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!