EOA: Equal Opportunity Adulteration-Of a Culinary Sort

And now it's time for a dish that I am aware may elicit the ire of my dear Italian and Mexican friends. My apologies, in advance!

It was another cupboard-cleaning affair of a dinner. These tend to happen during that stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas, when both my budget and my patience for yet more food shopping are stretched thin. I embrace these impromptu meals, rummaging through the crisper to see what is on the verge of going soft and concave and winding forearms deep into the dark depths, precariously between bottles, to snatch up whatever jars and packets of goodness-knows-what that have been knocking around for far too long.

A chicken breast. Fresh tagliatelle. Chipotles in adobo. Whipping cream.
Go.

Chipotle Chicken Tagliatelle

Approx. 300-400g fresh tagliatelle pasta
1/2 medium white onion, sliced
1 tsp. brown sugar
4 Tbs. virgin olive oil
1 boneless, skinless chicken breast
2 cloves garlic, minced
6-8 cherry tomatoes, washed, stemmed and halved
Zest of 1/2 a lemon
4 dashes Worcestershire sauce
2 chipotle peppers in adobo, roughly chopped
6 oz chicken broth
4 oz heavy whipping cream (or single cream, or half-and-half, if feeling more virtuous)
Flat-leaf Italian parsley, to garnish (optional)
Salt and ground black pepper

In an oven-proof skillet, soften the onion on a medium heat in 1 Tbs. of olive oil and season with salt and pepper. When the onions have begun to soften and go a bit translucent, add the brown sugar and caramelise the onion. Once the onions have caramelised (sugar has dissolved, onions are soft and sticky), remove from the pan and set aside.

Chop the chipotle peppers and rub them all over the chicken, using a bit of the jarred adobo as well. Return the skillet to the hob and, in 3 Tbs. of olive oil, brown the chicken breast. Once the chicken is browned (1-2 minutes each side), add the onions back into the pan, along with the garlic, cherry tomatoes, Worcester sauce, and lemon zest. Stir and saute for a minute or so. Then, add just enough chicken stock to deglaze the pan. Cover the skillet with foil and put in a 220-degree C oven for 10-15 minutes, or until the chicken breast is cooked through and its juices run clear when pierced.

Remove the chicken from the pan and slice on a cutting board. Return the skillet to the hob on a low heat and add the cream, stirring continuously with a whisk until a thickened sauce is formed. As the sauce thickens and reduces on a very low simmer, cook the fresh pasta in salted boiling water.

Strain the pasta, reserving a few ounces of the pasta water, and add to sauce. Add a bit of the pasta water if sauce is thicker than desired. Stir through thoroughly and plate pasta, topped with sliced chicken and parsley.

While you're at it, if you happen to have some dulce de lechce cream to get rid of, a little parfait of dark chocolate digestives, chocolate chips, and hazelnuts makes a lovely dessert (though I wouldn't recommend following up the pasta with this straight away!).

Comfort in a Bowl

No, I haven't fallen off the face of the earth; I have not been knocked out by a low-hung gargoyle or the icy slick coating the cobbles. I've just been, well, incommunicado the last couple of months; the means for communication were certainly present--as were my own laziness and a rather hectic schedule. My sincerest apologies to you out there--who are probably no longer bothering to read!--who have been met with Poirot's face for the last three months... I'm tired of his visage, too.

So, here's a too-good-not-to-share adaption of a recipe from the October 1995 issue of Bon Appetit:

Yields 4 generous portions.

3 stalks celery, chopped
1 medium white onion, peeled and chopped
2 carrots, peeled and chopped
Olive oil

2 Tbs. fresh thyme, stripped from stems
1 whole sprig fresh rosemary
1 small bunch sage (4-5 leaves)

2 Tbs red onion jam
Splash of red wine

2 courgettes, chopped and ends removed
1 yellow pepper, seeded and chopped
2 cloves of garlic, whole/peeled
1 medium baking potato, cubed
1/4 cup red lentils (optional)
1 8-oz tin of peeled tomatoes
8-12 oz water
8 oz boiling water with 1 chicken or vegetable stock cube dissolved in it

Salt
Ground black pepper
1 tsp. pul biber or chili flakes

Rinse and chop the vegetables into bite-sized pieces--preferably so that they are all roughly the same size. This is not crucial. I find the best vegetable soups are those that have those escaped, odd bits--they add texture. Sweat the chopped onions, celery, and carrots in a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat in a large pot or dutch oven until they are soft, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon. A bit of salt will help with this. As the mirepoix breaks down and starts to smell scrumptious, throw in the rosemary, 1 Tbs. thyme, sage, and stir. Put a lid on the pot to help the herbs infuse into the vegetables. Leave the pot covered, stirring occasionally, for 2 minutes or so.

Fish out the sprig of rosemary, the sage leaves, and add a splash (half of a wine glass) of red wine. Scrape the bottom of the pot to release any bits that have caramelised and stuck. Now add the red onion jam, courgettes, pepper, garlic cloves, potato, and stir. Add the tin of tomatoes, breaking up the tomatoes with the wooden spoon. Next, add the water and stock and stir through thoroughly. There should be enough liquid to cover all of the other ingredients; add more water if needed. Now is a good time to check seasoning. Add more salt if necessary, add ground black pepper, chili flakes, and if the onion jam was left out, add a pinch of sugar to offset the acidity of the tinned tomatoes. Cover the pot and raise the heat slightly to bring to a boil. When the soup has reached the boil, add the red lentils (optional) and turn down the heat to a vigorous simmer (more of a low boil). Cover the pot and allow the soup to simmer for at least 15 minutes, or until the lentils and potatoes are cooked through and all the vegetables have softened.

When the soup has simmered away and the vegetables have reached the desired softness, tip in the remaining fresh thyme and check the seasoning once more, adding more salt and pepper as needed. Turn off the heat. Using a ladle, transfer 1/3 - 1/2 of the soup to a blender and pulse until smooth (allow the liquid to cool a few minutes in the blender before blending, or keep the steam hole of the blender open, covered with a towel). Try to get the two cloves of garlic included in the portion that is blended--if they manage to remain elusive to your ladle's trawl, that's fine; they'll have gone soft and sweeter having been boiled whole.

Pour the pureed soup back into the pot to join the remainder and stir through.
Serve warm.

David Chang of Momofuku recently quoted the Basque chef Juan Mari Arzak on Lynne Rossetto Kasper's 'The Splendid Table', saying 'You have to look at food through a child's eyes', and on a cold, dark Sunday afternoon, this simple and straightforward soup was comfort in a bowl.

Poireaux Vinaigrette

You say 'Poirot'; I say 'Poireaux' (photo: ITV)

Last week I read this post on Orangette, and the words have been ringing in my ears. Not exactly the words of the blog itself, but those of my meres Francaises. I count myself immeasurably lucky to have had more than one.

The first was Mme. S. As an impressionable sixteen-year-old, I spent an unforgettable and all-too-short week with la Famille S. in the small town of a few thousand people called Arcangues, or Arrangoitze, in the Basque country, near Biarritz. Mme., as far as I could tell, derived immense pleasure from feeding me and watching my facial expressions convey what my limited French could not yet fully express--not that the daily motions of her explaining what we might do that day in her Spanish Basque accent and me staring blankly back, nodding and smiling, utterly clueless, did not have their own charm.

Mme. S. had a lemon tree in the backyard and made a lemon meringue pie the likes of which I continue to dream about and have never tasted since; lunches, of course, were a three-course affair; and dinner proceeded at a similar pace, featuring local terrines, confit de canard with wild honey, Jambon de Bayonne, local dessert wine, and inevitably concluding with me red-faced and totally, utterly content. In one week my waistline ballooned with the vigor of choux pastry.

Years later, when I was to bring my parents and brother to meet la Famille S., we were treated to yet another epic lunch, about which we still often rhapsodize: the savoury final course was what sealed the deal for my parents--local foie gras as silky and rich as one has ever had accompanied by two bottles of a coveted dessert wine, made by a neighbour whose annual production never exceeded more than fifty bottles. And this time I was able to translate the accolades with relative accuracy, though, again, I think our faces and primal noises of delight said more.

My second mere Francaise was Mme. V. I arrived on her doorstep as a twenty-four-year-old having spontaneously landed my first job in Paris and desperate for a place to live. She and Monsieur V. were most gracious and caring. So long as I refrained from cooking anything with onions and garlic--'ils puent'--and did not, under any circumstances, bring a man back to the house, I was invited to be 'chez soi'. Mme. and I would talk about food, religion, politics, art, my alternately expanding and contracting waistline, her hopes for her children, marriage, and everything in between. When I finally gave in and replaced my two morning croissants with a double shot of espresso, she proclaimed after a few months' time that I had become 'une vraie femme Parisienne'. My fondest memories in that house were sitting at the dining table over a tisane of lemon verbena from the garden, warmed from baked endive, and chatting into the night.

Alors, en l'honneur de mes deux familles Francaises, here is my version of poireaux vinaigrette:


1 leek, washed, outer layers removed
(keep the root intact while washing and cut off the tip only when on the baking tray)
20 cherry tomatoes, washed and halved
1 egg
8 Tbs. basic vinaigrette*
Olive oil
White wine vinegar
Salt
Pepper

*1 tsp. Dijon mustard; 2 Tbs. white wine vinegar; 2 Tbs. vegetable oil; 3 Tbs. olive oil; 1 tsp. herbes de provence; salt and pepper to taste

Prepare leek, ensuring to rinse away any dirt and grit. Cut the leek in half, lengthwise, and then cut the root tip of the leek and place on a foil-lined baking tray. Douse in vinaigrette.

This recipe yields leeks that are soft towards the root and crisp and chewy towards the tips; you will need a sharp, serrated knife to tackle the fibrous tips. For an all-around softer texture, blanch the leeks in boiling water for at least two minutes, and then pat dry before roasting.

Toss halved cherry tomatoes in olive oil, salt and pepper, and arrange on the baking tray, ensuring that they're not overcrowded. Place baking tray on an upper rack of the oven whose broiler is preheated to 220C. Cook until you think they are done (at least 15 mins.), and then let them cook a while longer. The leeks will turn like languid sunbathers and respire before going limp. They should be browned and soft. By this time your tomatoes should be roasted as well, but keep them in longer for further caramelisation, if desired.

While the veggies are roasting, boil a pot of water with a dash of white wine vinegar thrown in. When the veg has just five minutes to go, put some sliced ciabatta (drizzled with olive oil, salt and pepper) into a lower rack in the oven. Now poach the egg in the boiling water.

Arrange all components in a shallow bowl, drizzling the egg with a bit of olive oil, the leeks with a bit more vinaigrette, and garnishing with chives (optional). Rub the toasted bread with a raw garlic clove and enjoy!

Wonder Bread

There is a gale outside. Rain is slapping the roof and whistling wind is seeping through my leaky, single-paned Victorian sills.

Apparently, Hurricane Igor is bearing down on Bermuda.

Yet, down in the kitchen, a preheating oven is helping a 7g packet of yeast work magic. That flour, water, sugar, fat, and yeast can create something so basic yet so intricate in structure is, to my mind, rather miraculous.

Baking bread was not a culinary exploit I entered into lightly...or wantonly, for that matter. I found a defeatist attitude was safest. That, combined with some research.

My quest for fool-proof, fail-proof tips brought me to Felicity Cloake's June article in The Guardian. The perennial questions are entertained--to knead or not? If so, how long? How long a proof? What about slamming, pummeling, and all other motions that get the anger out in the name of a light, billowy loaf?

I studiously followed Cloake's tips, spending as much on a small jar of vitamin C tablets as on the entirety of the other necessary ingredients. I crushed the requisite half-tablet with a mortar and pestle, fearing that my curry pastes were to be forever tainted by undertones of orange concentrate. Thankfully, no taste of Tango has come through--not in the curries, nor in the bread.

Repeat trials have yielded consistent, infinitely pleasing loaves of bread. There was a giddy sense of anticlimax that came over me as I stood in front of my first loaf of homemade bread, which was perfectly articulated by my housemate: 'Wow! Did you make that yourself? It looks just like you got it from Marks & Spencer!'

Therefore, with an ounce of new-found confidence and wholemeal at my back, I now come to white bread. For this recipe I used 650g of organic white bread flour and 50g of organic wholemeal, combined with a 7g sachet of yeast, 1 tsp salt, 2 Tbs olive oil, and 1 Tbs honey. 30 minutes at 210 C et voila.

The result was an even crumb, springy texture, nice hollow sound, and a balanced sweetness--decidedly and deliciously un-M&S-like.

Cloake's article opens with a quote from Margaret Costa: 'Beware of making that first loaf'...

So true.

Cold as a Cuke

My colleague, K., has what sounds like an expansive, tantalizing array of vegetables growing in her garden. So, when she offered to offload some of her bounty of homegrown cucumbers, I was not one to refuse.

During these hot spells that we've been enjoying in Oxford, these cukes have been the perfect refreshing component to many dishes. The other day I came upon a particularly good pairing--'Singapore Noodles' and pickled cucumbers. The 'Singapore Noodles' are entre guillemets because this dish was more of a quick, easy exercise in clearing out the remains of the crisper and making a dent in my profusion of condiments than an attempt to follow a recipe. This is a veggie interpretation, but the traditional preparation uses roasted pork and vermicelli noodles.

For the pickled cucumbers:

1 small cucumber, peeled (seeded or unseeded, up to you) and thinly sliced
1 tsp. chili paste (sambal oelek or the like)
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp sugar
3 Tbs. rice wine vinegar

Combine all of the above in a shallow bowl, cover and chill for at least one hour.

My 'Singapore Noodles':
SAUCE
1/2-inch cube of fresh ginger, peeled and finely chopped
1 large clove of garlic, roughly chopped
1 Tbs. chili paste (to taste)
1 Tbs. low sodium soy sauce
3 Tbs. fish sauce (nam pla)
1 Tbs. rice wine vinegar
1 tsp. palm sugar (caster will work, too)

EVERYTHING ELSE
7 oz. (half of one bag) rice noodles (vermicelli or Banh Pho)
1 Tbs. vegetable or peanut oil
2 Tbs. toasted sesame oil
1 egg
2 spring onions, thinly sliced
1 red or yellow, or orange bell pepper, thinly sliced
Coriander, chopped
roasted peanuts (optional)
lime wedges

Success with these kinds of stir-fry noodle dishes depends on having all of your components washed, chopped and ready to go. It's fast cooking in a hot wok, after all, and it only takes a moment of neglect to burn. Prepare the sauce in a bowl in advance as well.

Once all of your veg is prepared, place the rice noodles in a bowl and cover with boiling water. Let the noodles steep until soft and pliable (1-2 mins.), drain, and then toss with 1 Tbs. toasted sesame oil. Heat over a high flame remaining sesame oil and vegetable oil in a wok or other shallow pan that can handle high heat.
Add the spring onion (reserving 1 Tbs. for garnish) and pepper, moving constantly. After 30 seconds, crack the egg (careful of stray shells, etc.) straight in and stir-fry, breaking up the yolk. When fried, add the sauce and toss in noodles and peanuts. Stir-fry a few seconds more, ensuring that everything is coated in sauce. Serve warm in shallow bowls, topped with coriander, reserved spring onions and lime wedges.

The noodles will be tangy, sweet, salty, and as spicy as you like, and the cucumbers are the perfect pairing--light, clean and picked, with just a hint of chili.

Honest Food

There is a deception that occurs throughout the summer months. It happens with those disappointing first bites of what seems by all outward appearances to be a perfectly ripe [insert summer fruit or vegetable here]. Unless one is lucky enough to tick off the entire grocery list at a farmers' market, farm stand(s), or other local supplier, some of those store-bought tomatoes and strawberries are bound to disappoint. Those glistening, red skins hide tasteless, watery, mealy white mush.

Unless one lives in Anamur, Turkey.

Here, bananas--among a plethora of tropical fruits--reign, and it was thanks to this fruit that a brief visit to the coastal town turned out to be so memorable.

Leaving the happy wedding party behind, R. and I boarded a bus from Mersin to Anamur, and after a five-hour, vertiginous journey of hugging sheer cliffs (English hedgerows have nothing on these blind turns), which turned into an eight-hour journey thanks to a flat tire--and which involved me almost being left in the gas station toilet--we arrived at dusk.

Tired and a bit nauseous, we headed for a large fruit stand across the street from the bus station where pile upon pile of bananas were stacked. 'Banana Man' offered us a place to sit at the adjacent cafe and suggested we stay at his friend's hotel in the Iskele [port] district, near the beach. His friend would even come pick us up. Letting down our urban guard of distrust and general code of cynicism, we felt comfortable enough chalking the offer up to genuine, small town hospitality, and agreed.

Within minutes, Hamdi Bey turned up in his car, led us to our basic but charming room, and sent his teenage colleague to accompany us to the best fish restaurant in town, Kap Hotel Restaurant.

We chose a sea bass out of the cooler and ordered calamari and two mezes spreads to top the famous 'pillow bread'. Our fish was promptly grilled to perfection and served with lemon and rocket, along with tomato and cucumber salad. Washed down with a cold Efes and finished with a massive plate of some of the most tasty fruit I've ever consumed, we left contented, to say the least.

(before) (after)

There was nothing extraordinary about this delicious meal; it's not dissimilar to the fish restaurant offerings one would find dotted all along the Mediterranean. The beauty was in the simplicity. The fish had clearly been caught that day, the bread was straight out of the wood oven, and the fruit...well, the fruit tasted as it should--cherries with deep, liquored juice, peaches whose juice ran down chins, and melons that actually tasted of something. I don't like watermelon, but I ate watermelon [karpuz] in Anamur.

Best of all, however, were the bananas. Anamur's is the only climate in Turkey capable of sustaining large-scale banana production, and there are greenhouses as far as the eye can see, nestled below the Toros Mountains. They are smaller than imported varieties, and it is as though the flavour is concentrated in its smaller size. With a firm texture and rich, velvety flesh, what to bring for lunch at the beach was a no-brainer: we feasted on pepinos (tastes like a cross between a cucumber and a melon), sweet and sour cherries, and bananas.

The Anamur Muz [banana] Festival takes place in August, and transport to the area is improving with the opening of the Gazipasa airport, near Alanya.

Kap Hotel Restaurant (İskele Meydani'ndaki; +90 (0)324 814 2374)

Eda Motel (İskele Mahallesi, 24-Turgut Reis Caddesi (Eski iskele yolu) No:14; +90 (0)324 814 6319)

Tantuni-Land

I'm back!

It's been over a month since my last post, and copious and varied foodstuffs have been created and consumed during this silent but scrumptious hiatus.

Most exciting of these culinary adventures was a recent trip to Turkey to witness dear friends, J. and M., tie the knot on a beach in Mersin. A global network of friends and family came together from all over the world--first to Istanbul and then to Mersin-- for the event, and I cannot imagine a more fabulous, curious, ravenous-to-try-anything group ever assembled.

After a beautiful Istanbul fete complete with Bosporus cruise and lots of dancing, we all boarded a plane for the hour-and-a-half flight to Mersin. The day before the big event was free to explore this Mediterranean coastal town, and we hit the ground running in the direction of tantuni.

Allow me to digress a bit. When I worked at an English language immersion camp for two summers towards the end of my undergraduate years, many a night out in Taksim's rooftop clubs and bars ended with a large group of us counselors, both Turkish and yabanci [foreign], crouching on small wooden stools and sloppily devouring one portion of tantuni after another. The dish that we had become familiar with at a tiny establishment of Istiklal Caddesi consisted of a scant amount of sauteed mystery meat, heavily spiced with cumin and pepper, drizzled with lemon, covered in more cumin and parsley, and rolled up in durum [a kind of flat bread]. Friends would always bemoan the distance between Istanbul and Mersin, M.'s (the groom's) hometown, and how much better the true Mersin tantuni is.

So, there we were in the cradle of tantuni, where the mighty, spicy meat wrap was no tipsy fare, but THE main event.

Having consulted our friend H. on where to get the best, we headed to Gokzel Tantuni. Despite initial reservations--prompted by spotting multiple locations (a chain!) through the dolmus window--I was far from disappointed. Couples sat around us, daintily and artfully consuming their durums, which never seemed to drip or fall apart, and sipping frothy mugs of ayran.

Over at our table of six, however, twelve eyes grew wide as plate after plate of tomatoes, green spicy-sweet peppers, really hot, small, green peppers, mint, parsley, lemons (the skins are green here), and red cabbage came and just kept coming--many dusted with sumac or pul biber (red pepper flakes). How was all of this goodness to make it to our mouths? And how quickly could it be done?


Durum wraps were unwrapped to reveal glistening, moist, spiced meat, promptly loaded with all of the above, and raised to mouths, tomato, lemon, and meat juices gushing.

















The spicy meat was delicious and moist, and the secret of tantuni is in the method of cooking. The minced meat is cooked in a conical metal contraption that captures the fat and juices in the center, where the meat to be served is doused and seared with a bit of water.

This video is chatty, but it shows how lightening-fast the cooking method is:



Somehow, after a walk on the seaside boardwalk, we found room for a scoop of ice cream from Balli Baba Dondurma--a more stiff, glutinous ice cream than one might be used to, but delicious--there was everything from almond and honey to pistachio and melon.

It was the perfect ending to a tantuni feast.

Bottega

(photograph: Lucy Harker, Loose Images)

Just when you thought that Oxford's Jericho neighbourhood couldn't get any hipper, a new kid on the block moves in. That new kid is Bottega Food and Wine Bar. Located opposite the Albion Beatnik Bookstore, this small stretch of Walton Street could give Little Clarendon a run for its money. And what is a hipster enclave without a wine bar, anyway?

This bank holiday weekend I found myself there twice. In two days. Clearly, there's a certain magnetism to its exposed walls and floors, which, not more than three weeks ago, wore the tired carpet and wall coverings of Uddins Manzil Indian restaurant.

As I chatted with Chris (co-owner with friend Maurizio) and Max Mason from The Big Bang (Bottega's neighbour), reminiscing about Uddin's slow slide from culinary grace, there were fleeting pangs of guilt for feeling just that happy that Bottega had moved in.

When the owners of Uddins Manzil decided to open for an evening (never any posted hours, and multiple attempts at identifying weekly patterns were futile), they made a decent curry. It was probably reheated from frozen, due to such erratic hours, but if you could push those thoughts to one side, the staff's friendliness and warm atmosphere of the place could go some way in making up for this.

The more I thought about it the more I realised I wasn't tied to the mediocre curry, but more so to the circumstances behind meals shared there. There was the time that myself and two friends collapsed into a booth after spending an hour trying to liberate a pigeon that had flown into my open window one afternoon and, having shat on an essay chapter on Heidegger and the greater part of Virginia Woolf's oeuvre, decided to roost on my bookshelf and refused to move. There was many a birthday dinner had there, and, given the fact that, when open, it was nearly almost empty, Uddins was the go-to spot for an impromptu meal with a large group.

Bottega is still ironing out a few wrinkles--their website is under construction--but word of mouth seems to be all that is necessary to ensure ample traffic on the weekends, and I've no doubt that steady streams of customers will be flowing in and out on weeknights in no time.

The wine list is carefully edited, with just over a dozen reds and whites to choose from, along with a handful of sparkling wines and champagne. Friends and I devoured an Adlestrop cheese with bread and fruity olive oil, along with some wild boar chorizo. The reds I've sampled so far have ranged from a sharper-than-usual Rioja to a wonderful glass from Portugal, and my 4 GBP glass of prosecco was both delicious and more than reasonably priced.

Benvenuto, Bottega!
123 Walton Street

Simple Things

Last night some friends and I decided to brave the Veritas Forum, a Christian organisation begun at Harvard that hosts discussion forums to engage with 'life's hardest questions'.

Needless to say, opposite John Haldane (Professor of philosophy and Director of the Centre for Ethics, Philosophy and Public Affairs at the University of St. Andrews), Christopher Hitchens (Vanity Fair columnist and author of God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything) was on the defensive.

Hitchens's penchant for emotive hyperbole didn't necessarily serve to illuminate one's understanding of deeper, ontological conundrums, but he proved, nonetheless, to be a thoughtful and entertaining opponent of Professor Haldane's argument for religion's presence in the 'public square'.

The discussion veered away from doctrine--a credit to both speakers--and centred on experience and humanist common ground. Which, in turn, left me compelled not by either set of convictions, but, rather, brimming with more questions. Don't worry--I won't be sharing those here!

This is where a vain attempt at seamless transition is made: In the presence of these burly complexities, I find I have, of late, made attempts to simplify some quotidian things, and food did not escape the minimising zeal.

Simple reached sublime last week when the urge to splurge saw me walk into Gluttons on Walton Street and emerge with rosemary 'Lingue', olives, a bottle of prosecco, local cherry tomatoes and fresh basil, and--the piece de resistance--Windrush Valley wild garlic fresh goats' cheese. The tomatoes were chopped and promptly tossed with salt, pepper, olive oil and torn basil; more than one glass of prosecco was poured; and I consumed nearly an entire round of cheese in one sitting. Each element complimented the other, and none of the preparation could really be called cooking.

The rest of the tomatoes and basil then became caprese.

Another recent, memorable weeknight dinner was an interpretation of 'Sake-Steamed Sea Bass with Ginger and Green Onion'. Well, my version ended up being Mirin-Steamed Salmon Ginger and Garlic', but it was no-fuss and delicious. I ate the left-overs cold for lunch, with couscous and a salad.

(an improvised steamer)

I'm not certain out of what this need to simplify came. Perhaps, now that summer is daring to actually unfold in the coming weeks, there's an inclination to eat 'clean', fresh food. Perhaps, when everything else in life seems to refuse order, placing a round, plump orb of fresh cheese, amongst oblong moons of tomatoes and olives, the cosmos becomes clearer.

Money Where Your Mouth Is

A cow in Port Meadow, Oxford

Living in a university town can be a blessing and a curse. It's quite difficult to top Blackwell's bookshop(s); nursing a cup of coffee for three hours is entirely acceptable; loitering is, in fact, condoned, if not encouraged, and I got by with discounts in many a shop and cinema before a disgruntled Bodleian librarian gleefully julienned my reader's card before my eyes. And then there are all those open lectures, art exhibitions, concerts, and 'dreaming spires'...

When it comes to food, however, there can often be a price to pay. It struck me tonight, as I was polishing off the last of my pint of Daylesford Organic vanilla ice cream (I know, dear reader, that you are surely as shocked as I that it hath lasted since my last post!), that I've been having a conversation on loop.

Where has the dining gone? Or, was it ever really there in the first place? I'm not talking Michelin stars, though those are found not too far afield, in fact; Raymond Blanc's Le Manoir Aux Quat'Saisons has held on to two for an admirable 25 years. What one finds in between Le Manoir and an Oxford kebab van is stratified territory of extremes.

You could argue that, at a time when a KFC delight called the 'Double Down' is being test marketed in Nebraska and Rhode Island, it's a rather rich thing to do to complain about the middle-of-the-road food scene in Oxford. Interestingly, the 'Double Down' has been reported to have 1,380 milligrams of sodium, just topping the average caloric content of a kebab from an Oxford van--1,338.

The dining scene in Oxford caters to its dominant demographic--students. And rightly so. Something cheap, and most likely portable, can be had everywhere you turn. From burritos to take-away salads and sandwiches, to Nepalese momo and the ever-present pasty, one's never deprived of choice.

It's when you want to dine out that the gastronomic landscape shrinks to just a handful of independently-owned staples. As a student, the question always arose: 'where can I get my parents to take me while they're in town?' The answer was usually Gee's, part of a group of local hotels and restaurants, which serves seasonal British fare in a converted glass conservatory. The food is consistent, the quality good, and the ambiance enjoyable, but after a few dining experiences, it gets old.

A friend, completing his master's, and his fifth year at the University, was pondering this very question last week, and the group of us sat around our pints at the King's Arms frustratingly at a loss. Sure, there's Edamame, Al Andalus, Pierre Victoire, and Branca, but each poses either an impossible queue or menus that aren't particularly inventive or changing. Max Mason's The Big Bang comes closest in terms of representing the best in Oxfordshire and Berkshire produce. All ingredients sourced from small, independent suppliers within a 20-mile radius of Oxford. But, then again, the menu is limited to sausage and mash, and while it can't be beat on a lazy Sunday afternoon, there's no starched linen, nor sense of occasion, in its understated dining room.

If only this ethical, green, local sourcing could be given an haute cuisine boost.

Max Mason and The Big Bang have definitely achieved standing in the affordable niche, and that is precisely what that restaurant aimed to do. The Independent chose it as the third-best place to eat in Britain for under 50 GBP. A gaping hole exists in the Oxford market, however, for a fine dining experience that celebrates the bounty of local produce.

For the time being, I suppose I shall have to be content eating vicariously through Prue Leith, as she judges yet another round of Great British Menu chefs!

When a Craving Takes Flight

Recent weeks have been peppered with a sense of longing. I'm not sure that 'nostalgia' is the term I'm looking for because that implies a lingering sentimentality, whereas these moments were fleeting-acute but not weighty enough to bring out the Linus security blanket and a pint of Ben & Jerry's. Though I DID recently purchase some Dalesford Organic vanilla to try...

One food memory in particular came to the fore on Friday afternoon. I wanted buffalo chicken, and I wanted it bad.

In the town where I went to college, there was a pub called Wendell's. They were famous for their wings, and the small operation supplied myself and friends many much-needed pitchers of beer and bowls of wings towards the time our theses came due. Wendell's was the kind of place where locals grudgingly shared the greasy air with the 'gown' crowd; the fact that a website for the place is even in existence is a bid odd. However, their wing reputation clearly precedes their 'Two fryolaters, one grill, and only one cook'.

A quick search for the 'ultimate' buffalo recipe led me to the Anchor Bar's recipe, arguably the 'original'. The next major hurdle was to track down some Frank's Hot Sauce in Oxford. After posting a desperate message on Facebook, the sauce was sourced from Waitrose--just a short bus journey away--and I was determined to make these wings.

At just 1.75 GBP for a package of two dozen chicken wings, I decided to splurge and get some tenders as well. After discovering chipotle paste in stock, how could I not?

I stuck as close as possible to this variation on Anchor Bar's recipe; I lightly oiled the wings, tossed them in flour and baked at 425, turning over once, for about 40 mins. I followed the sauce recipe as closely as possible, too, though I had to substitute chili powder for cayenne and fresh garlic for garlic powder. A toss in the sauce and there they were--in their spicy, vinegary glory. Nothing beats that singe-your-nostril-hair acidity cut with tangy heat. Having oven baked them with just two Tbs. of vegetable oil, and having used half-fat bleu cheese dressing, I felt almost guilt-free about all that crispy chicken skin.

For the tenders, I coated them in 1 Tbs. of oil, 1 Tbs. of Frank's, and 2 Tbs. of chipotle paste, followed by a quick egg wash and, finally, a coating of breadcrumbs and baked them in a similar manner.

I'm thinking these will be great throughout the week in wraps and salads.

'Fancy' Tuna Salad. Tower optional.

So, this post was supposed to be about tuna and avocado. Instead, as you can clearly see, it's just about tuna. I sliced open my lonely avocado that I had patiently let ripen past the baseball stage--a rookie error in the UK, I soon found out--and found it riddled with fat brown veins.

I suppose one lives, one learns, and one gets over the fact that avocados here will never be as good as in the ones in the States.

I digress. Imagine gem-like pieces of avocado among the tomato, ok?

In high school, my French host mother in Biarritz often served me half and avocado with its cavity filled to the brim with tuna and mustardy mayonnaise. I'm sure the mayonnaise was homemade, and I shudder to think how little I appreciated it then. I have only recently warmed to it (I know, I know...), and I still can't stand it in its unadulterated form; chuck it in artichoke dip, with mountains of garlic in aioli, or pair it with ample ketchup and mustard for dipping with fries, and I'm very content to eat it.

As for this tuna salad, I was trying to keep things light, so I used a low-fat creamy salad dressing. Really, any vinaigrette or dressing would work. Mirin, rice wine vinegar and sesame oil could be good, as well. What I found really made this good was the minced coriander, chili, and yellow pepper. Along with some lime juice and a dash of Worcestershire sauce, it was refreshing and clean tasting, rather than overly creamy or heavy.

I can't lie; I missed the avocado, but mixed together with the tomato and served with some wholegrain pumpkin seed crispbread, it was dinner. Not so bad for cleaning out the cupboards on a Monday night.

Faux Pho Fantastic

Any Londoner who's wandered downtrodden, bleary-eyed, and laden with shopping bags away from the 'Oxford Street Tide' up Great Titchfield Street knows that Pho is not far away. That deliciously sloppy, utterly comforting, hot, spicy, fragrant Vietnamese noodle dish is a warm salve from the inside out after a weary afternoon of damage in Selfridges.

The enormous steaming bowls are accompanied by heaps of crunchy bean sprouts, Thai/holy basil, mint, lime, bird's eye chilis, and variety of sauces ranging from sweet to hot-sweet to bitter-hot. And there's always extra fish sauce on hand.

Pho--pronunced 'fuh'--very likely comes from the French word 'feu', as an appropriation of the French dish pot-au-feu. Pho bac, or pho from northern Vietnam, is more straightforward in its flavours and reflects the origins of the dish, which are thought to be near Hanoi. When French colonists began slaughtering cows for meat, pot-au-feu, the beef, and the word stuck. Pho bac broth is clear and clean, less layered than its tarted up bedfellow of the South--pho nam--and many purists consider it to be the true pho.

Being the wanton glutton that I am, I tend to steer towards the pho nam for its deep, rich broth. While reading up a bit on pho, I was struck by the extent to which the dish represents so completely the history of Vietnam--from its colonial past to the eating habits and histories of North and South. It's no surprise that it's considered somewhat of a national dish. Historically, the South has been spared the food shortages suffered in the North, and the sheer amount of fresh condiments served with pho nam attests to this fact. The growing number of pho restaurants in the US (particularly on the coasts) and Canada (especially around Vancouver) naturally reflects the influx of Vietnamese refugees to these regions some forty years ago. Pho in London is one of the first places I've encountered in the UK to get pho, and I've no doubt that its popularity will only grow. When is someone going to come out with the iPho application for the UK?

Last Tuesday I was desperate for a quick soup, and as Pho was so far far away, I decided to try my hand at a faux feu. Before dashing out the door to a pilates class, I set beef broth on a low simmer and threw in smashed garlic cloves, an inch-long cube of ginger, some lemongrass (beaten and cut into chunks), a red birdseye chili, roughly chopped, and a glug of soy and a glug of fish sauce and let it go for an hour or so. I left the lid ajar, and when I came back the broth had reduced slightly, the house smelled wonderful, and all that was left to do was throw in some thinly sliced red peppers, some pork and shrimp wontons, some rice noodles, one more fresh chili for a good kick, and top with green onions and coriander. I like mine on the hot side, so I added some sambal oelek, along with more nam pla (fish sauce).

Bliss.

The wontons were decidedly unconventional, but they were also so comforting and rich, having cooked through in the broth. After dumping in whatever you wish to add, it's best to let the whole lot simmer for a minute or two, until the vegetables are just slightly softened and the broth has absorbed into or cooked the protein. Tofu would be wonderful here, too...along with the kitchen sink.

So, not exactly pho bac, nor pho nam. It was absolutely faux pho, but for a weeknight meal that is warming from the gut, it hit the spot.

And the leftover ingredients made for excellent peanut noodles!

Edinburgh on My Mind

Where to begin? No, I haven't thrown in the towel. Just yet. It's been a whirlwind of a past few months with a jaunt to Scotland, trips to London, and lots of work in between.

Along the way, there has been food, however. Oh, has there been food!

Itchy feet caught up with me in February, and being whisked away to Edinburgh for a stay at The Balmoral Hotel was all that the Rocco Forte destination promised and more. I don't think I've slept as soundly as I did in those three nights than in three months together.

An afternoon spa package came with a complimentary light lunch at Hadrian's Brasserie. A goat's cheese tart and braised beef with cabbage and potato gratin must have been miles away, however, from the Michelin starred Number One restaurant, just a hop across the hotel lobby. The beef had not reached the melt-in-your-mouth state that any properly braised bit of protein should, and the tart--probably constructed twelve hours earlier--tasted like it.




No harm done--I was off to the spa! Emerging 3 hours later as a new woman, dinner brought us to The Outsider, where my most memorable meal of the trip was had. There is nothing like Scottish wild salmon. One thinks one has had salmon before, and Copper River fillets are certainly up there with the rest, but this salmon was otherworldly.

Dressed in a light, creamy roasted red pepper sauce and served on a bed of wilted spinach and fennel, all of the earthy, charred flavours heightened, rather than detracted from, the delicate fish. Accompanied by garlic shoestring frites, we were happy customers.

I think Scottish hospitality has something to do with it as well. Every server, doorman, sales person, and clerk was helpful, charming, and...well...just nice. Also, the men at the Missoni Hotel, dressed in Missoni kilts, were not hard on the eyes, either. This, enhanced, I think, by the delightfully deadly Vespa martini I had at the bar.

Other highlights, gastronomically speaking, were a bresaola, rocket, and Parmesan salad at too-cool-for-school CentoTre and a glorious 28-day aged Aberdeen beef fillet with bernaise at the more starched-collared Tempus, both on George Street.






Topped off, of course, with sticky toffee pudding!





Edinburgh was like a bigger-dare I say it?-better Oxford. For student life, Oxbridge is the place--a veritable playground of Colleges to choose from, each one offering a more packed social schedule than the next. But what about life after the Ivory Tower?

A recent incident involving a Bodleian librarian julienning my old reader's card with a scissors really drove home the fact that that chapter has ended, as much as it smarts to admit it. Doors, metaphorical or otherwise, tend to slam behind one when living in a university town sans programme of study, and it's time to look steadily onwards. And the view from the castle was breathtaking.

Aussie Aussie Aussie! Et du vin aussi

D's Australia Day Pavlova

Yes, it is that time of year when those of us not lucky enough to have been born in a country or a hemisphere where the average annual temperature rarely dips below 'balmy' take part in celebrating with those who have.

Yes, it was Australia Day on Tuesday 26 January!

Commemorating the arrival in Sydney Cove of the First Fleet of the British Navy in 1788, this rather controversial public holiday is typically rung in on the beach with copious amounts of beer and barbecue.

Here in Blighty, however, being in the dead of January chill, we celebrated with our Aussie, D., huddled in warm kitchen where we devoured a pavlova to end all pavlovas... The meringue was perfection--firm, dry and crunchy on the outside with a tacky centre layer--topped with cream and a bounty of fruit. It was neither heavy nor too sweet, but was light, pillowy, and fresh. We all asked for seconds.

Prior to this celebration on the 26th itself, we found ourselves at a wine tasting of Australian and New Zealand wines sponsored by the St Antony's College Wine Tasting Society--commonly known as the Antonian Wine Tasting Society.

Our host--let's call her Janine--was a bubbly Social Secretary who apparently hadn't eaten much preceding the tasting. As the evening progressed, her introductions to the wines became ever more abbreviated as her eyes ravenously scanned the plates of cheese and crackers dotting the tables. D. made the point that, perhaps, slabs of Sainsbury's Own Mature Cheddar and Brie, unceremoniously slid from plastic and plopped onto plates, may not have been the best choice of accompaniments for maintaining an untainted palette.

In any case, Janine held it together quite well, and we ignored the lactic slick on our tongues as she led us through a flight of six wines:

1. Saint Clair: Pioneer Block, #6 'Oh Block'
2009 Sauvingnon Blanc
Marlborough, NZ
14.99 GBP

This wine was reminiscent of a Sancerre and had bold citrus flavours of passion fruit and black current. Its acid would counter any creamy poultry or seafood dish. Spaghetti alle vongole or clam chowder, anyone?

2. Tarra Warra Estate, 'Tin Cows'
2004 Chardonnay
Yarra Valley, Australia
9.99 GBP

Not one to choose Chardonnay even when the best varietals are on offer,
I hesitated with this one. We all have experienced
those horrible Chardonnays from California and Australia
too many times. Thankfully, we were all pleasantly surprised.
More mineral than fruity, buttery with subtle notes--
none of that smacked-in-the-jowl-with-an-oak plank woodiness.

3. Schild Estate
2006 Riesling
Barossa Valley, Australia
10.99 GBP

This Riesling was much drier than any of us anticipated, which was nice. A very balanced, all-around sturdy Riesling.

4. Rabbit Ranch
2008 Pinot Noir
Central Otago, NZ
16.99 GBP

Central Otago's location along the 45th parallel ensures the slow ripening of this wine, whose grape requires such gentle coaxing. Rabbit Ranch says it's made in a 'very soft, fruit-forward, low tannin style', and that's precisely what it was.

5. Redbank, 'Fighting Flat'

2006 Shiraz
King Valley, Australia
10.95 GBP

This wine could have seen a few more years in the cellar, as the winery's website suggests 5-7 years. It might have developed a bit more as the red fruit and cedar-y notes were blunt.

6. Grant Burge 'Holy Trinity'
2003 Grenache-Mouvedre-Shiraz
Barossa Valley, Australia
19.95 GBP

50 % Grenache, 33 % Mouvedre and 17 % Shiraz
Full and up-front fruit and spice that would be great with
red meat or an arrabiata sauce.

AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE! OYE OYE OYE!