tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73917670061970693622012-02-17T00:51:18.034ZAdventures for the tastebudsBSGnoreply@blogger.comBlogger801100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-22862584398108130112012-02-01T14:28:00.004Z2012-02-01T14:34:28.217Z

  Over time, the BSG and I have been doing our bit, greedily covering most bases in terms of foodstuffs. Obviously there are exotic ingredients from far-flung places missing from the repertoire…all in good time. I tend to take on the shellfish, whereas he is bolder with all things offal. We adore most things we encounter. Somehow..somehow… parkin has hitherto eluded us both. However, in this

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-13871221587912420992012-01-14T16:59:00.003Z2012-01-23T15:54:00.964Z

Heston’s new telly series already has the BSG and me hooked. Each episode, devoted to a different dietary mainstay, is revelation-packed, turning age-old techniques on their heads. However, this week’s egg-centric (sorry) half hour brought out the usually-silent curmudgeon in me. Mr Blumenthal offered up a new way to cook a boiled egg, without actually boiling it. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-33834436509871436992011-12-29T14:10:00.001Z2011-12-29T14:10:12.617Z

  On the first day of Christmas,My step-mum sent to me,A food postcard* from Mi-a-mi… *from the 10-course tasting menu she and my dad were treated to on Christmas Eve. It looked seriously good so I thought I would post it up here. Believe it or not, it was not produced by a restaurant, but by a very talented and consummate host with a demanding day job (which, surprisingly, is not working as a

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-2019750058695547362011-12-11T21:35:00.001Z2011-12-11T21:35:04.479Z

It’s ridiculously easy at this time of year to come by a perfectly decent shop-bought mince pie. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to make them at home each year. Is it the warm fuzzy feeling that festive baking bestows upon me, the sensation that I am making something to be shared lovingly with friends and family by the light of the Christmas tree? Bah, humbug! More like an excuse to eat mincemeat

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-49554151884072189922011-11-27T20:50:00.001Z2011-11-27T20:50:05.012Z

Marcel Proust was partial to dipping one into his cuppa; the French in general appear to have a penchant for them at most times of day, but it was a surprise when a plate of madeleines was proffered late last Friday night, their scalloped edges just the golden side of crisp. I did wonder how they’d slip down with my vin rouge. They were hard to resist, even after such a meal; they were warm and

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-65474419707249356712011-11-15T17:10:00.001Z2011-11-15T17:10:32.706Z

Before I started working from home I had this romantic notion that I would float between desk and kitchen, keeping a vague eye on something wholesome on the stove or in the oven, blipping away until lunchtime. Now that I’ve worked here a year, I can testify to devoting even less time towards my lunch at home than I did when I had to rely on the ubiquitous sandwich chains for the weekly rotation

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-56743945577272443852011-11-09T16:30:00.004Z2011-11-09T16:40:41.923Z

I’ve always been a bit scared of soufflés. I adore eating them, but would sooner leave the manufacture to someone else. The process always seems to me way too fraught to be a satisfying one, with that mad sprint finish over the last yards from the degree-perfect oven to the table. Scoping out options for supper last week and finding two rashers of bacon, a few eggs and two lumps of cheese left I

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-48677222107301607102011-10-31T10:21:00.001Z2011-10-31T10:21:49.986Z

I did something a bit spooky last Saturday, at lunch at the Anchor and Hope. It had nothing to do with the smoked cod’s roe or the crumbed pressed pig’s head we chose to start (though these were pretty bold and out of character for me). No. It was the fact that, for the first time ever, I opted for the vegetal main course option. Of course, I have had many vegetable-heavy dishes at restaurants in

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-18585190725984707162011-10-12T10:55:00.003+01:002011-10-12T10:58:12.661+01:00

On Saturday I found out that my grandpa doesn’t like cheese. Oh, he will have it in a cooked form, say, cauliflower cheese and suchlike, but cheese for cheese’s sake, on a board, say, with crackers? No thank you (or thank yoohooo, as he’d say). I’m not sure what’s more of a surprise: the aversion itself or the fact that it has only taken me thirty-odd years to learn about it. I know quite a

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-87622963082592354852011-09-30T11:12:00.002+01:002011-11-03T18:03:40.379Z

I never tire of food-related fantasy games. Forget 'I Spy', how about ‘your last meal on earth’, or ‘if you had to eat one meal every meal for the rest of your life, what would it be?’ Well, that second one’s easy: breakfast. I suppose I might’ve mentioned my inability to make a decision – or perhaps I haven’t. It drives the BSG round the bend; he is decision incarnate. But this one is easy.

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-73281788714425778632011-09-23T09:07:00.001+01:002011-09-23T09:07:39.243+01:00

Each time September rolls around, three small words strike fear into the hearts of many: Back to School. I know even 60-year olds who break into a cold sweat at the prospect – even though it’s been a few decades since they hung up their satchels. So, how to combat these misgivings? As far as I can recall, salvation would come in the form of a stationery spree – a brand new pen, a fluffy pencil

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-67437636388901872011-09-12T10:34:00.001+01:002011-09-12T10:34:54.373+01:00

Once when I was having a very bad day, a good friend of mine told me that a slice of watermelon would make things alright – turns out that’s what he’d had to hand at the time, but it worked in all its sunshiny redness. Not long later and from this same, wise source, it was a crunchy peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwich (the details here have to be very precise). Food had done at those moments

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-8120961482648033482011-09-04T21:29:00.001+01:002011-09-04T21:29:05.570+01:00

There are post-holiday blues, and then there are post holiday-blues, like when you return from your fairytale wedding on an island in a sparkly sea surrounded by your friends and family to find that the decorators you’ve so carefully timed to give your flat a refresh in your absence have disconnected your telly, left the contents of your kitchen on the floor, the books off the bookshelf and hung

BSGnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-13965817272947896562011-08-18T13:40:00.003+01:002011-08-18T16:59:09.605+01:00

There are some things that sound like somebody, somewhere along the line, has made a mistake – but which just work. Take, for example, the wonderful marriages of salted butter and jam, celery with peanut butter and half an avocado with Worcester sauce. My art teacher at school used to call such serendipitous discoveries ‘happy accidents’ – a bit like the summer afternoon when my gran and a

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-52099287617891506152011-07-29T09:48:00.004+01:002011-07-29T09:53:44.614+01:00

I have been accosted this week by several indignant blog-readers, some of whom I was unaware of, reminding me that its been a whole month since my last post. I am truly sorry, but even more delighted that there’s somebody outside of my family who  reads this, so this is for you kids, and I promise not to be so slack in the future. My buddy Mel, who is a teacher and on her well-earned summer

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-32435124861489299792011-06-27T18:08:00.001+01:002011-06-27T18:08:33.996+01:00

I’m not sure what’s become of my courgette plant. On Saturday when I last looked, it was standing strong, leaves aloft with a few signs of baby shoots and flowers – the promise of fruit – and today it is a twisted heap of limp, lying listless on the ground. To make matters worse, when I googled the problem, I was reminded that courgettes are ‘surprisingly easy to grow’…..grrrr. I’m not sure if

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-79219105532544699462011-06-14T16:53:00.001+01:002011-06-14T16:53:33.706+01:00

I’m a lazy cook when the BSG’s away. Working from home means that lunch usually consists of perhaps a bowl of peas and a piece of toast and Marmite. And perhaps some cheese…or an egg. Or some Shreddies. The key to lunch is that it’s quick - and though neither glamorous nor clever, the aforementioned ingredients happen to be amongst my favourite things to eat at any time. However, they can get a

BSGnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-91968972234933334402011-06-02T09:14:00.003+01:002011-06-02T09:17:52.088+01:00

It’s been a year since the partnership between the BSG and his beloved Magimix was formally validated by the church of John Lewis. To celebrate this, we headed back to the scene of the festivities, to Norfolk for a long weekend. After the prolonged spell of warm dry weather the place seemed a whole season ahead of a usual May (and perhaps two ahead of what was last year’s May 8th – 9 degrees and

BSGnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-67256027961296881072011-04-27T11:58:00.001+01:002011-04-27T11:58:25.435+01:00

If you, like my friend Antonia, happened to be jogging in St James’s Park early this morning you might have been party to the dress rehearsal, amongst the barriers, big screens and bunting. The city has been combed polished and planted to its best for the biggest day of pageantry in decades. If you’re not sure what I am talking about, do switch off and crawl back under that republican stronghold

BSGnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-79784712902650081922011-04-20T12:03:00.001+01:002011-04-20T12:03:56.293+01:00

I am not such a very nice person as it turns out. I mean, what on earth has Rachel Allen ever done to me? Nothing, apart from smile gently down the telly. And yet for some reason, I find all her jingly, lilting sunniness irritating to the point of wanting to leap in and start a food fight there in her spotless, Ballymaloe telly-kitchen. However, this longstanding grudge dissipated when last

BSGnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-60257340467001125072011-03-28T18:50:00.004+01:002011-03-28T20:38:47.891+01:00

This is the perfect weekend jump-start when the clock-change is imminent and there is a sweeter smell of summer in the air (I haven’t asked a science person about this but I am sure there is…Does anyone else sniff the air and get excited - or is that just me?) We shared it with our friend Caz, who is a champion in every way. Oh, and then we moved a shed, built a wall and overhauled the garden.

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-79426966524769800612011-03-15T15:10:00.001Z2011-03-15T15:10:31.668Z

I have had a cold for what feels like months. No matter what I take, it sticks around, lulling me into a false sense of security by momentarily letting me breathe through my nose whilst talking, or sniff unshackled for a nanosecond. But no, it’s always a brief glimmer of hope over across never-ending sea of Olbas oil. If it carries on any longer I will be buying shares in Sudafed. Worst of all,

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-50625061000900546362011-02-25T15:37:00.003Z2011-02-25T15:44:34.222Z

I haven’t transformed this blog into a cookbook review, but seeing as February’s one of those months when people choose to dine in* more often than out, I thought I would tell you about this one. No doubt the best cookbook we’ve been given in the last year (thanks Mum), the Balthazar cookbook presents the very best of Franco-NY-bistro fare as expertly executed in the establishments of Keith

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-34213890253935252682011-02-08T16:46:00.003Z2011-02-08T16:49:33.528Z

Adieu, grey January; Monday of the year, full of food-guilt, short-lived resolutions and tax self-assessments. Only a week old, February already seems a little brighter and with this, the first truly sunny day of the year, the spirits are lifting and thoughts are turning to the great outdoors. In fact, I am sure that the birds are singing just a bit louder today. Of course, January wasn’t all

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-63843369576427365412011-01-24T12:15:00.003Z2011-01-24T12:16:56.067Z

They say old habits die hard, but that’s really because they’re the ones you want to preserve. University Challenge when we’re at home on Mondays, Orange Wednesdays and Sunday night curry to name a few. And what’s wrong with a Sunday night curry takeaway anyway? Its just want you want at the end of the week when the cupboard’s looking a little spartan and the herbs are pooling at the bottom of

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-9626260701975742632011-01-10T14:35:00.002Z2011-01-19T10:48:56.632Z

You know those promises you make at the end of an evening: you’ve all had slightly more wine than necessary and you very enthusiastically set plans in order that you fully intend to keep, but which somehow magically evaporate during the night? Well, the pie challenge wasn’t one of them. Over a sober brunch we agreed with our friends Anna and Charlie that we should do a pie exchange; we had

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-17557821997355235472010-12-22T10:07:00.002Z2011-01-19T10:49:30.285Z

In the short-lived gasp of thaw between the two recent crippling cold snaps the BSG and I ventured out on our first gourmet foray west-side, just a short skip over the canal in W10. Not suckers for awards (you wouldn’t have caught me in front of Sports Personality of the Year on Sunday; life’s far too short, and the Oscars, well, I switch off after the red carpet) we were leafing through the

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-20623517071778008952010-12-07T15:27:00.002Z2011-01-19T10:50:03.876Z

So that’s it – we’ve done it, and if I ever see another cardboard box it’ll be too soon. The night before we left the well-appointed two bed with leafy views in EC1 for somewhere more westerly we thought we’d nip down to Exmouth Market for a pizza. However, (thanks to Time Out’s pizza issue earlier this year) Santoré was rammed as usual, so we gleefully skipped onwards under the strings of

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-32442715252359242392010-11-04T16:51:00.002Z2011-01-19T10:50:30.661Z

Pastrami sandwiches, knuckle sandwiches*, cocktails, cupcakes; you name it - the BSG’s maiden sojourn in the Big Apple had it all. And man, did we chomp our way through the city. Forget the excess baggage; I’m certain my own bodyweight must’ve merited more fuel on the return flight. After dropping through thick cloud onto the hitherto invisible JFK runway slick from torrential rain, I’d felt

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-82969193062477660112010-10-06T15:20:00.005+01:002010-10-06T15:28:50.530+01:00

Homer has a reputation for lofty turns of phrase, and has provided me with the perfect term which aptly encompasses the reason for this prolonged silence, for which I can only apologise. When Lisa tells him that the Chinese words for crisis and opportunity are the same, he proffers Crisitunity. Unfortunately, Miss Simpson was misinformed; after thirty seconds of delving on the internet –

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-70937359991655737432010-09-20T11:27:00.001+01:002010-09-20T11:27:08.390+01:00

After goodness knows how many roast beefs I’ve had in my life, this one rather spoke for itself. After much deliberation over the menu, we served the roasted meat as simply as possible, accompanied by duck fat roast potatoes, greens and carrots. The word(..) melty punctuated the groans of pleasure and as for the fat - it was so flavoursome even Jack Spratt would’ve converted. And of course,

BSGnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-86093138425349817452010-09-10T15:58:00.001+01:002010-09-10T15:58:41.415+01:00

or Marrakech via Finsbury Park It’s very seldom that the BSG’s steady hand is jolted by nerves. He started a new job recently with no outward signs of apprehension, save perhaps a few moments of deep thought before choosing his tie on the first day. In the kitchen dealing with food he is the master of calm - unless he’s interfering when someone else is cooking, - namely his Mum, his sister and I

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-78440110603210228662010-08-27T13:10:00.002+01:002010-08-27T13:15:33.609+01:00

It’s August and the air is full. Of dancing spores and dandelion clocks, of lavender scents brushed from the flowers by bees too busy to stay with their fleeting wanton caresses. The sweet tang of muck spread on nearby fields occasionally reigns. Big Norfolk skies swirl overhead, punctuated by weather-fronts and their breezy boundaries, gigantic sheep-like clouds an endless parade of shapes;

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-86425451247494221622010-08-20T11:58:00.002+01:002010-08-20T12:00:13.402+01:00

After several blissful years in our crow’s nest overlooking the big ship Sadler’s Wells we are putting it on the market. And what an exercise in set-dressing it is. For three evenings in a row last week we edited our possessions, leaving only the most shiny and sleek objects behind (when it came to the kitchen gadgetry, lined up like a row of X Factor finalists, there was a minute’s silence as we

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-25174712768041682792010-08-13T10:51:00.002+01:002010-08-16T15:35:12.217+01:00

 Since I was very young, the mishmash of late summer vegetables that is ratatouille has been atop my list of food favourites; a cast iron pot of soft yielding courgettes, rags of stewed tomato and slow cooked onion instils a nursery-style comfort. I cannot get enough of it and it screams August. Until embarrassingly recently I was unacquainted with its sassy Italian cousin, Caponata. A ‘grown-up’

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-54209352803076144292010-07-22T11:36:00.005+01:002010-07-22T12:15:13.443+01:00

There is a secret garden in Regent’s Park. You may already know where it is, but if you don’t…well, sorry, but you’ve had a big enough clue already. A very good friend of ours decided to share this secret with us recently and we are enormously grateful that he did. We won’t tell anyone, we promise. Gardens make me very happy. They are havens from the rest of life and picnics in them are bliss.

BSGnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-51751688027051272672010-07-16T10:55:00.003+01:002010-07-16T12:12:37.043+01:00

Ah, the seaside. Sweeping views, breezes, sandcastles and picnics. You sit back, the sun on your face and the wind in your hair and let the fresh air permeate. Now time for lunch, you unwrap your carefully made sandwich (make sure it’s yours though, with the special mark you made – you don’t want the dry-looking one), bite into the soft roll and get the unmistakeable grind of sand between your

BSGnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-28087383736629478182010-07-12T15:57:00.000+01:002010-07-12T15:57:48.899+01:00

The BSG was attacked by an exploding aubergine recently (thankfully the burn on his face didn't scar though people kept trying to wipe the 'lipstick' off his cheek at a wedding the following day). The moral of the story is to PRICK THOSE BAD BOYS before oven baking, they are Darth Vader when they're hot. Here in case you missed it before is a recipe for aubergine dip, shamelessly reproduced.

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-69837582840893767092010-07-08T15:41:00.002+01:002010-07-08T15:49:47.175+01:00

The doorman took my coat whilst another whisked me through them with a smile and without a whisper. I entered the busy room redolent with lunchtime chatter, as if carried on an invisible current. Gliding alongside the handsome Maître d’ I was escorted to my seat, where the man was already waiting. Through ribbons of pale cigarette smoke* his eyes flashed azure and a smile flickered at the corner

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-83735010872475878692010-07-03T15:45:00.002+01:002010-07-03T15:47:24.011+01:00

Norfolk’s elderflower bushes put up their parasols last weekend - they arrived about 3 weeks late this year, but better late than never: they were gigantic, frothy flying saucers, their champagne notes effervescent in the air. The BSG had been so keen to get cutting and steeping on our previous visit that the kitchen cupboard was already stocked with citric acid, which had been easily procured

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-16452067209386729852010-06-24T13:32:00.003+01:002010-07-03T15:48:40.633+01:00

The other week we found ourselves in a garden so rambling and beautiful that even the next-door neighbour’s roses wanted in. With heavy heads they craned over the dividing wall, chaotic with their strong, sweet scents, dropping petals in their eagerness to spot the wild strawberries running rampage over the flagstones. Looking over the other way, I was mystified as to their covetousness, for not

BSGnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-46412032201455798722010-06-17T16:16:00.001+01:002010-06-17T16:16:09.399+01:00

Earlier this year, the tellyfood void left after Masterchef (annoying voiceover; brilliant amateur cooks) was seamlessly filled with Great British Menu and thus disaster was averted: we could spend our weeknights drooling at the tv once more. However, it is becoming increasingly clear that the water bath is taking over where the oven - a perfectly acceptable tool, in my book - once sufficed. The

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-59912206827983044322010-06-10T16:07:00.002+01:002010-07-03T15:49:05.093+01:00

The other day, the flat deserted, I deliriously reached the summit of my culinary Everest and there planted a flag, having wrangled heroically up its treacherous north face. I made an omelette. A quick lunch or supper dish which Mum used to make (for four ravenous children) with great dexterity, often throwing in tomatoes, cheese and ham on demand, the omelette is something I’ve shied away from,

BSGnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-27274310603363636792010-06-04T09:37:00.003+01:002010-07-03T15:49:40.630+01:00

Our first weekend back on home soil (hovering over it actually) as Mr and Mrs BSG was spent mostly apart. Man do stag – wife play house. Well…not exactly. This particular one spent a blissful Saturday evening folded with friends in a squishy chesterfield, sipping expertly-crafted cocktails in Mark’s Bar at HIX, the next day dawning on a happy Campari headache. To welcome back the BSG from rather

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-26195502290552976522010-05-28T10:42:00.002+01:002010-06-01T12:26:47.770+01:00

For the BSG and me, seminal moments and special occasions are unquestionably commemorated with food. Our first date - back in 2005 - was on an internet meal-deal at Sugar Hut near Fulham Broadway. It wasn’t awful, especially if you like crispy-fried-sweet battered things with neon dipping sauces and feel like more of that for afters. Since 2005, things have gone uphill (and - largely - further

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-70046987832775071202010-04-27T17:01:00.001+01:002010-04-27T17:01:32.380+01:00

Unusually, for a being with such confident knife skills, there is one kitchen instrument that strikes terror in the heart of BSG - not to mention that of his intrepid sidekick, moi: the Japanese mandolin. Far from it being a sweet-sounding instrument that might be played at a tea ceremony, it is one rather of death to the fingertips. Not only does it sound like some kind of venomous snake, it is

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-15025170506093306892010-04-14T19:25:00.002+01:002010-07-03T15:50:14.919+01:00

There are plenty of things in life that one doesn’t need but that one wants, a case in point being the yoghurt maker that the BSG has added to our wedding list…I think our kitchen is one white good short of a showroom already (I’m also rather excited at this extension of his repertoire.) Other objects are completely necessary but equally unexciting, such as the ironing board on the very same list

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-18715736872553012952010-03-24T10:14:00.002Z2010-03-24T11:35:36.677Z

On the website it says that the food is the main draw at the Tiroler Hut, suggesting a veritable showcase of the best of Austrian fare. I’ll not be knocking the food AA Gill-style, but I would beg to differ – we all know why we’re here and the nosh ain’t it. For the best Austrian fare in the big smoke, I have heard that Kipferl does a mean bratwurst, and that Kurz & Lang is the only Austrian deli

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-37048095043651292972010-03-15T21:00:00.002Z2010-03-15T21:03:07.173Z

Alarmed by the ‘chaos without the skill’ segment in my last post, having identified it as a plummet in my kitchen confidence the ever-supportive BSG has suggested that I be the skipper in the galley for the next week and he be the pot-washer. He has vowed not to do the back-seat cooking that lends him his name - nay, not even to set a toe over the threshold to interfere. I feel rather like the

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-78801529281439285162010-03-08T22:06:00.002Z2010-07-03T15:50:35.958+01:00

Taking away the meat element from our diet in the last few days has meant that we look closer at our meals in terms of sources of different nutrients and components – for example, finding alternative sources of protein. The MFW (meat-free week) was a resounding success, and I do believe that a bit of the habit has lingered. Not such great news if you are a fish, perhaps – we have been eating a

BSGnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-9080999173714918332010-02-25T17:04:00.004Z2010-02-26T10:21:16.950Z

So the BSG-instigated ‘meat-free week’ has started well for me, depending on how you look at it. Whilst not one morsel of beast has passed my chops since Sunday, neither in fact has a great deal else - nothing like an untimely reverse from some dodgy shellfish to put paid to that eating malarkey. My rescuer - apart from the BSG of course - was the trusty, uncontaminated banana; I never cease to

BSGnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-83623386875859457732010-02-17T17:30:00.003Z2010-02-17T17:49:01.552Z

In geographical terms, Xinjiang province and Taiwan are worlds apart - well China apart, anyway - and that’s a long way. So this week, the BSG and I did the gastronomic equivalent of crossing that vast country (sort of) to celebrate the imminent Chinese New Year and the arrival of the year of the tiger. For Xinjiang read Camberwell Church Street and Taiwan the Pimlico Road – there seems no easy

BSGnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-22384839955095229932010-02-11T17:26:00.002Z2010-02-12T10:34:03.103Z

In my life I have employed a few odd things to break the fast; fish fingers, beans on toast, cold pizza, curry, left-over Shepherd’s Pie, Egg Mornay…the list goes on. But never cake. No, cake is definitely an after-mid-morning thing for me. Not today. First thing, a loaf-sized box came to the door in the arms of our smiling postman – I am not sure he knew what he was delivering but it certainly

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-75947805746892795182010-02-01T15:00:00.003Z2010-02-01T17:56:39.600Z

A common dilemma: you’re hungry, it’s miserable weather, you want to come home and do yourself a lovely cottage pie, but there’s only one or two of you, and a dish so big it’d do for sixteen…Oh well, do it the next time you have friends round for supper… Not any more. An innovative solution, boys and girls, has presented itself, courtesy of the brilliant Mr JC: I give you the Cottage Jacket, or

BSGnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-30501928841149399202010-01-20T13:05:00.002Z2010-01-20T13:15:37.573Z

It’s January, it’s parky outside and nights are either spent (frantically shedding post-gorging-season guilt) in the gym, or rugged-up against the cold and cruising through the mountain of new cookery books. Inspirational – if you are very quiet, you can just about hear the cogs rotating in the food department of the BSG brain. If there was ever a cookbook that said so much about the author,

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-31809027708502012002010-01-07T13:28:00.002Z2010-01-07T13:42:56.266Z

They say don’t judge a book by its cover, but amidst all the column miles stretching around the dawn of the new decade, devoted to detox, retox, pretox, botox and all things raw and vegetal, what could I do but reach for Nigel Slater’s squeaky new book Tender in an effort to look interested. This book was a just-because present for the BSG late last year - well, more of a boomerang pressie

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-15189374094188419722009-12-22T14:38:00.003Z2010-01-13T10:48:34.862Z

Whilst the BSG is adventurous with food, I would say that I will try most things once (except brain and heart, there’s something too fundamental about those organs for me). No, there aren’t many food places I wouldn’t go. However, when I was small I would crumple up my face in disgust at the thought of three rather watery and embarrassingly inoffensive foodstuffs: celery, cucumber and melon. They

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-12972237041130703492009-12-16T14:43:00.002Z2009-12-16T14:55:49.825Z

I’ve suffered a major disappointment recently. Completely unexpected and a bit of a shock, I feel let down and knocked for six. After many years of harmony, my trusty sidekick, my secret weapon, the Penfold to my Danger Mouse, the fabulous Panasonic Lumix with Leica lens decided to format its memory card, without any warning. A mid-life crisis, perhaps? Let’s hope it’s just a phase. It can’t be

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-55667275912307333842009-12-15T13:35:00.006Z2009-12-15T15:12:10.371Z

Sorry for the silence, I've been ill. Worse than that, a sick sort of ill - not ideal for someone so accustomed to eating with abandon. The BSG has been nursing me back to fighting-fit by way of baked potatoes and hot water bottles. A new post is almost here, as is Christmas. The flat smells of oranges and cloves, trays of mince pies have been seen coming out of the oven: the BSG has been busy.

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-7981994205378969792009-11-29T18:48:00.003Z2009-11-30T17:51:03.756Z

No! Please keep reading! I am not going to write about cabbage for the second week running, I promise. Well, not entirely about cabbage. First I have to explain how I got here, as I know you’ll be curious. It was via the Silk Road – sounds exotic doesn’t it? Giant pink skies and stretching horizons? Not exactly, unless you visit this fine Chinese establishment on Camberwell Church Street one

BSGnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-5671481378669225332009-11-22T19:58:00.005Z2009-11-23T14:06:11.731Z

By now I suspect that some close family members will no doubt be wondering how I can have come this far and neglected to mention my love - well obsession really - of cabbages in all shapes and sizes. When I was a child I would have so many extra helpings that whoever was doing the cooking would get in extra, just for me. I always remember Sunday lunches at my grandparents’, granny proudly

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-70573495238695599982009-11-15T18:34:00.004Z2009-11-17T13:49:42.887Z

It is so rare that it is not overcast and drizzling whenever I land back in England that I thought it worthy of a mention. Like broken egg-yolk, dawn permeates the morning sky, the grapefruit drop sun filters through the cloudscape in a riot of reds, pinks and purples. These hues match those of some jaw-stingingly sour sweets we bought two days ago (called something apt like Head Blasters), in

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-80341847742227963182009-11-05T23:14:00.002Z2009-11-05T23:19:44.529Z

When the moon drops and the day invades, the New York dawn is electrifying. Jetlag and the city’s heartbeat have steadily rocked me awake, ensuring my front row seat for the sun’s performance as it ascends and illuminates the geometry of this vertical landscape. The ever-present hum is soon joined by a steady note of heavier traffic, punctuated by a percussion of horns and sirens, harmonies and

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-53294986356363237702009-10-29T22:59:00.002Z2009-10-30T09:39:10.518Z

I got an email from the BSG last week, asking if he could borrow a pair of my tights. Mildly alarmed, and more than a little intrigued, I agreed to the whole sordid-sounding affair. I’ve already said I’ll marry him, so I suppose at this stage anything goes… As it turns out, the BSG is a gentleman, and a quince-essential one at that… Alright, I am sorry about the terrible attempt at a

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-67010426549278973512009-10-29T13:49:00.002Z2009-10-29T13:52:23.172Z

(for Dave who is running around like a headless chicken setting up his show)I am sure that every family has a hybridised recipe using these exact same ingredients, but this is ours, and it comes from my Granny Scraggs*. She and my mum have made it a signature dish in our family, ensuring that it will run through generations to come. When we were small, this was what we ate for tea most often,

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-67737270650499644342009-10-20T17:56:00.004+01:002009-10-20T18:03:28.356+01:00

Typos: the bane of many office emails but sometimes rather useful. On Friday, the BSG emailed to say that he was off to Bodean’s (I hasten to add that this was not of his choosing), but that he wasn’t even remotely hungary. At the very same moment in an office across London I was in fact ravenous, so this random error led me to a favourite Hungarian food-daydream, goulash, and the extraordinary

BSGnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-10218595641068635622009-10-14T19:53:00.003+01:002009-10-15T10:11:34.954+01:00

We had sped across the flat countryside, the black throat of the tunnel fast receding, the drizzle we smugly thought we’d left at home catching up with us. As G had put it, this part of Northern France, arguably good for tank warfare, was perhaps less successful in terms of window-gazing. No matter, our minds were already feet-up, drinking and watching the world in a Paris bar. Somewhat

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-65929056350624927872009-10-11T18:59:00.002+01:002009-10-11T19:45:03.828+01:00

Hmmm. They’ve put the Christmas lights up on Oxford Street. I know it’s because retailers want to get cracking with their festive trade and good luck to them, but the arrival of these lights heralds the willing away of such a great season, and the start of the ‘Christmas Rush’. Do we have to rush it? It seems that as soon as summer is behind us, it must be time to count down to Christmas, which

BSGnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-89936858691547237862009-10-07T19:28:00.003+01:002009-10-08T14:16:42.534+01:00

The BSG’s favourite place to indulge after we have, erm, indulged in a little too much wine of an evening (it has been known…) is a magical and very reasonable place on Upper Street called Tortilla. It does a quarterback of a burrito, with a choice of pulled slow-cooked pork, chicken, beef or veggies, different rices, glossy black beans, salsas and guacamole, not to mention the various dairy hits

BSGnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-89040408424274438772009-10-06T09:32:00.001+01:002009-10-06T09:35:35.237+01:00

Last weekend, in the late golden September sunlight, we kicked off the hot autumn pudding season with a fragrant, fruity crumble, made by my brother Har, and of course, the BSG.Here's the recipe...This can be pretty much any fruit you like, (and quantities really depend on what crumble to fruit ratio you prefer.)Makes enough for 68 good-sized plums, purple, red or yellow4 large cooking apples2

BSGnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-6705665694375682992009-09-30T20:22:00.004+01:002009-12-15T13:50:12.202Z

I know this blog primarily centres on taste but, in terms of memories and associations, smells are equally evocative, if not more so. How appropriate that wood smoke, a breath of it lacing the evening mist as we arrived in Norfolk on Friday, is for me a comforting scent of home. It transports me to countless afternoons spent clearing (ragging about in) woods as children, building huge bonfires

BSGnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-88083961892286959932009-09-24T12:02:00.003+01:002009-09-24T12:13:34.686+01:00

You may have noticed that the BSG has not been featured much lately, he has been too busy riding tandem bicycles, getting hit by booms on sailing boats and visiting physios as a result. I have asked him to stop shouting at Masterchef: The Professionals on the telly, to put down Nigel Slater's new book and to get back into the kitchen.He is enjoying (if that is the right word) the copper pan I

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-55116386787011413122009-09-23T21:54:00.002+01:002009-09-23T22:06:05.822+01:00

The other day, whilst minding my own business, I stumbled across this bombshell, and chose to take it entirely out of context. It was, after all, a headline on a discarded newspaper lying on the pavement, between a grubby chewing-gum mark and a cigarette butt: obviously whoever else had read this didn’t believe it either and had chucked the offending article away in disgust, without even

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-23781315088442969152009-09-17T08:33:00.004+01:002009-09-17T16:56:46.609+01:00

A little bird told me recently that, though indeniably delectable and certainly pleasurable, there is no nutritional benefit to sweet corn. Whilst I am not absolutely religious when it comes to healthy eating (in fact I am very much a believer in the ‘little bit of what you fancy does you good’ mantra) this made me feel a little bit sad about it. Surely something so redolent of sunlight and basic

BSGnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-77728152474025575462009-09-10T20:07:00.003+01:002009-09-17T16:58:39.257+01:00

Last weekend it was off to the edge of Dartmoor with some girlfriends, to a little white house with primrose yellow windows and a red tin roof, tucked between green water meadows at the end of a steep-sided river valley…no, this is not a children’s story. My maternal grandparents bought this as a holiday cottage in the 1970’s, and the minimum has been done since to improve it - much to the

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-74331769850894419182009-09-09T16:51:00.001+01:002009-09-09T16:58:15.823+01:00

Almost as soon as I had yelped yes in reply to the BSG’s proposal, I had chosen my bridesmaids. They are, as Tina would sing, Simply the Best, and to demonstrate how much I love them I had to take them to a suitable restaurant for our first group session – the first of many I hope. Very keen that I get this right, and hugely excited at the prospect of sharing his love of the place with me, the

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-20069109031429713832009-09-02T19:34:00.001+01:002009-09-17T17:00:42.565+01:00

The BSG’s ‘motherland’ is the Isle of Wight, so what better place to spend the August bank holiday than on its beaches in the sun - during those ‘sunny intervals’, at least.And this is exactly what we did, along with his mum and some of our great friends. Steephill Cove in the south coast of the island is like a scene plucked from a Blyton-esque seaside adventure. Reached solely by a path or two

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-69046233132496259172009-08-27T19:54:00.002+01:002009-09-17T16:59:38.133+01:00

Hmmm, the jury’s out on the cheat’s hollandaise…I had to make an apology to the fish, as time-efficient though it was, it was a different sauce altogether. I also learnt a valuable lesson about making Eton Mess ahead of time – don’t add the meringues until the last minute, after an hour in the fridge they had completely vanished into the cream! Last minute nerves I suppose – nonetheless the

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-73966941859078267022009-08-20T19:51:00.001+01:002009-09-17T17:00:00.852+01:00

I love being engaged. It is like the momentary euphoria one experiences on waking up and remembering that it’s a Saturday or Christmas, but all the time. The BSG proposed to me in May by a beautiful stretch of river in the Scottish Highlands, unfortunately known as ‘The Rubbish Heap’ (thoughts jump to medieval vegetable peelings far beneath our feet), during the few days we were there fishing for

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7391767006197069362.post-85447539748970459792009-08-13T13:54:00.000+01:002009-08-13T14:05:42.807+01:00

The ‘Glorious 12th’ is not only the day that most of the UK’s grouse start to try and get everywhere that bit faster but also the BSG’s birthday. It has become a self-imposed rule that he doesn’t go to work on his birthday, so we usually celebrate with a day centred on eating - as if every other day isn’t.This year it was lunch at The Square on Bruton Street. I will not attempt any kind of review

BSGnoreply@blogger.com0