boiled beef and carrots

Two Pasta Dishes

2008-03-09T11:05:00.003Z

I should go to Moen's more often. I suspect the reasons I don't is my bank balance and my chronic inability to resist foodie goodies. God has clearly written me off as an atheist as if he didn't want to lead me into temptation then he'd never have let me walk passed this fabulous shop two or three times a week. I am, as they say, like a kid in a sweet shop.

I did well, though, yesterday, escaping having bought what I went in for and nothing else. The sausages were huge, an inch or more thick and a foot in length. Deep purple-red and smelling sweetly of fennel they were just what I wanted for supper. Rigatoni con pomodoro e salsiccia is a wonderful dish, a more exciting version of Spag Bol with a fancy-dan name and several layers of extra flavour. It's basically just a ragu but using those brilliant sausages split open and broken up rather than boring old mince. Slow cooked with wine and tomatoes until thick, dry and concentrated, before being enriched with cream and nutmeg, it makes a deeply comforting meal and a little goes a long way. Those four oversized sausages would have fed six hungry people.

The inspiration had come from a Friday visit to Jen's local Italian in Hammersmith and a chance to eat their parpadelle al lepre - thick, wide pasta ribbons with a sweet, gamey hare sauce. One of the great things about this place is the chance to eat a classic Italian dish that you have read about but never tried. Last time, it was a classic osso buco with risotto milanese, this time the hare. The sausage was loose and wet, like a sloppy gravy, and flavoured well by the humble carrot. It's soft sweetness adding to the meaty hare. It reminded Jen of the veal breast and carrots we ate in Paris the day after the wedding last year. A case of the soffrito becoming the star. Boiled beef and carrots may be great, slow cooked hare and carrots with silky, expertly made homemade pasta might just be even better.

Moules Mariniere

2008-03-08T16:12:00.006Z

I like authenticity. Some dishes should be scared. For lunch I decided to cook Moules Mariniere, and reached for the French cooking bible, Larousse, to see what its - and therefore the definitive - rules are.

I'm in luck, the book's recipe largely agrees with my own thoughts: no cream but lots of butter, shallots to start, parsley to finish and an all important reduction of the sauce after you have lifted the open mussels out.

We disagreed on one thing, though. Garlic. Larousse says no. I say yes. Definitely yes. I reach for a couple of juicy cloves and bash them on the board.

As I said, I still like authenticity, just not as much as I like garlic.

When the moon hits the sky...

2008-03-02T19:16:00.005Z

...like a big pizza pie, That's Amore.

I adore pizza. For a bread obsessive who is more than a little partial to tomatoes and cheese, it is damn near perfect food. My obsession is relatively recent though; the pizza of my childhood was either the cardboard monstrosities made by the awful Deep Pan Pizza Company or my mother's well meaning but misguided efforts that consisted of a tray of bready wholemeal base topped with cheddar and green peppers. It probably came out of a Crank's vegetarian recipe book, which should tell you all you need to know. Any passing Neapolitan would have been mortified by the sight it. But hey, there weren't many passing Neapolitans in 1980s Worcester. The nearest we came was the multi-coloured ice cream Dad would serve up for dessert.

I'm not sure when I realised that pizza was one of the Greatest Things Ever but now I relish it with the sort of fervour only a convert can muster. I can sense the pilgrimage to Naples getting closer all the time. In the meantime we have two very good, unpretentious pizzeries nearby. Lavender Hill's Donna Margarita and Earlsfield's La Pernella. For what it is worth, the great Dan Lepard eats at the former and rates it as London's best.

Friday night found us in La Pernella, we turned up at 10 half-expecting a polite what-time-do-you-call-this but instead were welcomed like the family's fifth cousins twice-removed. Red wine, bruschetta, antipasti and a sensational half-metre pizza came to £34. We left happy with the bells ringing ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling, as we sang 'Vita Bella'...

Rhubarb

2008-02-18T20:06:00.003Z

I ate some raspberries yesterday. Five or six of them balanced on top of the most exquisite galette-style biscuit that was smeared with an intensely vanillary creme patissiere. A dark chocolate web of ganache on top of the berries was literally the icing on the cake. The amazing thing was not how good the whole thing tasted together - the cakes at Clapham's Macaron are always wonderful - but how tasty those framboises were. So juicy and flavourful and ripe. Heaven knows where they got them at this time of year. They were the exact opposite of the hard, tasteless berries than spoil those Valentine's desserts.

What's that got to do with rhubarb? Well, normally February is when the red fruit lover can normally first get a fix. A hint that the fruit desert of winter will go eventually and the wild larder will be filled with juicy red flavours again. Only it comes in the form of thin sticks of light deprived forced rhubarb. Snap one and sniff. It's all strawberry, raspberry and citrus, like a young, simple red Burgundy from Marsannay or Fixin. The aromas seem to have nothing in common with the bendy stalks or the yellowing leaves. There's just too much zest and life in that smell.

The rhubarb cost a fortune (when will I learn not to shop at the greengrocer's in Primrose Hill?) but stewed gently to a pulp with some orange juice and ginger, it will lift the spirits at breakfast this week. Stirred into some creamy yoghurt or just plain in a bowl, jolting the senses awake with its tart conversation.

If Food be the Food of Love

2008-02-15T15:45:00.002Z

My old friend Sarah’s Dad used to own a bistro in Sheffield way back in time, before he discovered absentee-landlordism and a love of skiing. On his first Valentine’s Day as a restaurateur, he spent most of the day sawing four-tops in half and cobbling together table legs to double the number of tables in the restaurant. And therein lies the problem with Valentine’s Day, it is an opportunity for the restaurant trade (not to mention florists, chocolatiers, greeting card manufacturers and God know’s who else) to profit from your tender feelings. Money might not be able to buy you love, but it can certainly buy you some garish commercial trinkets instead.

Having cooked my share of Valentine’s Night meals in restaurants – a staple diet of oysters, , sea bass (for the ladies), steak (for the gents) and rock-hard out of season strawberries – I know better than trying to eat out on February 14th. If the overpriced set menu doesn’t bore you to tears, the couple in the window with the psychopathic loathing for each other will at least ensure the night is memorable. When I was in the kitchen, our main amusement would come from trying to convince one of the Commis Chefs to hide a ring in some unsuspecting bastard’s girlfriend's dessert.

So what did we eat last night? A late dinner of orcchiette pasta with some early season purple sprouting and a healthy dose of garlic, chilli and anchovy alongside a half-bottle of Bisol’s unimpeachable Crede Prosecco. A simple dinner for two in the peace and quiet of our own kitchen. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

In Praise of Gastropubs

2008-02-11T19:49:00.000Z

My first ever catering job was in a pub kitchen exactly ten years ago in 1998. But it was anything but Gastro. Scottish and Newcastle owned it and the only thing we had to cook were omelettes. Everything else was pre-portioned and frozen, or came in a dreaded oversized catering pack. I lived off Curly Fries and Garlic Mayo Sandwiches for the summer and learnt more about industrial cleaning products than I did about cooking. Not so happy days.

Recently I'd been lulled into thinking that things had changed. On Saturday, it all came flooding back. Driving back to London with the folks, we aimed at a pub Dad remembered from a few years back that had a gorgeous Thames-side location just outside Oxford: The Kings Arms at Sandford-on-Thames. Remember that name and file it under Never Ever. The whole place was ghastly, starting with the blackboard propped up outside than "greated" us warmly and beckoned us inside with meaningless flowery prose about tending to our needs.

All the Crap Pub alarm bells started to ring inside my head, to be confirmed by the harvest festival of mayonnaise and ketchup sachets on a table by the door. For some reason we stayed. When we came to order, I asked whether my coeliac mother could have the bacon-wrapped-mozarella-stuffed-chicken with the tomato and basil sauce.

-She's gluten what?
-Gluten free. She can't eat any wheat products or anything with flour in it.
-Oh. (Pause. Whirring cogs audible.) I'll check with Chef.

Chef my arse. In the end, two people had to go and ask The Microwave Man and eventually the answer was "We don't know, it all comes in packets". What could she eat on the menu? "How about the salad bowl?" The one with pasta and croutons? "Yes". We left hungry. Apparently we should phone ahead in future, presumably to give the time to read the ingredients on the packets and look words like gluten up in a dictionary. I doubt we will, mind.

Anyway, back to gastropubs. Yes, they have ruined a few classic old time boozers but they have rescued some shit ones too. And, anyway, what's wrong with a pub offering an edible plate of food that wasn't made in a factory? Italians have cheap, local trattorias, the French have bistros, the Greeks tavernas. Why shouldn't I eat something decent in a pub? It doesn't have to be (and bloody well shouldn't be) a Michelin rip-off with tians of aubergines or foie gras sauces. A decent pasta dish or homemade pie will do nicely, a simply grilled lemon sole or some crisply fried squid. It's not much to ask is it?

In my head, I compose the perfect ploughmans just as I imagine musicians do songs and poets haikus: a big slab of pork pie with real jelly, some properly mature hard cheese, a decent local apple, a dab of homemade chutney, a spicy pickled onion and maybe a slice of some chewy, rustic bread. One day, I'll buy a pub and do it. You watch me.

Pancake Day

2008-02-05T07:35:00.000Z

Definitely in my Top Five days of the year, simply because you have to eat pancakes. I can remember Shrove Tuesday as a child as clearly as turkey at Christmas or excessive amounts of chocolate eggs at Easter, and I love that foodie nostalgia. There are so few days of the year where food traditions are still alive, that we need to celebrate and nurture them or lose them all to history. Today is just far too much fun to let that happen.

My topping of choice is lemon juice and golden syrup. I know the purists say lemon juice and sugar only, but golden syrup is sugar. Just better.

TFI February

2008-02-04T19:08:00.001Z

January was a long, old month and probably the busiest in my working year. I'm glad its gone. A marathon of dinners with varying winemakers from around the world may sound like a perfect job (and I'm not complaining) but, as much as I love the likes of St John, Chez Bruce and L'Autre Pied eating in all three in just six days was a bit too much.

Like anything else, when you gorge on something it can quickly lose its lustre. I'm happy to be at home on a Monday night, cooking for myself and eating a one (rather than three, four or five) course meal. Some humble pak choi, soy and noodles will do me tonight.

But I'm still hoping for a foodie February. I've just popped some duck legs into the oven, submerged in their own fat. The start of my first homemade cassoulet. I'm relishing making a dish that will take 2-3 weeks to come together, all from scratch. It's the opposite of just selecting something quickly from a menu and waiting for someone else to do the work.

And the best thing I ate over the weekend? Gorwydd's Caerphilly Cheese. As crumbly as the English defence and as sweet as a James Hook conversion.

A Moveable Feast - Five Nights Out in London

2008-01-26T12:09:00.000Z

25 days into 2008 and one solitary post. Not very impressive. It's easy to please busy-ness but everyone's busy. In my defence, I have eaten out every night this week. All but one with work, putting my health on the line for the job. The roll call of dishes is long: delicately flavoured scallops steamed in their shells, a dull rendering of steak rossini, an over egged bread and butter pudding, a slab of roquefort with a handful of walnuts, pheasant ravioli (decent if a little dry), a perfectly pink rack of lamb, a hunk of parmesan, an overspiced chicken supreme with raw parsnips, more scallops, a prawn, a plate-filling slab of aged ribeye (with unimpeachable bearnaise), an old school chocolate sundae, a dissected and reassembled rabbit, some venison with spiced pears and, (deep breath) finally, at eleven o'clock last night, a course of ten different and delicious cheeses.

Of all the restaurants only Hawksmoor and Chez Bruce were really worth it for the food. Hawksmoor is a steak house pure and simple. I'm not sure the starters and desserts are really worth bothering with. But, god, the steaks are good. Big, beefy, tender, ripe. They are last meal meats.

Chez Bruce is just brilliant. It has everything going for it, not least that it is less than a mile from the flat. Classy service, impeccable execution in the kitchen and a magical wine list put together by a passionate and capable sommelier. I'll write more later.

Fish Pie and Apple Crumble

2008-01-13T11:57:00.000Z

Saturday was a proper winter's day; all blue skies and biting cold. We took shelter in the hothouses at Kew peering at holey Henry Moore's sculptures through Victorian glass with eighteenth century ferns towering above us. The day cried out for comfort food. A Lox and Cream Cheese Brick Lane Beigel, whilst a perfect example of its type, eaten huddled on a bench with a coot for company did not cut the mustard. We headed home for fish pie and peas to be followed by a bramley apple crumble.

Fish Pie has rules and they differ with everyone you talk too. In this house there has to be both smoked and unsmoked fish, some sort of shellfish and lots of buttered leeks. I think parsley should go in too, but this time the herb lost out to my wife's ambivalence. It goes without saying it should have a thick lid of firm mashed potatoes (butter, salt and pepper only), criss-crossed with a fork to make a crust-able pattern on the top. Peas on the side are obligatory but anything else added inside or out runs the risk of 'messing about': capers, tarragon, mushrooms, boiled eggs are just a few of the options other Fish Pie makers advocate. None made it in to ours. In the end it was just the smoked hadddock, some cod, a handful of mussels (their broth giving a welcome lightness to the fishy bechamel), a packet of brown shrimps and the leeks. It was wonderful.

We finished with apple crumble, and here we did gild the lily. A hearty slug of armagnac went in with the bramleys and pine nuts and almonds added a delicious savoury, nutty note to the crumble. After the restraint of the fish pie making, it felt good to mess about with a recipe and win.

It's The End of the Year as We List It

2007-12-31T10:46:00.000Z

You can't open a newspaper, turn on a TV channel or read a website without stumbling across someone categorising the year in some aspect or other. Order must prevail. Awards must be handed out. Opinions must be opined. So I thought I should join in. Here's two Top 5 lists that will mean very little to anyone else but me. Both are in chronological order.

Top 5 Meals of 2007
1. St John in February. Langoustines and Mayonnaise, a whole loaf of foie gras, suckling pig for 12, Eccles Cakes and Lancashire Cheese and 24 fine German Rieslings. Obscene and worth every penny. I'd do it again tomorrow. In fact, we should do it again tomorrow.

2. A Parisian market picnic on the sleeper train to Milan. Saumur-Champigny from a beaker washed down an oozing St Marcellin, wafer-thin speck, sour, chewy baguette and - most importantly - Jen.

3. Cambol Zero, Rivoli outside of Turin. Only one star but three times the experience we had in L'Astrance in Paris. Proof that there is more to a great restuarant than great food. Give me humour, humility, enthusiasm and warmth over cold-blooded perfection anyday.

4. The River Cafe in August with Jen, Jen and Greg. One of this year's few summery days and the perfect place to skive off an afternoon at work. I remember multi-coloured baby beets with horseradish, silky pasta parcels, spanking-fresh fish and a wholly unneccessary bottle of Moscato d'Asti in the sunshine longer after we should have gone home.

5. Ben's Birthday in November. Ben tells me his abiding memory is twirling bread dough into grissini whilst covered in flour and half-cut on Champagne at 11 o'clock in the morning. How weekend lunches should be.

Top 5 Dishes of 2007

1. The foie gras and mushroom cake at L'Astrance with its 'roasted lemon' and pool of hazelnut oil. A perfect dish of just four ingredients. The sweet-sharp lemon was the ideal foil for the foie gras whilst the hazelnut turned the raw white mushrooms into fungi heaven. I never said Pascal Bardot couldn't cook.

2. A foie gras risotto with fried artichokes at Cambol Zero. Indecently rich.

3. A humble Panzanella made from ripe tomatoes and stale sourdough baguette in Uzes.

4. Another Uzes afternoon: leftover ratatouille, fried sardines and ice-cold Provence rose. Then a nap.

5. Pheasant and Trotter Pie at St John Bread and Wine. A December lunch of champions to fight off the 4pm nightfall.

Closure

2007-12-27T19:23:00.000Z

Perhaps (only perhaps, mind you) this is the beginning of the end of the two-month Burgundy obsession. The symptoms are waning. I can just about appreciate other wines without comparing them to the greats of the Cote d'Or and have acknowledged that others cheeses than Epoisses are worth eating too. Especially given the frankly rude and almost frightening level of ripeness that the Epoisses in the kitchen has reached.

In search of closure, I (I should say 'we' as Jen did half the work but this is My Blog and My Obsession) made a Jambon Persille, the jelly and ham terrine that provided roughly 50% of my daily calorific needs in Burgundy (if only 20% of my actual calorific intake). It was deeply satisfying to make and much easier than it looked. As many so called complicated 'resaturant dishes' are when you have a go yourself. I urge you to try.

The recipe can be found on a bookshelf near you in Simon Hopkinson's unimpeachable Roast Chicken and Other Stories 2 (Second Helpings, it might be called). And if you don't own it click on to Amazon now, buy the book and make it for yourself. There are few better vehicles for humble white Burgundy and Dijon mustard.

Too Much

2007-12-27T18:56:00.000Z

My sister and her boyfriend Greg did a sterling job for Christmas Dinner. Incidentally December 25th probably the only day of the year I have Dinner in the middle of the day. The other 364 days, I have Lunch.

For the record. I eat Lunch at lunchtime and Tea in the evening. Unless I am a) eating out or b) at someone else's house or c) rustling up something more extravagant than broccoli and pasta to eat at home with guests - when it becomes Dinner. I don't dress for Dinner but I do expect some decent wine. Supper is what other people have before bed.

Anyway, I digress.

Sister and Greg were ace. Proper turkey, the world famous Sweet Potato stuffing (the recipe is the closest we have to a family heirloom, passed down from Tesco's Christmas Magazine circa 1997 via my mother to her eldest daughter) and more types of veg that I care to recall. We all ate far too much and groaned our way back to the sofa in time honoured fashion. Quite why we force such an ernomous plateful of food on ourselves in one go is quite beyond me. But we do, all of us. A massive proportion of the 60m people in the country all overeating at exactly the same time. A quite bizarre tradition of national gluttony.

And we feel all the worse for it, compounding the problems by cramming Christmas Pud into our greedy selves as soon as we sense there is room. I didn't make it as far as cheese and Port this year. A casualty of excess and a virulent bout of manflu.

Not that I really want to change it, though. We have so few food traditions any more apart from the roast bird and pigs in blankets that it really needs encouraging not denigrating. And at the same time we need to protect and promote the other few food traditions we have: Pancake Day, Simnel Cake, Grouse in August, Oysters in September.

Missing out on the cheese and Port (even a Fonseca single Quinta 1988, dammit) is a small price to pay to keep it all going.

Stollen

2007-12-24T16:01:00.000Z

The Christmas baking is in full-swing, though quite when we are going to eat it all is beyond me. No doubt, we'll end up foisting half of it on to various rellies who will smile through gritted teeth as we hand it over. Their fridges, cupboards and freezers already full to bursting without our offerings. Oh well.

The house is just stating to smell Christmassy with cinnamon, cardomom, marzipan and mixed peel baking inside a rich bread dough in the oven. I've never made Stollen before and am not sure I've even eaten it before. But it smells right for today, and feel right too; a memory of childhood Christmases for Jen.

Mr Moxon

2007-12-23T10:49:00.000Z

Mr Moxon isn't normally open on Sundays but today his shop was doing a roaring festive trade. Huge white bags of pre-ordered fish lined up amongst the next-door-florist's Christmas trees on the pavement outside. Sides of smoked salmon poking out of every other one and names, numbers and £s scrawled in marker pen on the sides. Cold and misty, the whole street became a giant open-plan walk-in fridge.

My bag was heavy. A giant turbot and a bag of scallops for Christmas Eve dinner, a bronze smoked mackerel for scrambled egg breakfasts and midnight feasts and some salmon and monkfish to freeze until New Year's Eve.

The anticipation grows again.

A recipe

2007-12-23T10:35:00.001Z

For the Chinese-ish pork belly from last night. Homages dues to HFW, the sublimely named Fuschia Dunlop and a restaurant in Bolzano in Northern Italy. I've nicked ideas and techniques from them all.

Take a slab of pork belly and cut in to thick strips, about 4cm across so they resemble fleshy vanilla slices. Pop in a pan, cover with water and boil for 5-10 minutes to bring out the scum. Drain, rinse pork of any scum, wipe pan clean and put everything back on the hob with some clean water. Adding some aromatics (chilli, star anise, ginger and garlic) to the water will do precious little to the flavour of the meat in the long run but make your house smell fantastic and get mouths watering. Don't leave them out.

Braise/poach/simmer for an hour and so until the meat is tender. Lift out of the stock and leave to cool before slicing across the meat to leave you with squares of pork belly, roughly 1cm thick and 4cm squared in size. Fire up a non-stick frying pan (you won't need any oil) and fry the pork squares on both sides until golden and crisp. Be careful, they will sizzle and spit. Pop them to one side on some kitchen paper.

Throw lots of finely sliced ginger, garlic and chilli into the pan (you may need to drain some of the pork fat first) and stir-fry, throw in some greens (bok choi seems appropriate, kale or cabbage would do just as well) and just as they begin to wilt return the pork to the pan. Splash in some Chinese cooking wine and soy (I used mainly Light for flavour with a bit of Dark for colour and syrupy-ness). Let the sauce reduce until dark and sticky, coating the meat and greens as it goes. A handful of sliced spring onions can go in last.

Take the pan to the table, the black sticky spicy bits on the pan are the secret to this dish. Encourage people to return the meat from their plates to the pan to wipe up all the goodness. Plain steamed rice will be just fine on the side.

Anticipation

2007-12-22T14:59:00.000Z

Our first London Christmas and we are pretty organised - it helps that my sister is doing The Dinner, of course. My role is Best Supporting Brother, bringing a starter and a box of wines. We were up early this morning to shop for the starter but not early enough to avoid a queue at Mr Dove's. Twenty chilly minutes waiting outside, looking in on the array of fat chops and plump pheasants, strings of chipolatas and hunks of dark maroon beef. While other queued patiently for their turkey or goose, we were after more porcine treats and came away with more bacon than strictly necessary, a small piece of pork belly, a split trotter and some green gammon. The latter two will be turned into a Jambon Persille (the Burgundy fixation hasn't finished yet) for Christmas Day while the belly is for tonight.

It's hard to know what to cook on the 22nd and 23rd this year. It's a weekend and a holiday but you can't overdo it, not with all the feasts to come. Roast birds seem wrong, roasts full stop in fact. And anything festive or traditional feels like jumping the gun. My solution can be found in the back of the spice cupboard: star anise, ginger, chillies and the like. They will flavour the pork belly as it slowly simmers, melting the fat and the meat into one. Dark, meaty soy will add umami, colour and richness. Some bland noodles or plain rice will sit alongside with some quickly cooked bok choi.

It will be about as Christmassy as a picnic, but even with the lights on the tree and crap films on every channel, I can put off culinary Christmas for a day or two yet. Savouring the anticipation as it grows.

Mince Pies

2007-12-16T14:30:00.001Z

December is busy. Two weeks since the last post and I'm struggling to remember what I've cooked in those fifteen days. A perky chicken casserole spiked with salty preserved lemon and olives, an invigorating broth made from the same chook fired up by chillies and lemongrass and topped with a steamed piece of salmon and a buttery leeky risotto is all that I can remember. The rest is the usual whirlwind of Christmas parties: mass catered food, canapes and pub food. Not very exciting. For all the foody brilliance of Christmas, early December can easily become a lean month for the flavour addict.

But today, we've started the Christmas cooking. The mincemeat (including minced meat along with the suet, fruit and booze) has spent two weeks maturing in the fridge and it was time to fill the flat with the smell of toasty pastry and sweet spice. The pastry recipe is a Dan Lepard special from yesterday's Grauniad; rich and crumbly but a horror to cope with if you are as warm blooded as I am. I am about as natural a patissier as I am a pole vaulter. But they have held together just fine, slightly oddly shaped as all home cooked treats should be.

Time now to make some brandy butter...

Take Three Ingredients

2007-12-01T08:19:00.000Z

...the work Christmas Party is on Wednesday night and we are all being frogmarched round to Katie's to play a sort of Ready Steady Cook. Deeply odd. Whatever happened to just getting pissed in an awful restaurant?

Anyway, we have been told to bring three ingredients each. I am veering towards pigeon, Primula and peas.

Any ideas?

The Best Fish and Chips in London. Apparently.

2007-12-01T08:06:00.000Z

Marylebone's Golden Hind chippie has a lot going for it: innumerous recommendations on the interweb as The Best Fish And Chips In London, it's in Marylebone and is BYO. There are few better places to drink fine wine than a chippie.

I tried to go two years ago but a now-ex-girlfriend of a visiting friend went AWOL and rather than a side order of mushy peas we were ordered off on a search of Tottenham Court Road. We found her back in Tooting, her homing pigeon having kicked in, and ended up eating curry, as you do in these parts.

Last night I tried to go again only to be foiled by a combination of the Central Line, torrential rain, my mobile's battery and another lost friend. I even got as far as peering in the window this time but Tim wasn't there and by this time I was 35 minutes late, soaked to the skin and unable to phone anyone. The bottle of Hunter Valley Semillon remained unopened and the fish unfried. I trudged damply towards the tube back to Tooting. And ate curry.

Tea at The River Caff

2007-11-28T19:50:00.001Z

I have many favourite restuarants but two shine out, the joint firsts among equals: St John and The River Cafe. Both celebrate eating rather than cooking, and therein lies the secret of their success. They take pleasure in your pleasure rather than in the navel-gazing one-upmanship of clever-than-thou cookery. They are fantastically foam free.

Last night we ate very well at The River Cafe. You couldn't not. Not with that stunning fennel salami and fruity artichoke or that salt-crusted farinata with its mily-soft mozzarella. Not with the indecently fresh langoustines or the spaghetti with crab (note to self, add fennel seeds next time). Nor the parpadelle with the wild duck ragu or the delicate spinach and buffalo curd ravioli. Not to mention the melting soft osso buco with its half-butter-half-rice risotto or the wood roasted turbot, lifted and lightened with lemon, herbs and those tiny life-affirming Sicilian capers.

We washed it down with Vajra's 2004 Barbera, a juicy, violet-infused red that delighted in the food - even the cheese plate, a guilty, greedy end to a meal.

Home Sweet Home

2007-11-28T19:41:00.000Z

We got home on Sunday night about 6, dumped the bags and darted straight down the road again to Kastoori for their Sunday Thali. It consists of a wonderful roast aubergine curry (almost smoked in fact, the flesh melted into tomatoes, onions, chilli and mustard seeds), a coarse millet chapati (rough and grey and filling), some overcooked rice mixed with mung beans (think good old fashioned peas and rice) and a hot yoghurt soup (a sort of inverse raita- uplifting, spicy and sharp rather than cooling and fresh). Real comfort food straight from a rural Indian village.

I like the fact that it takes vegetarian Gujarati food to make me feel at home.

Comic Timing

2007-11-28T19:33:00.001Z

Comedy, cricket and cooking all rely on timing and in the last few days, I've got one meal spot on and the other horribly, wastefully wrong. Remember that rib of Welsh black beef? I incinerated it. How did I do it? By trusting a cookbook, some scales and some mental arithmetic rather than my own eyes and experience. The theory said it would be rare after about an hour and a half. After 55 minutes it was already too late. The fact the beef was utterly delicious made me feel even worse. Poor cow, it deserved better than that.

I redeemed myself with some whole pigeons on Monday night. A quick hot sear then eleven minutes in the oven. The meat was beautifully, evenly rare and that deep, bloody crimson colour that lifts the heart of any cook when he or she starts to carve and knows they have got it absolutely spot on.

Deepest, Wettest Wales

2007-11-24T13:05:00.000Z

A happy feeling. The weather be as grey and damp as Our Boys' chances against South Africa in Cardiff this afternoon but my spirits are soaring. I have a view over the estuary, a fire, a pot of tea and some writing to do but best of all, there's a huge rib of Welsh Black Beef in the fridge and some posh Pinot Noir on the windowsill. Let the weather (and the Springboks) do their worst!

Saint Felicien: Patron Saint of Perfect Cheese

2007-11-24T10:35:00.000Z

Guess where it is from? Burgundy! Oh joy of joys. Choosing it was part good luck - I'd never heard of it (or couldn't remember hearing of it, anyway) and it is hard to tell how ripe a soft cheese is when it is wrapped up - and part a result of following The Cheese Rules.

Cheese Rule no. 22: always trust a soft cheese in a terracota pot. If it needs ceramics to keep it upright and decent, it probably has the capacity to ooze, drip and goo.

It was delicious; teetering on the edge of refusing the attentions of a knife and demanding a spoon. It was rich, creamy, cheesy and complex but not hadn't reached that testing, slightly acrid stage where cheese becomes less of a meal and more of a dare. It sagged as the first crackerful was lifted out, deflated and beaten. It knew its time had come.