ZOMG – vegetablists, try this!

Long post apologising for my absence will follow in due course, but in the meantime, I have just had the. Best. Vegetarian (almost). Risotto. Ever.

Proceed thus and so.

Dismember a cauliflower. If you find any healthful caterpillars residing in it, flush them down the loo. They are God’s creatures, and it would be wrong to eat them.

Wash the cauliflower, and your hands.

Boil the cauliflower until tender in salted water – about 10-15 minutes, depending on the size of your florets.

Drain off the cooking water into a bowl, and blitz the cf to a paste with a hand blender. Set aside.

Saute a sofrito of onion, garlic and celery (purists, it’s good to use the inner heart bits rather than the outer green stalks for uniformity of colour) in olive oil and butter.

When transparent and turning golden, add your rice. Cook. Add a glass of wine.

Proceed as per normal risotto – adding a ladle of cauliflower cooking liquid, cooking and stirring until all absorbed and repeating – until your rice is tender.

Add the cauliflower purree, a knob of butter, a goodly amount of grated parmesan and a slug of truffle oil. Stir, put a lid on the pan (it will look too soupy and liquid at this stage; fear not, it is right and proper) and leave it for 10 minutes. Add loads of black pepper and some salt. Serve. Gasp in admiration.

This is lovely, it really is. The cauliflower gives it a creamy, fluffy texture and I don’t care what the snobs say about truffle oil, it really works in a simple dish like this. Go on, try it. No photo, sorry – I scoffed the lot.

In which I eat my words. Nom nom nom.

Occasionally, I come upon the darling hunched over the tiny computer, utterly riveted by the flickering images on its screen. When he registers my presence he starts, blushes, and with a hasty alt + tab, restores The Financial Times and his composure. Of course, I know that having discussions – or worse still, rows – about this sort of thing is no way to maintain peace in the home. He is harming nobody; it’s only sensible for me to turn a blind eye. But I know what he’s up to. There’s no mistaking that avid gleam in his eye, no disguising the renewed passion with which he embraces me.

Oh yes, I know when he’s been looking at one of those websites. And last week, the moment came – as I suspect it inevitably does in these situations – when he asked me, shamefaced, to share in his filth.

“You’ve got to see this,” he said. “I know you’ll love it. Honestly, go on, just try it, for me. Just once. If you don’t like it we never have to do it again.”

And such is the force of his personality, that before I knew it I had agreed.

When good restaurants go bad

Ah, Bucci, Bucci, what has become of you? This local Italian restaurant has been a favourite since the boyfriend moved to SW16 in 2006. It ticked all the boxes for a midweek supper place: open nice and late so we could meet there after going to the gym; the wine list was sensibly priced; the service quick and friendly. When they presented us with a complimentary pannettone one Christmas, we thought they has secured our loyalty forever. But it was not to be.

Just a few doors down the road from Bucci, there recently appeared a New Restaurant called Double Espresso. Now, we have yet to try it so I can’t comment on its quality, but it always seems to be full, and clearly it caused alarm and despondency in the hearts of Bucci’s management. Did they resolve to do even better what they’d been doing so well, to win back any customers whose heads had been turned by the new arrival? Did they try some clever marketing to local residents? Did they introduce new, seasonal specials? Did they offer added-value deals and offers? No. They decided, in their wisdom, to rip up the tried and trusted menu and start again.

Gone is the penne arrabiata, my order of choice when trying to be healthy. Gone is the carbonara, the boyfriend’s choice after a long run. Gone are the tricolore salad, the free bowls of olives brought to your table when you arrive, the specials board – all gone. In their place are a selection of more ambitiously priced starters, salads and pasta dishes, and an extensive entrée menu. (Pizza fans will be glad to learn that this section of the menu has escaped unscathed, but for some price hiking.)

Undaunted, we went ahead and gave the new menu a try, and I can reveal that a. three out of the four dishes we duds; b. our complaints were handled with a blend of indifference and bolshiness; and c. we won’t be going back.

Our starters were a tomato and pesto pizza bread, a favourite from the halcyon days before the chef/owner’s rush of blood to the head, which was the same as always – a bit greasy, but good stuff nonetheless. A green salad that came, according to the menu, with house dressing, vinaigrette or oil and vinegar, actually arrived coated in sweet, creamy goo – presumably the “house dressing”, certainly out of a bottle and pretty grim.

I was relieved to see that one main course that had avoided the cull was linguine vongole – a classic pasta dish that can be relied upon to deliver subtly fishy, garlicky goodness with a bit of a chilli kick. This was disappointing – bland, and too oily to eat more than a couple of forkfuls. But worst of all were the lamb cutlets. Instead of the charred without, pink within, crisp-fatted deliciousness one expects, these were the pinky grey of cheap salami, and again swimming in grease. Oh dear, Bucci. There won’t be a second chance. Still, it gives us an excuse to try Double Espresso without fear of disloyalty.

And as for bloody squash…

I swear they do it deliberately. All you want is sugar-free orange squash, right? So why do the fiendish non-alcoholic-concentrate marketeers go to such lengths to ensure you end up with Orange and Mango, Orange and Pineapple, Fortified With Hydrogenated Fat, or – worst of all – Barley squash? The packaging changes every other week – as soon as you’re sure you’ve identified Sugar-Free Orange, they start sticking an identical label on some vile concoction that tastes like hair dye. How does it happen? And why? I’ll tell you, right now.

Scene: 11pm on a Thursday night. The production studio of @#, Soho’s hottest design agency. Present are Georgiana, the work experience girl who beat all other comers to the internship when the MD discovered that her daddy had bought Rupert Murdoch on e-Bay, and Mr Frostee (né Isiah Johnson), fast-tracked through the graduate diversity programme. The juniors are awaiting client approval on the new Robinson’s creative.

Mr Frostee: Yo, biatch, toast me another crumpet. The Frostster’s bored shitless.
Georgiana: Fuck off with the street talk, Isiah, you do it. I did the coke run 20 minutes ago, and you made me go to Topshop for your neon leopardprint footless tights at lunchtime. You’ve got to stop putting your fags through them, they like cost a fortune.
MF: I don’t fucking put my fucking fags through them, I’m not a spaz. I have to throw them in the bin on Regent Street before I get the 159 home, innit, cos if my Nan caught me in them I’d be so fucking grounded.
G: God! Can’t you like bulk buy, or something? Speaking of which, when are these cunts going to sign off their fucking artwork? I heard Ollie off X Factor was going to be in China White tonight and my mate Barnaby’s on the door.
MF: Chillax. Those mo’fos are so going to buy our Arctic Monkeys visual on the Lemon and Barley. That was the shit right there.

There is a sudden commotion in the corridor outside. In bursts Hector, the account director. His eyes are glazed, his tie askew, and there are visible squash stains on his shirt.

H: Arriba! How’s it hanging with my crew?
G&MF: Mumble incomprehensibly
H: I’ve got good news and bad news, right! The client’s loving the energy that’s gone into this campaign, they’re feeling the love. They are just so grateful that we’ve thrown real talent at their product. They’re predicting a great future for their relationship with the agency, and that means with you two guys, right? Yes!
G&MF: Mumble incomprehensibly
H: But! We need to push the envelope. They only had one tiny criticism of our work – they loved it, but they want more! Yes! More! The literal approach isn’t working for them. They want consumers spending more time engaging with the brand, feeling part of the great squash experience while they hang out on those gondola ends. And if a few million more consumers south of Glasgow buy Passionfruit, Lard and Oatmeal squash, then everyone’s a winner. Are you feeling it, team? Is the mojo flying around the old ethernet cables? Is it?
G&MF: Mumble incomprehensibly
H: Listen up! No more functional labelling. That’s so over. You read me? So. Over. They’re thinking interpretive design. They’re thinking viral marketing. They’re thinking quirky out-the-box packs that make orange look like grapefruit and sugar look like aspartame and starch look like water! Then we’ll be cooking with gas! Gas! Oh – and that last design that was a sell-out for Sugar-Free Orange? We’re sticking it on the Agave and Satsuma.

Hector sinks into an ergonomically designed chair, panting slightly. A muscle in his cheek twitches.

H: Let’s work it, kiddoes!

G: Fuck. I’d better call my dealer.
MF: Fuck. I’d better ring my Nan.

The feathered foes meet their doom

Bad, bad pic. Again. Sorry.

Those readers who know me will know the tale of my long-standing fight with the local pigeon population – indeed I have seen you cast your eyes heavenwards when I threaten to retell it. However there may be those in my audience (yes! I see you there! Both of you!) who haven’t heard the saga, so here is a brief recap.

It all began a couple of years ago, when I first noticed two pigeons making a habit of perching on my kitchen windowsill. On a couple of occasions they even ventured on to the top of the open sash window, cooing encouragingly to each other. One Monday evening I arrived home from work,  looking forward to a lovely relaxing evening with nothing to do except take my clean washing off the airer and fold it up in preparation for my lovely cleaner’s visit the next day. I opened the front door and wandered through to the kitchen to be greeted by a scene of total devastation – broken glass and pigeon shit all over the floor. Slightly in shock, I reeled through to the sitting room and turned on the light, and saw more pigeon shit, another glass smashed on the floor – and finally, two pigeons, perched on top of the airer looking at me.

For the first and hopefully only time in my life, I had a total fit of screaming hysterics, which of course caused the pigeons to panic and start flapping around and dive-bombing me, and me to panic even more. Eventually I managed to chase one of them out of the front door, but the other was not so clever and ended up perched shivering on my desk behind the computer screen. So, still quaking with horror, I phoned the boyfriend to come and rescue me and went and hid in the bathroom until he arrived and evicted the remaining pigeon with manly calm, and we spent the evening cleaning everything up.

So you can imagine that I take a fairly dim view of these winged rats, especially as of late one of them has taken to roosting on the landing light outside my front door. It lies in wait there, and when I walk down the stairs flies terrifyingly over my head with much flapping of wings. When I see it there I have to get the lift downstairs. It’s also crapped on my doormat – a flagrant declaration of open hostility if ever I saw one.

But why, you ask, do I not take drastic action? It is simple: the boyfriend, light of my life and companion of my days, has taken sides in this matter, and the side he is on is not mine. Any attempt to thwart the pigeons, beyond the spikes I had installed on my windowsills, would be met with hard stares and possibly even unceremonious dumping. But I get the last laugh, dear readers. As soon as his back is turned, as it is tonight, I buy, cook and eat pigeon breast from the farmers market. That, I am sure you will agree, serves to demonstrate to the pigeons that if their woodland cousins can be seared and served with a red wine reduction, my kitchen is not a safe place for them to be.

And that is why I bring you this autumnal feast.

Take two pigeon breasts and rub them with smashed juniper berries, garlic and black peppercorns and a little olive oil. Leave them to marinate for the duration of the X Factor before pan-frying them briefly.

I’m serving this with two of the winter vegetables I find rather challenging. I’m making a dauphinoise of potatoes and fennel, and sauteeing savoy cabbage with a little pancetta and butter.

I also came across a recipe for red wine jus that involved caramelising sugar, adding red wine, more thyme and juniper, and reducing until thick. The result was more like red ink than anything you’d want to eat, so I have calmed it down with the addition of chicken stock and dijon mustard, and I’ll be thickening it with a little butter before serving it over the pigeon breasts.

And if that doesn’t teach the feathery bastards, I don’t know what will.

The best couscous, ever

Well, that’s what the boyfriend said anyway, and we know he isn’t biased, at all. Anyway at the risk of sounding vain, I have to say it was extremely good, so here is the recipe.

Restaurant recommendation – Taqueria

Just a quick post. We rarely venture to Notting Hole (mainly because it brings out the darling’s misanthropic side, which is often rather close to the surface), but on Saturday I suggested a trip to the lovely and fascinating Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising. We stopped en route for a late lunch at Taqueria. If you expect Mexican food to be, as my friend Sarah scathingly describes it “red mush, brown mush and green mush”, you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the food here.

All the familiar building-blocks of Mexican food are here: the tortillas (corn and flour, soft and crisp);  the avocado; the cheese; the tequila. But the execution is far superior to anything you’ll get at generic Tex-Mex chains. Spicing is bold but not overpowering. Cocktails are imaginative. There’s a selection of delicious flavoured waters, and a few puddings.

We had four dishes between us, all variations on the tortilla theme, and a side of avocado with lime, salt, onion and coriander. Everything tasted good – this is casual street food for sharing, dipping your fingers into and inadvertently smearing on your clothes. At £32, including a cucumber and a watermelon water, this is perhaps a tad on the pricy side – the portions are smaller than the price tag suggests – but they score points for using sustainably caught fish, free range eggs, poultry and pork, and organic milk and cream.

My only gripe? The rude, monosyllabic, unsmiling waitresses.

In your face, Nigel!

I love Nigel Slater. Sadly I’ve missed almost all of his new series on BBC1, but by all accounts it’s fab, and the 15 minutes I managed to catch tonight did not disappoint. He’s so… filthy, somehow. Far more than Nigella Lawson, for all her pouting and spoon-fellating and cleavage, he captures the deeply sensual side of food and eating.

Anyway, my ultra-simple supper tonight is an unintentional tribute to him.

I don’t know why it took me so long to discover I Camisa – this wonderful Soho deli has been there forever, and is friendly, great value and phenomanally well stocked. Today I bought 150g of pancetta, some gnocchi (which came in a white cake box, and looked and smelled so perfect I wanted to dive in and eat them straight away, like peanuts). But their destiny was this veg-packed, smoky, slightly creamy bowl of heaven.

I removed some of the fat from the pancetta, chopped it small then sauteed it with a shallot and a couple of cloves of garlic. Then I added two leeks and wilted them down. A splash of sherry and about a tablespoon of creme fraiche went in next, with a few (frozen) broad beans. That’s it – on to the gnocchi (boiled, ldo!) with plenty of pepper and parmesan, and a simple green salad with basil and the rest of the zomgwtf-is-it-made-of-gold? M&S feta.

This was inspired by a recipe blogged by Eatlikeagirl, using chorizo. It was delicious, but to be honest I think the originl would have been better – I tried too hard ot pack in the veg, and it would have benefitted from more butter. This is what you get from being in the final week of half-marathon preparation – doing no running, but still consumed by the need to eat your own body weight in dinner every night!

Marlboro Man comes to SW9

Earlier in this blog, I linked to the Pioneer Woman. I said some flattering things about this wonderful blogger, photographer, mother and cook, but I have to confess that essentially I was taking the piss. “Check out this Republican rube!” I thought. “See how she cooks with Mountain Dew, and Butter! She’s catering for cowboys – clearly these culinary philistines will trough anything that has calories!” And I sniggered into my Gin and Slim, and put fingers to keyboard.

Full of self-importance, I showed my post to the darling, who promptly said: “Hold on! There’s butter in them hills! And salt! And the flesh of animals slain in anger! Prove your love for me, woman, and reproduce these recipes, kthxbai!” And off he strode back to the urlmines, hefting the tiny computer.

Reader, I love him. And anyway, I too am a greedy bastard. So I took myself off to a spin class on the basis that a calorie burned is a calorie earned, and I stashed some skirt from the farmers’ market for the purpose, and tonight we feasted a la Marlboro Man.

Skirt is the perfect meat for this. It’s essentially quite lean, which makes the addition of vast amounts of butter slightly less guilt-inducing. And, as I said in my previous post about this miracle meat, it responds beautifully to fast cooking and a long rest. And it’s so cheap! I can’t remember how much ours cost, but it was less than £4 and we are shamelessly greedy, and there was still a lot left. A lot.

Do yourselves a favour, public. Pay a visit to Pioneer Woman and your local market, invest a couple of quid in connective tissue-rich meat, cook it hot and fast then rest it long and slow, and reap the lush benefits. And don’t be shy with the butter.

I wanted to photograph this meal, and I did.

Voila.

Why hummus has gone mental

On visits to superior supermarkets of late, the darling and I have observed a proliferation of odd hummus flavours. We fell to speculating about the fate of the luckless minions who are in charge of sourcing this stuff.

(Cue twinkly fairydust music as you enter the imagination of TOE.)