A Day of Two Markets

I love markets. There is something about the sensory overload and the gamut of sights, smells, and tastes therein that has centripetal force, calling me away from named streets and that morning's agenda into labyrinthine alleys and aisles from which I will inevitably emerge hours later, arms laden with original finds enough to feed an army.














A couple of weeks ago, fellow course mate L.--a self-professed foodie and art lover--and I set out for a visit to Borough Market before catching the 'Futurism' show at the TATE Modern. Before leaving Oxford, however, one stop was necessary...

You see, it happened to be Thursday, and on this particular third Thursday of the month it was 'doughnut day'. Pippin Doughnuts should have had a mention in my dissertation, a special word of acknowledgment for getting me through the tough weeks and giving me something to truly look forward to every first and third Thursday. The intellectual breakthroughs attributable to simultaneous sugar and caffeine rushes from a large coffee from Combibos coffee shop and a package of two...or three...Pippin Doughnuts cannot be underestimated.

The doughnuts are fried at dawn and brought to the Gloucester Green market brimming with homemade fillings that include vanilla bean custard, lemon curd, rhubarb, raspberry jam, and chocolate cream.

These fillings may sound ordinary, but in this case it is a question of getting one or two ingredients so perfectly right in texture and unadulterated flavour that one comes away convinced that no lemon curd will ever taste as good as that particular, unctuous blob nestled in a feather-light fried dough.

The recent debut of an apricot preserve filling was a revelation. Not since my weekly croissant aux amandes et abricot from La Fougasse had I tasted such apricot-y bliss. Feeling more iced than filled that morning, I snapped up an iced ginger (candied ginger, ginger glaze, cinnamon dough) and a cinnamon/brown sugar bear claw and we were off to London.

Our first stop was Brindisa, the Spanish provisions shop and jamoneria. Chorizo sizzled awaiting white rolls for take-away sandwiches, and we sampled jamon from acorn-fed pigs.










Next, we were off to the vendors along Stoney Street, where we tasted cheeses, pastries, and drooled over meringues.






By the time we'd made our way through half of the market, we were not exactly in want of food for lunch--the generosity of the vendors combined with our loquacious curiosity meant that we'd consumed our fair share of tasty bits.


But then we spotted La Tua Pasta.

L. had spent a semester in Italy recently, where she picked up irregular Italian verbs with their objects, pronouns, and prepositions with the same sort of ease that one might collect dust. We sauntered over, and as L. got to chatting up the owners of the stall, I was busy eyeing prepared portions of squid ink tagliolini, ravioli with cheese, mushroom, and meat fillings, and tortelloni stuffed with artichoke hearts.















Needless to say, our stomachs found it in them to grumble just enough to not let us walk away without a portion of fresh pasta, which they quickly boiled in small colanders and served with a choice of red sauce or pesto. The pesto was the real deal, made with imported Genovese basil.

The red sauce just looked too good at that moment, though, so I opted for that atop ravioli with ricotta and spinach. Mmmm.

I couldn't help but think how different the market experience would have been for the Londoner of the 17th and 18th century, when congestion on the London Bridge leading to Borough High Street left pedestrians clinging to parapets or falling in the river to avoid being run over by overburdened carts passing in and out of the Borough of Southwark.

In a letter addressed to the members of Parliament, Nicholas Hawksmoor (1661-1736) outlined the shortcomings of London Bridge to be considered in the planning of what would become Westminster Bridge:

'That the Bredth of it was formerly sufficient for all Manner of Carriages and Passengers, appears from hence, that a Tilt and Tournament were held on it in the year 1395; which plainly shews, it was free from Houses for upwards of 200 Years; and how it came at last to be embarrassed, or by what means that Nusance of Building upon it has been conniv'd at, is surprising; for to erect a Bridge for a safe and open Passage, and afterwards to streighten and incommode that Passage with Houses, so as to make it difficult for two Carriages to pass by one another, without endangering the Lives of Foot-passengers, or driving them into those very Houses for their Security, must be very absurd, in that it perverts and destroys the principal Benefits that can accrue from a Bridge: And, indeed, it is wonderful how those Buildings do subsist; for the Houses standing upon the extream Parts of the Pier-heads, the one half on the Bridge, and the other half hanging over in the Air, must certainly make the Backs of the Piers suffer much by that unequal Pressure; and as for the Appearance of those Houses on either side of the Bridge, it is so disagreeable, that it exposes the Skill of the Projectors, and sinks their Taste down to the lowest Barbarity'.*



*(Nicholas Hawksmoor, A short historical account of London-bridge; with a proposition for a new stone-bridge at Westminster. In a letter to the...members of Parliament for the city and liberty of Westminster. London, 1736. The Making of the Modern World. Gale 2009. Gale, Cengage Learning. University of Oxford. 23 Aug 2009. Gale Document Number: U3600725967)

Carbonara & Bolognese...Sort Of

This post is a follow-up thought on how to make the most of leftover sauces—something that I found myself doing in the past days as dissertation word counts gathered in the psyche like stony, spring thunderheads.

It turns out that the creamy mustard sauce that we used for the haddock yielded far more than we were able to slather on the fish. So, having taken care not to touch the raw flesh with the spoon while applying the sauce, there was plenty left to be used in…something. Inspiration struck when D. had a chicken breast and bacon, et voila: creamy chicken pasta.

Well, actually, to be fair, it ended up as simply creamy pasta with leftover fish—a kind of mustardy, bastard cousin of carbonara. Both of us stood dumbly before the chicken breast in its Ziplock bag, clueless as to how long, exactly, it had been sitting in the darker depths of the communal kitchen’s refrigerator. Our senses told us ‘go on’, but a little voice inside whispering ‘you’ll be sorry—explain this one later to your supervisor’ got the better of us.

We started by rendering the streaky bacon, and here is a wee aside on bacon:

British bacon comes from the back of the pig (hence the distinguishing term ‘back bacon’), whereas American bacon is cut from the belly of the pig. The higher fat content of the belly meat is what gives American bacon (what the Brits call ‘streaky bacon’) its marbled goodness that allows it to crisp up to that delectable, crunchy texture. While both varieties are usually salt cured, American bacon is often smoked, elevating that crispy goodness to piggy nirvana. I suppose my loyalties here are less than veiled…but back to this pasta.

I removed excess fat and browned the bacon.

I then thinned out our leftover sauce with half-fat milk. This both cut the mustard (its harshness, that is. Oh, who doesn’t love a pun?) and created a proper cream sauce.

We then threw in some fresh tomatoes and red capsicum (bell pepper) with the bacon, added the sauce, and tossed with linguine. Yum! I have no doubt this would be good with chicken as well.

Another successful experiment involved a pasta bake sans pasta. Earlier in the week I’d made a simple Bolognese with onion, garlic, herbs, passata, tomato paste, crushed tomatoes and ground beef. Feeling like something lighter than pasta, I decided to improvise.


I had cherry tomatoes, an aubergine, a courgette, baby portabella mushrooms, and yellow capsicum. Thus, with the addition of mozzarella cheese, became the no-pasta bake (not to be confused with no-bake pasta).

I sliced, salted, let stand, and rinsed the aubergine; I cut the courgette into long slices (the long way, as with the aubergine), and chopped the cherry tomatoes and mushrooms in half. Using plenty of olive oil, garlic, and salt and pepper, I sautéed the aubergine until browned on both sides, followed by the courgette, and, finally, the mushrooms. I threw the cherry tomatoes in with the leftover sauce.

Then, it was traditional construction of layered lasagne (minus the béchamel and pasta). The thin-sliced sections of aubergine and courgette acted like pasta, however, soaking up the tomato juices while flavouring the whole dish. While not exactly ‘light’ in the end, the vegetables were tender and delicious, and it saved the Bolognese from going to waste.