Rosbif and Frog's Legs

Olá!

2010-07-05T14:13:00.000-07:00

Well, they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. After a long hiatus involving writing a thesis on homesickness in immigrant communities, springtime pantomimes, waving a tearful adieu to Paris, and transporting my batterie de cuisine back across the channel in a 3-wheeled removals van, Rosbif and Frog’s Legs has packed a case full of summer frocks and is summering in Lisbon.

Ah, to be a tourist in a new city! Two blissful weeks have been whiled away drinking Sagres by the sea, climbing the Seven Hills, slipping on eroded cobblestones and being driven to despair by vuvuzelas. As the old diktat goes: Fado, fátima e futebol. In the street, the scent of the sea mingles with that of sardines smoking on rusty grills, and weathered-faced men sit on doorsteps and drink themselves into a silent stupor in the midday heat. Come night time, the men are starting to sway, and now the scent of the sea does nothing to mask the nauseating stench of a thousand sardine skeletons rotting in black binliners. Sleep is further hindered by the constant flow of hysterical wails and yelps coming from the fado bar downstairs. I always did prefer Spanish soleas.
Lack of sleep is a small price to pay, though, for a new larder. Gone are the piping bags and pastel colours (for the month of July, at least). Cooking in Portugal is cooking with balls. And lungs, spleen, tripe, and all the other typical markers of a national cuisine bred from a history of poverty. Indeed, Portugal remains the poorest country in Western Europe. And Lisbon, though surely the most cosmopolitan city in the country, still has a cuisine with its roots in the countryside. At the market, headless chickens are strung up next to fluffy bunnies with bloody noses. Beaming, wrinkled old women proffer up bruised peaches; flies swarm around a single crate of shockingly rotten figs. This is not Paris. Pas du tout.

What does gleam though, as much as any Cartier shopfront, is the fish. Hundreds of glass eyes stare up from gleaming piles of silver; tentacles dribble ozone slime down the legs of any passer-by. Barnacle-encrusted crabs die slowly, sadly blowing bubbles while waiting to be boiled alive. There are sacks of clams, cockles and tiny snails, and sheets of bacalhau – dried salt cod – are arranged by price and quality.

On the way home, a couple who must surely be in their eighties are camped out in the square. He is wearing a scuffed cap that reads “Força Portugal” (even though Cristiano and his team were sent packing from South Africa several days ago), she is all in black. The gimicky cap aside, this could be a scene from any of the past twenty decades. A sign at their feet reads: “Mangerição – para o amor”. Basil - for love.

As achingly, viscerally, romantically Latin as all this may seem, nothing can get away from the fact that sweating profusely in the bone-dry 41-degree heat of the day (barely abating at night); change after change of damp clothes; putrid rubbish bags; howling fadistas and - worst of all - raucously, selfishly merry American teenagers on a European “culture” holiday, sap the appetite like nothing else.
Drippingly ripe peaches, fish stiff from the sea, melons with their stalks on, pasteís de Belém…and all I want to eat is ice cubes.

Parisians

2010-03-22T03:14:00.000-07:00

(picture from blog Tongue in Cheek: Stories collected while living in France - http://willows95988.typepad.com/)

The other day, my friend India told me that the best way to sum up Parisians is "that they don't say thank you when you hold the door for them". She's right, generally they don't.

But living in amongst them for a few months, you learn to take the gruff with the smooth. All city dwellers have their own idiosyncracies, the habits and foibles that make us what we are, determined by nationality, culture, language, and countless other factors. Similarly, there are several very universal traits and behavioural patterns which unite us all; observe any population of any city at rush hour and you'll realise that fundamentally, in our darkest hour, we're all cut from the same cloth.

I personally belive that the difference comes down to a question of generosity. Madrileños share their food, Romans share their beds, Berliners their beer. Londoners are all-accepting and unshockable and Athenians, well, their outlook is sunny by default. But Parisians have no such reputation. Tell your friends you're off to Paris for the weekend and you'll immediately be met with sneering disdain: "Great city, big tower. Shame about the French." Even when you're not a tourist it is true that, at times, the Parisians can be the very definition of hostile; sulkily knocking back bad coffee, cantankerously pushing and shoving their way onto the metro, strutting aloof down the rue de Rivoli, allowing their pint-sized pooches to foul every inch of treacherous pavement, and even queue-jumping.

That said, when it comes to anything food-related, Parisians can become a very jolly bunch indeed. And although they might not be as lyrically and grinningly exuberant as we might like, the act of producing and distributing such an awe-inducing amount of delectable food does, in itself, indicate generosity. They want you to taste their bread, made to the same recipe, in this very same bakery that was built with the blood of the bourgeoisie over 200 years ago. They incite you to marvel at their jewel-like pâtisserie, your nose pressed against the glass, seduced by the impossible beauty of it all.

Parisians might not like to share their metro car, their street or even their city with you, but you're always welcome to stay for tea. Just not for very long.

Stohrer (51 rue Montorgueil, near les Halles)

One of the oldest and most famous bakeries in Paris, a major destination on any food pilgrimage. Don't leave without trying the Baba au Rhum - it is said to have been invented here. http://www.stohrer.com/

Pierre Hermé (72 rue Bonaparte, near St. Sulpice)

Pure wow-factor sugar-based creations, expensive but then so is everything here. Try the wackiest, most unrecognisable thing on display; the good kind of surprise. http://www.pierreherme.com/

L'As du Falafel (34 rue des Rosiers, le Marais)

The best falafel in Paris, bar none. Eat in, or better still take the huge pitta and wander around the neighbouring Jewish bakeries to see what you'll have after. Not that you'll have room.

Ladurée (throughout Paris, but the one at la Madeleine is surrounded by other fantastic food shops such as Fauchon and Hédiard)

A bit of a gimmick now, but it has to be done, push through the queues and go upstairs into the salon du thé for a special tea and a few macarons.

Berthillon (29-31 rue Saint-Louis-en L'Ile, Ile Saint Louis)

The finest ice cream in Paris, as you'll notice from the constant queue.

G. Detou (58 rue Tiquetonne, near Les Halles_

This area, in the 2nd arrondissement, is locally known as "the stomach of Paris". And for good reason. This shop (G. Detou is a play on words meaning "I have everything") is foodie mecca, selling every possible ingredient imaginable (and more besides), namely for baking. The quantities and prices resemble wholesale, so this is the place to stock up. Unmissable. Walk around this area afterwards to find incredible cookware shops, countless cafés, fishmongers, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers and of course, Stohrer (see above). Suddenly the Eiffel Tower becomes less enticing.

Blood in the Snow

2010-02-11T09:18:00.000-08:00

On the way home, I am drawn into the covered market, bustling and at full capacity although it's only half past nine on a very cold morning. As I duck into the entrance, I notice a few tiny snowflakes have fallen onto my shoulders.

Inside, the stalls groan with produce that glistens and glows. The scent of fresh bread wafts through the crowds and mingles with salty oysters and the heady perfume of freesias and narcissi. Wandering from stall to stall - handsome cuts of meat, glowing orbs of citrus fruit, freshly pressed apple juice, fifty different kinds of olives and twice as many cheeses - I am surrounded by the comforting, transporting hum of market chatter.

Women "d'un certain age" question stallholders over the freshness of their goods, raising their eyebrows over prices, splitting hairs. A man spends an age choosing three avocados: one for today, one for tomorrow and one for the next day, gently squeezing each one for a different degree of ripeness. Fishmongers hurl jokes at each other over the clatter of shells, and small groups of men stand smoking, huddled over tiny coffees, nudging and winking.

Suddenly I am distracted from this sensory smörgåsbord by one small stall, tucked away in the corner. Lemons, limes, some fine lemongrass and perky herbs and then, piled majestically high, the treasure I have been waiting for all year; February's finest reward. Blood oranges. They are stunning, orange swirled and speckled with crimson; Arabian sunsets. I can barely steal myself from clapping my hands with glee, and rush forward to buy as many as I can carry. When it's blood orange season, I can't resist bringing bagfuls home to put in bowls around the house; aside from their beauty, they make the best, hot-pink juice, intense sorbet and alluring cakes, and they bring much-needed bright smiles and sunshine to the dreariest month of the year.

Stepping out, laden with heavy bags, I stop still. Everything is white. Within fifteen minutes, what started as a few tiny sequins of snow has become a glittering blanket over the whole town, with snow still falling softly. The striking contrast of atmosphere and especially colour is surprisingly poignant; at once sad and achingly romantic. Blood-speckled oranges; pure white snow.

Social Security

2010-02-05T06:31:00.000-08:00

The French have many, many strengths. They make the best bread and the prettiest cakes; have perfected insouciance; and ostensibly have even made infidelity acceptable - with Monsieur le Président leading by example. France is the land of the paradox: meals are rich and abundant whilst waistlines are anything but; there are rules and laws for everything but most are fervently ignored; and although the French love paperwork like nothing else, they don't seem to know quite what to do with it.

Don't expect to get anything official done quickly here. The Holy Grail is the dossier, a weighty portfolio of personal information, and a requirement for most daily tasks. Equipped with this, indefatigable persistence and skin as thick as a rhinoceros, you are ready to take on French administration.

Nowhere is a steely resolve more vital than at Sécurité Sociale, the organisation responsible for health insurance. The system here is incomparable to the NHS, being more similar to the American arrangement whereby people have to pay up-front for any medical care, before being reimbursed by the 'sécu'. This providing that you have survived the process of joing this organisation (a term I use loosely) without a succesful suicide attempt; you see, it can be rather soul-destroying.

First, you have to skip along with your dossier, sit in line for a few hours, and explain your intentions to a disinterested receptionist. No matter how fluent your French, you will undoubtedly be asked to repeat yourself several times. Then, perhaps, you will be transferred into the hands of a dedicated officer, for whom you will need to wait a good hour at least. Staring vacantly at the neon number - the like one finds at a supermarket deli counter - it is amazing how your resolve can slip away.

Assuming you make it into the office, have the patience to repeat yourself another few times, and have a steady enough hand to fill in the relevant forms, your dossier will be checked. And provided you've paid your 50 euros to have your birth certificate translated, have photocopied everything you own, and have included the name of your mother's first pet in this personal directory, they might just shake your hand and begin the process of immatriculation.

Trudging home, any sense of triumphance is hard to muster, the fact of the matter being that none of your tenacity, charm and graciousness will pay off for at least six weeks: if you get ill before that, consider homeopathy.

Spanish Roast Chicken with Almonds and Paprika Potatoes

2010-01-08T13:50:00.000-08:00

Few things beat a roast chicken, it is the epitome of homeliness. It is a bear-hug at the front door; it is your washing done for you; it's second helpings and early nights. With the punchy flavours of Spain, though, it becomes just a bit racier. I serve it with paprika roast potatoes and a kind of piperade - melted down red peppers, onions and garlic with some sherry vinegar. Olé!

a free-range (preferably organic) chicken

chorizo - the cooking variety, sliced relatively thinly

butter

salt and pepper

half a lemon

Season the inside of the bird and put the lemon in the cavity. Then gently free the skin from the breast with you fingers, taking care not to tear the skin. Push the slices of chorizo and some butter inside so that the breast is covered in a single layer of chorizo under the skin. Season well with salt and pepper and drizzle with a tiny bit of oil.

big roasting potatoes, cut into chunks

salt and pepper

olive oil

paprika

garlic cloves, whole, squashed

whole blanched almonds, halved

Pile these ingredients together, and put into an oiled roasting tray. Nestle the chicken in the middle and put into a 200c oven for about an hour - skewer the thickest part (the thigh) and the jucies should run clear when it's ready. Let it rest under some foil for about 15-20 minutes.

Tear great hunks off the chicken and serve (not forgetting the oysters underneath and some crispy, salty skin) with the roast potatoes and the roasting juices drizzled over.

Rose and violet macarons

2010-01-08T06:57:00.000-08:00

Vietnamese prawn cakes

2010-01-08T06:06:00.000-08:00

These are fabulous. There is something very satifying about fried food; here, the way the crisp outside gives way to succulent prawn is divine, especially with spiky Thai flavours. A superb new year's slap around the mouth. The dipping sauce and cucumber salad are indispensible.

Crossing continents, the best possible thing to drink with this is a well-made (eg. very sour and very strong and perilously drinkable) caipirinha: chopped up whole lime muddled with sugar syrup, cachaça - or white rum if you don't have cachaça - and a lot of crushed ice.

raw, peeled prawns

ginger - finely chopped

garlic - finely chopped

bird's eye or other hot chilli - finely chopped

spring onions - chopped

coriander stalks - finely chopped

lemongrass - finely chopped

salt and pepper

Pulse this mixture together in a food processor; if it's too liquid, add a little bit of flour or cornflour. Let it rest in the fridge while you make the dipping sauce:

tamarind paste (a little bit) - if not add more lime juice

rice wine vinegar

sugar

some of the finely chopped chilli and ginger and some spring onion tops (the green bit)

fish sauce (nam pla or nuoc mam depending on whether it's Thai or Vietnamese)

a splash of water

Mix this all together to taste; you want a balance of salty, sweet, hot and sour. Use a vegetable peeler to shave thin strips off a section of cucumber, add it to some shredded spring onion and dress with a bit more rice vinegar and salt. Set this aside too.

Fry spoonfuls of the prawn mixture in about a 1/2 cm of oil until crisp and golden brown on one side, then flip them over and do the other side. Don't overcrowd the pan - make four or so and keep them warm on kitchen paper in the oven whilst you do the rest.

Even better, though, is to eat them as you go, with a friend, in front of the hob - dunking the hot cakes in that spiky sauce with a bit of crunchy salty cucumber after a bit of fiddly chopping and preparing makes for an incredibly satisfying mouthful indeed. Seriously good.

Two ways with duck

2009-12-13T11:19:00.000-08:00

Hot and sour duck salad with a passionfruit dressing

Please, please try this recipe. It came to me in a flash of inspiration earlier today, standing in front of a very handsome duck breast. Although in winter what is most welcome is food as a duvet; rich, creamy, hearty food to bolster us through the frosty days and nights, sometimes we need some respite in the form of something light, hot and zingy.This salad has it all - it satifies the winter carnivore's carnal need for red flesh, and it delivers the inimitable smack in the mouth of South-East Asian cooking, while the honey and passionfruit make it just a bit more elegant and special. I urge you to try it.

1 duck breast, fat on

Mixed interesting leaves

shredded crunchy veg - whatever is to hand; I used mangetout

an avocado, sliced

a fat red chilli, deseeded and finely sliced (or less of a smaller, fiery one)

fresh ginger, in matchsticks

the juice of a lime

dark soy sauce

honey

one passionfruit, seeds and all

Mix the chilli, ginger, lime juice, soy, honey and passionfruit juice together to make a sharp dressing. There needs to be a balance of hot, sour, salty and sweet. Heat a frying pan with only a tiny bit of oil, so it's hot. Score the duck fat in a criss-cross pattern and put the breast fat side down in the pan. Leave for 5 minutes, or until the fat is crisp and golden. Turn the breast over and cook for just a couple more minutes - or more if you don't, unlike me, like your duck rare.

Meanwhile, combine all the salad ingredients in a bowl. Take the duck out of the pan and rest for five minutes or so, while you dress the salad, reserving a little bit of the dressing. Slice the duck breast quite thinly, then arrange over the salad on a plate. Drizzle over the rest of the dressing and dive in.

Spiced seared duck with aubergine, pomegranates and sumac

This is perhaps even better than the previous duck recipe. Stunning Middle Eastern flavours and colours make this so fabulous, and even quite Christmassy. If you haven't already fallen in love with food from this part of the world, try this; you'll soon be seduced. There might seem like a lot of ingredients, but there is very little effort; besides, the point is to evoke the sights, scents and tastes of the souks and bazaars, like belly dancers shimmying across your tastebuds.

duck breast, fat on and scored in a criss-cross pattern

aubergine, halved and sliced thinly lengthways

cumin seeds

salt and pepper

olive oil

lemon

chicory

a pomegranate

spring onions, sliced

tomato, seeded and diced

half a chilli, deseeded and finely chopped

flat parsley

bulghur wheat (cracked wheat - like big couscous)

chicken stock

pomegranate molasses

honey

olive oil

lemon

salt and pepper

sumac - this is a red spice (actually a crushed berry) found at most good supermarkets and all spice shops, and gives a sour, lemony flavour. It is fabulous but lemon alone will do if you can't get it.

Lay the strips of aubergine out in a single layer on a baking tray, and drizzle with oil, a bit of honey and lemon, salt and pepper and a few cumin seeds. Grill until lightly burnished and softened, then turn and do the other side. Take out and let cool.

To the bulghur wheat, add enough hot stock to cover by a centimetre. Put on the heat - without stirring - for a couple of minutes, then take off the heat, cover and leave to let the bulghur soak up the stock. When it has fluffed up and is soft but still with a nubbly texture, it's ready. Set aside.

Put the spring onions, chilli and tomato into a bowl along with most of the parsley - chopped stalks and all - and the seeds of half the pomegranate. To get the seeds out easily, cut it in half across the middle and, holding one half cut side down over the bowl, tap it hard with a wooden spon or similar implement. The seeds and juice will shower down leaving you with the pith, which is bitter and not good to eat - pick any out that has fallen into the bowl. Shred up the aubergine - which will be divinely smoky - and add that too. Pick leaves of chicory and pile them in as well.

Make a dressing to taste out of the pomegranate molasses (which you can buy at any supermarket now and is fabulous, with a sweet-sour flavour - just brushed over meat before grilling is amazing), oil, lemon juice, honey and salt and pepper. Add to the salad, and what you have is a version of a Turkish Spoon Salad, sort of like a Middle Eastern salsa.

Sear the duck in a hot pan, tipping off most of the fat that comes out of it. PLEASE don't throw it away - keep it for roast potatoes or suchlike. Turn when the skin is browned and crisp, and cook for as long as you like - I like mine rare so I give it about 5 minutes. Take it out of the pan and rest it for a few minutes, while to fluff up the bulghur, stir some parsley through it and check the seasoning, then serve everything together, tipping the resting juices from the duck back over the sliced meat. Sprinkle over a good pinch of sumac, scatter with more pomegranate jewels and and drift off to the Casbah.

Roast Beef and Frogs' Legs

2009-11-25T13:11:00.000-08:00

France has forever been viewed as the world's centre of gastronomy. Boasting more Michelin-starred restaurants than anywhere else in the world, this is the country that wrote the rulebook for the food we admire today, and it is the country to which any ambitious chef comes to cut his culinary teeth. It is a nation full of gourmands, self-appointed experts on everything from fine wine and artisan cheeses to the perfect baguette. Everyone, it seems, has an opinion; indeed, go to any market, epicerie, boulangerie or boucherie and you willl soon find yourself caught up in an often-heated food-related debate. In short, the French take their food seriously.

What they do not take seriously, however, is our food. In fact, it is openly derided as being utterly inferior to its counterpart across the channel. Among the reasons for this is - as is often the case - a great lack of understanding, as to what British food actually is. Equally to blame, though, is a rather narrow-minded attachment to old stereotypes; disparaging quips about how all Britain has to offer is dry roast beef and Mother's Pride.

However, lift the cloche and you'll soon discover the full extent of the misconception. Investigate a bit, and it soon becomes apparent that British cooking is fast producing some of the most diverse, innovative and rapidly developing food in the world. And the British public has just as quickly become completely obsessed by it all. Not only do we view TV cooks and food writers as glittering celebrities and national treasures, who get prime-time slots every night of the week, but also we suddenly really care about what we are eating. Everywhere we care to turn our trolley we are confronted by issues of provenance, sustainability, food-miles, the ecosystem. We demand organic, free-range, Fairtrade.

France may have old Proust with his dry madeleine, but we have the voluptuous, smokin' hot Nigella who gazes all come-hither into our eyes whilst licking a spoon; the adorably pukka Jamie who we all watched grow up, Hugh who campaigns for the humble chicken, and Gordon F***ing Ramsey.

France may well be a nation sated on sauces, satisfied on soup and stuffed on shellfish. But Britain is the birthplace of the foodie, and we are all still very, very hungry.

24 Carat

2009-11-15T10:41:00.000-08:00

And so it was that I found myself, late on a Saturday night, leaning over a baking tray with a paintbrush in my hand, lovingly gilding a new batch of macarons with edible paint. These ones would have Cleopatra weeping in her catacomb, gleaming and sparkling and outrageously opulent as they are. One forgets sometimes that this is just a biscuit.

The macaron shells were made as the usual recipe (previous post), but with some freshly, finely grated cinnamon added in.

The ganache filling is, it has to be said, deeply, deeply good. Sensuous and unctuous and mellifluously, dulcifluously delicious, it is worth making even if you don't have the inclination to fiddle about with piping bags making macarons. It is suitably autumnal, and would work well in most other puddings - especially ones scented with vanilla and cinnamon.

Spiced pear and chocolate ganache:

ripe pear, finely cubed

cinnamon stick

vanilla sugar/demerara sugar and a little bit of good vanilla EXTRACT (by no means "essence")

good dark chocolate - I used Willie's 100% Cacao because it's incredibly good, but feel free to go for something less hardcore

cold unsalted butter

Over a low heat, melt down the pear with the spices and sugar to make a compote. Grate in the chocolate, stir until melted in, and taste - the first flavour should be chocolate, followed by the pear and spices. Off the heat, beat in a knob of cold butter, which will make the mixture shiny. Allow to cool and then refrigerate if you want it thicker - though know that this is best warm, wrapped up in freshly made crepes with vanilla ice cream. Autumn bliss.

Building a Nest

2009-11-11T07:13:00.000-08:00

Winter has announced its arrival. There is a frostiness in the air and a crackle underfoot. This is when things gets cosy. We bring out our winter clothes, unfolding wool and cashmere, cleaning boots, buying a new hat that probably doesn't suit us and that will, come March, be relegated to the back of the wardrobe and forgotten about. The heating gets turned on. The shop windows gleam brazenly with Christmas decorations, and the trees are ablaze with gold and bronze. At night, everything twinkles.

The cold, or the change in light, makes us giddy, pushing us into party mood. At what other time of the year would it be acceptable to dress up as ghosts and ghouls and slutty vampire nurses, handing out sweets and bits of plastic tat to children who knock at our door all evening? Or to stuff two pairs of tights with newspaper to make a grotesque Guy to fling gleefully on a big fire and watch burn whilst stickily pecking at floury apples covered in toffee? It's mid-November and all most of us want to do is deck the halls and fill the cupboards. This is the time for nest-building.

Our food shopping also changes. We start to write long shopping lists. I buy dry goods in abundance and take great pleasure in filling the kitchen shelves with heavy packets of rice, couscous, pasta, pulses and industrial quantities of flour and sugar. The house is constantly filled with the smell of baking; plates of cakes and pastries adorn every surface and everything in the kitchen is covered in a blizzard of icing sugar. There is a cauldron of wine and spices mulling on the back-hob at all times. On the table is a bowl of huge rubied pomegranates and a crate of clementines, their leaves still attached. They look beautiful. At the weekend, there will be shellfish, oysters probably, at their sea-salty best right now. These luxuries are what make this time of year so intoxicating, along with the romance that comes with snuggling up in blankets, lighting candles and drinking warm things when it's cold and dark outside.

So get the shopping in, fill the pantry, make a nest. And revel in this time because, before you know it, Christmas will be gone and drizzly, grey February will be looming. Joy to the world!

Sublime coffee macarons

2009-11-02T15:35:00.000-08:00

Forget tiramisu; these are perfect in every way. Serve them after dinner or with afternoon coffee for total perfection.

For about 15 macarons (when sandwiched):

Preheat the oven to 170C

120g icing sugar

60g ground almonds

5g good instant coffee granules

5g good cocoa powder

- all whizzed together in a food processor and passed though a sieve into a big bowl

60g egg whites (about 2 eggs whites)

40g caster sugar

- beaten together with electric beaters until firm and shiny - stiff peaks - but not dry

Fold the egg white into the dry mixture in three goes, to obtain a thoroughly mixed (BUT NOT OVERMIXED) "molten-lava" texture (see Macarons:an addiction post below for full description). Spoon into a piping bag and pipe small discs a few centimetres apart on baking sheets lined with Bake-O-Glide or baking parchment.

Rap the sheets firmly against the work surface to pop any air bubbles in the macarons, and leave for 15 minutes for a "skin" to form - you can barely see it but it stops the macaron shell from cracking in the oven. They should look like this:

Bake for about 8 minutes so that little frilly "feet" have formed at the base of the macarons and, when gently lifted (after being out of the oven a couple of minutes), the macarons come off the parchment leaving no sticky residue behind, with a flat base.

Whilst they are cooling, make the buttercream filling. Prepare a strong espresso (fresh, "real" coffee this time not instant) and allow it to cool. Cream together 2 parts icing sugar - about 100g - to 1 part butter (softened, unsalted), and when firm, add two tablespoons of espresso. Chill for a bit if it's too soft.

Pipe a blob onto one flat side of a macaron and sandwich it together with another (the same shape if your circles, like mine, aren't all uniform).

Serve on the side of a good espresso.

The man who waits for trains

2009-11-01T06:07:00.000-08:00

Early evening on a freezing train station platform in Derbyshire. It's 5pm and dark already, and the asphalt surface is glittering in the cold.
The only thing that stops rural train stations - the kind without shopping malls, conveyor-belts of sushi and champagne bars - from being the most interminably dull places on earth is the shared anticipation hanging in the air. We are all waiting for something and, if we're lucky, for someone.
We crane our necks every few seconds waiting eagerly for the first sign of the train which, upon stopping, delivers our loved ones; friends from faraway shires, lovers laden with flowers or just a twinkle in their eye, a daughter returning home from Paris for half-term, all to be met with yelps of delight and bear-hugs and sloppy kisses and even tears. And if not, then there's someone who is waiting for us at the other end of the journey.

Tonight, I am early, and as I sit shivering and people-watching, I begin to notice a man standing on the edge of the platform. He is fabulously unkempt, with wild wiry hair and beard whirling around him like a storm cloud, scruffy hiking clothes and a deeply unfashionable pair of sensible Karrimor walking boots and matching rucksack. He definitely has the air of waiting for something, but in a distinctively passive way. Not like the flubbery, oafish blokes you see at chippies on a Friday night, glaring hypnotised at Mr. Wong or whichever poor soul has undertaken to provide grease and carbs to the gormless yobs, snatching it away to flood with cheap vinegar and eat carelessly on the pavement outside.

Several trains come and go, and yet grandpa is still there, leant against a pillar and staring vaguely towards the oncoming trains. Another huge juggernaut pulls in and unloads and, which a pneumatic sigh, lurches out of the station again. I turn again to the man and I get it. In his hand is a notepad, and he's near enough for me to see the perfectly neat rows of data, painstakingly copied in best handwriting onto the lined paper. The care he has taken in noting down the trains, their names and the time of their arrival into this random, dingy station in the middle of nowhere suddenly fills me with sadness which surges in my chest in great waves. Quite aside from the ridiculously depressing nature of his pastime, it is his loneliness that physically aches; he has been here for at least an hour and there is nobody to wait for, no excitable grandchildren to spoil with Werther's Originals (for that is, of course, what grandads do), no ladyfriend in a studiedly chosen twinset.
It is Friday evening and he should be ensconced in an armchair before a fire and maybe a roast chicken, a bustling wife, generations of family, even a Jack Russell or a little white Westie. Instead, he is shivering on icy tarmac in synthetic fabrics, arthritic fingers clutching a biro, staring into the darkness.

Next time, when you jump off the train into the arms of your lover, flushed at the prospect of a steamy night after time apart, of intimacy and whispers under the duvet, of being held and being loved, of cuddles in the kitchen and milky tea in bed, spare a thought for the trainspotter. Flash him your warmest smile: he'll need it.

Macarons: an addiction

2009-10-27T09:30:00.000-07:00

The French macaron is the jewel in the beret of pâtisserie française. Wander past any bakery and they're there glittering up at you, row upon row of tiny almond biscuits of every imaginable colour and flavour; hot fuschia against acid green, delicate violet beside deep chocolate. Pistache, cassis, rose, orange-flower, praline, vanilla, lavender, passionfruit, marrons glacés, jasmine, lemon, coffee, lily of the valley, licquorice...

A macaron is a chic Parisian woman in edible form. Dainty, frilly, seductive but with a hard outer shell. Expensive. And very often completely unattainable, which is why very few people make them at home. The best place to buy them is probably Ladurée, which has several elegant salons du thé dotted around Paris, and a far less elegant, clunkier caff on the ground floor of Harrods which still charges a good £15 for eggs Benedict but comes without an essential garnish of "je ne sais quoi." Give the chi-chi tea room with its crappy (and very French) service a miss in London, but if you're feeling frivolous do go for a pick'n'mix box of beautiful macarons. They make sublime gifts (a man coming home with a box of these is guaranteed some serious oh la la-action), and the sumptuous eau de nil and rose boxes look more like they contain frothy French knickers than petit fours.

However, if you are inclined towards a spot of baking or fancy trying something new, macarons can be made at home fairly easily, meaning that you can turn out these stunning jewels in any flavour and colour, at any time, for any occasion. And believe me, you will. Macaron-making can turn into something of an obsession.

When I finally cracked the recipe, I was hooked good and proper, turning out batch after batch every week in order to get my fix. I bought industrial-size bags of ground almonds and icing sugar and turned the kitchen into my very own mac-den; with baking trays and piping bags and silicone paper strewn across every surface. I got my rocks off to rosewater, my kicks out of food colouring, cheap thrills from chocolate ganache. I became the Mad Hatter of macaroons. Nights were filled with kaleidoscope reveries of rainbow colours and sugar trips. I would awake in the night delirious, raving wildly about peanut butter and lavender sugar. Relatives and friends started to worry; there were talks of an intervention. Something had to give.

A year on, and I've learnt to put things into perspective. I now usually make macarons only once a week, maybe twice. One has to think of priorities. But occasionally, just sometimes, when I wander unwittingly past a particularly gleaming pâtisserie window, I can't help but stop and press my nose to the glass, fixed like Golum to the ring. It's best to take it one day at a time.

This is the easiest recipe you'll find, with no sugar thermometers, powdered egg white or tears in sight. You are guaranteed perfect macarons if you follow it correctly; as usual, pastry recipes are pretty precise. It is taken from Ottolenghi's book, which is hugely worth seeking out in itself.

Try them just once and you'll understand.

Basic method:

120g icing sugar

60g ground almonds

60g egg whites (usually 2 large free-range egg whites)

40g caster sugar

Set the oven to 160C. Cover two flat baking trays with baking (non-stick) paper. Prepare a piping bag with a 1cm nozzle.

In a food processor, whizz up the almonds and icing sugar, then sieve them together into a bowl so you have a fine powder.

In another, GREASE-FREE bowl, beat the egg whites with electric beaters until foamy, then add the caster sugar a bit at a time until you have a stiff, but not too dry, meringue.

Take a third of the meringue and, with a metal spoon, fold it into the almond mixture, quickly and as lightly as possible. Repeat with the other two thirds, making sure not to knock the air out of the mixture - quick, light folding - it's all in the wrist. Want you want to end up with is a molten lava consistency (what else indeed?), so that when you part the mixture with your spoon it flows back together in a couple of seconds.

Spoon into the piping bag and pipe small discs of about 3cmc, each a few cms apart from each other, by keeping the nozzle still and squeezing the bag so that a small circle forms. Whe you have done a sheet, pick up the tray and tap the base quite hard against the work surface to pop any air bubbles. Leave to rest for 15 minutes, then bake for about 6-8 minutes. What you should end up with is disks witha domed surface, a little frill ("feet") around the base and a flat bottom, as below.

These ones - chocolate - had 12g of cocoa powder added to the almond mixture (take away 10g of ground almonds to compensate), made just the same way. As far as how they should look, these ones are the Holy Grail. Chocolate are usually more popular than any others too. In the same way, you can flavour the dry mix with anything you like - a bit of cinnamon, coffee powder, ground cardamom, lime or lemon zest.....just nothing wet. If you wanted to use something like rosewater or orange-flower water, or a flavoured syrup, to flavour the macs, add it to the meringue before incorporating, with any food colouring. Just as little extra liquid as possible!

Where flavours are concerned, though, go wild.

Sandwich them together with buttercream or a chocolate ganache (cream and chocolate). Eat them and weep.

Chocolate, peach and lavender:

2009-10-27T09:11:00.000-07:00

Londoners

2009-10-26T18:36:00.000-07:00

There is something about London. It is a city which, more than any other I know, champions the Individual.

But we're all just one big in-crowd. Yes, we're split into tribes, divided as we are by cash, culture and postcodes: the Camden Kids; the Sloanes; the too-cool-for-school Hoxton homies; the Stoners, the Skaters and the Player-haters; the City Boys and the mummy's boys; the Bohos and the Bobos and the complete-and-utter no-nos; the "I'm Not A Plastic Bag"s (Hindmarch not Primark, natch) at the farmers' markets; the Yummy Mummies; the Topshop Princesses teetering absurdly in this season's bondage-style shooboot; the Goths clomping miserably around in God-knows-what season's bondage-style f**k-you-boot. Not to mention the other 50 per cent of Londoners hailing, by origin or ethnicity, from every possible corner of the globe.

We are quick to dismiss country bumpkins and green, blinking-eyed alien invaders of our big bad city. Yes, poor fool, you may very well be aware that there is a McDonalds within suitcase-wheeling distance of Big Ben, the Eye, Buck Palace and Madame Tussauds, but have you heard of Brick Lane? A mile of curry houses, Bengali-cheek-by-Pakistani-jowl, rounded up by the best Jewish bagels and baked cheesecake you could dream up? Chew on that one. Or what about the sprawling corner of Hackney boasting the best pho this side of Hanoi; a Chinatown with more Peking duck than you could shake a chopstick at; and a whole haremload of Arab joints up around the Edgeware Road? Nope, didn't think so.

Between us we speak in a thousand different tongues, but no language is more universal and uniting than that of a Londoner's tut-tut-tutting, teeth-grinding, snorting irritation at outsiders in our tube stations. Wide Americans with bumbags and baseball caps; skinny-jeaned fourteen year-olds from the Yorkshire Nowheres on their way to an indie concert, gulping like goldfish at their first taste of freedom in the hot, airless tunnels of subterranea; greasy Italians in shiny trainers, thick hoardes of Japanese. Kindly step out of our way, we seeth. We don't want you here.

Oh, don't get us wrong. We love foreigners. London is the world's shrine to multiculturalism, didn't you know? We have among us Eritreans, Tongans, Bolivians, even a few Welsh. A Londoner can have a Lancashire accent or be a practising Rastafarian, he can fast at Ramadan or feast at Diwali. We have many disguises, but look around the sea of humans at Holborn station at around 5.30pm and you'll spot us. Resigned exasperation is the trademark look of the Londoner.

Train Station

2009-10-26T17:33:00.000-07:00

The coffee tastes of boiled semi-skimmed and yesterday's ashtray. Far from a pick-me-up, it becomes just another pointless thing to carry; a grown-up's drink in a baby's beaker. Absorbed in anticlimax and mildly angry as I somehow always am when there is no one waiting at Eurostar arrivals with a a great big grin - it is a journey which, I feel, merits some sort of romance - I trudge red and harassed through the vast station, past grungy backpackers, babbling tribes of Japanese teenagers, and big girls with wobbling bottoms resplendent in tight, shiny leggings. The sort of girls whose fake tan makes their hairline resemble a Lanzarote beach at low tide. The sort with hair extensions and, Lord help us, Ugg boots. English girls.

Up ahead, some sort of absurdly grinning air-hostess is standing in front of a lurid stall, gormlessly shoving a tray of tiny bottles in front of innocent passers-by. As I traipse past, she jabs one at me, baring her teeth like some maniac hyena. The red mist descends further.

'Yakult?!' she leers.

God, no.
Why on earth would anyone actually go to the trouble and expense of bottling a substance which so closely resembles semen with added Splenda? Who, pray, would actually pay to be faced with the "spit or swallow" dilemma every morning? Dear me, no. Save yourself the cash and make your boyfriend's week. I really can't imagine your "millions of friendly bacteria" would hold it against you.

I recoil and scowl at the Yakult-harpy. She cowers, and for a long moment I bask in the precious, precious look on her face. The mist is lifting.

So typical: in France you might be accosted with generous chunks of warm, chewy pain artisanal or a glistening, majestic wedge of apricot tart by a stout Frenchman, his flour-dusted apron straining hard to contain belly and bonhomie. In England, we're force-fed bodily fluids masquerading as health foods. And, being British, we gushingly, joyously accept this gruesome sludge because, well, who doesn't love a freebie? It's enough to make one scurry back under the channel faster than you can say Sarkozy.

2009-10-26T17:31:00.000-07:00

Crab

2009-10-26T17:28:00.000-07:00

My hands are really too messy to write. I had a whole crab for tea, smashed over the plate and accompanied in the best way possible by some good bread and a wedged-up lemon. I sat there, in blissful solitude, for a good hour-and-a-half, poking the meat out of the nooks and crannies with a chopstick.

Earlier today, after buying the crab, and being duly propositioned by the fishmonger selling said crab (vive la France!), I got on the bus home. Halfway there, I am brought back down to earth from ipod-induced reverie by something brushing hard against my shin. Then a hard pinch. I let out a shriek and nearly fall out of my seat. Everyone is staring now. Suddenly realising what has happened, I peer down at my shopping. The angry little crustacean, frantically grasping at any last hope of life, has clawed its way through the reinforced carrier bag and is now frantically grasping at my jean leg instead.I prise the pincer apart and stuff it back into the bag, which I then hold up for my audience. "C'est un torteau" I tell my fellow passengers.

A few smile, one or two chuckle; matronly housewives simply nod knowingly at what is obviously a perfectly normal post-poissonerie scene in this country. I imagine the same scene back in England, and now I'm the one chuckling.

Hilarious, indeed, to think you'd get a live crab so easily in England.