, granulated brown sugar)

1 large egg

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/3 cup unsulphured molasses

Preheat oven to 19o degrees Celsius. Combine flour baking soda, salt and spices. In a separate bowl, beat butter, brown sugar and 1/2 cup granulated sugar until light and fluffy. Add egg, vanilla and molasses. Add dry ingredients in 3 batches, mixing after each addition until just combined. Place remaining 1/3 cup granulated sugar in shallow bowl. Working with 2 tablespoons of dough each time, roll dough into 1 3/4-inch balls, cover each lightly with sugar and place them on ungreased baking sheets spaced 1 1/2 to 2 inches apart.

Bake, reversing position of cookie sheets halfway through baking, until outer edges begin to set and centers are soft and puffy, 11 to 13 minutes. Cool cookies on sheets for 2 to 3 minutes, then transfer to cooling racks.

Rhubarbe Deux Fois (Rhubarb Two Times)

One might think, browsing through the (slim) archives of Les Petit Pois, that I never eat dessert. It's not altogether untrue. Here in Paris, unless I've made a special, cross-town outing to Pierre Herme or a similarly-pedigreed pastry shop, I tend to finish a meal with nothing more than a square or two of good chocolate. In London, the situation is similar, if not more pronounced. Though the city is by no means lacking good cake, it's just not something I make any effort to procure.

More disturbing, though, is that homemade desserts don't feature in my kitchen repertory. Although I long ago realized that I lacked the fine motor skills to have any future as a pastry professional, I nonetheless considered myself to be a baker. The products of my oven would be of the homespun variety--rustic fruit tarts, quick breads and cookies--the stuff, I reckoned, that most people really wanted to eat anyway. I would be the one called on to bring desserts to dinner parties, the one whose experiments would be pounced on in the office break room, and the giver of much-appreciated edible gifts.

The reality has been somewhat different. I can blame it in large part on my landladies, neither of whom saw it as a priority to replace broken ovens. And while this situation forced me to become a master of braising, there is not much except for pudding which can be made without that heated box. I also lacked ready and sizeable audiences. A cheesecake, no matter how good, cannot be consumed by two people. There was one period of frenetic baking, during a brief sojourn at my parents' Washington home. But while at least one occupant of the household eagerly devoured my variations on Jewish bakery classics such as rugelach, hamentaschen and coffee cake, my successes in this area were never repeated.

The truth is that I hadn't--and still haven't--found a focus for my ostensible baking energies. For that reason, today's rhubarb recipes--while both worthwhile to make and to eat--are nothing more than compotes. But while I may not be the most credible authority on this matter, having eaten them plain or with Greek yogurt, believe me when I say that they would be delicious with cake, specifically Claudia Roden's much-copied, never-bettered flourless almond and citrus one. For Nigel's compote, use oranges, for Gordon's, lemons. Let me know how it turns out.

* * *
Forced rhubarb--the thinner, fuschia-hued stalk that appears early in the season--is prettier both to look at and to eat. Some even say it has a more delicate flavour--though I've never been able to tell the difference.

Nigel's Rhubarb

adapted from a recipe in The Guardian
Total time: 30 minutes; Active time: 5 minutes

450g rhubarb
a vanilla pod (optional)
the juice of 2 blood oranges and the zest of 1
3 level tbsp brown sugar

Cut the rhubarb into bite-size lengths and place in a non-reactive saucepan. Scrape in the vanilla seeds, if using, adding the spent pod. Finely grate the orange zest and squeeze the juice into the pan. Measure in the sugar and turn the heat to medium-low. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the rhubarb collapses under the weight of a spoon. Check the sweetness and serve warm or chilled.


Gordon's Rhubarb

adapted from a recipe in The Times
Total time: 45 minutes, including oven pre-heating; Active time: 5 minutes

500g rhubarb
75g brown sugar
1 lemon
Handful of thyme sprigs

Preheat the oven to 200C. Cut the rhubarb into bite-size pieces, first splitting the stalks lengthwise if they are wider than your finger. Place these in an ovenproof dish and top with sugar. Add a few strips of lemon peel, along with a small squeeze of juice, the thyme leaves, cover with foil and place in the oven. Check after 20 minutes, continue to cook if necessary until the rhubarb is tender but not collapsed. Pour out the juices into a small pan and reduce for a few minutes, or until syrupy.