Barcelona – Part 1

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 – extensive research indeed – it turns out that this is an urban myth. A bit like the one where wiry, adorable, geeky Paul from the Wonder Years became Marilyn Manson and, like that one, I so want it to be true.

You see, my day-job and I have recently parted company due to the godforsaken state of the economy: elements of the critical right there. BUT I have a few things that I have wanted to do for a while and now it seems that the right time has been thrust upon me.
First + second = a crisitunity. *Thanks, Homie* (in a gravelly-Marge-voice*).

I’ll admit that, despite the dominant ‘silver-lining’ genre of discussion, that week - which we’ll call Week R - was fairly shitty (sorry Gran) but, riding on a white charger to my rescue came a weekend in Barcelona with the BSG, booked months beforehand but so perfectly timed. I left my worries behind when Easyjet shut the doors at Gatwick. And then told us that we’d have to wait an hour for a take-off slot. Behind Ryanair. (The BSG did his meditative deep-breathing exercises.)

We touched down in the drizzle. But no matter - two days of eating, drinking and eating and drinking ensued, with a few sights in between. Routes were generally conceived in a join the dots pattern, the dots being the zinc-topped bars where we sought refreshment. Thanks to a finely tuned cultural clock (a very good condensed Rough Guide) we would turn up at each restaurant ten minutes before the rush, but still at a time the late-living Spanish found less funny than the 7pm slots filled by the Americans.

After throwing our cases at the bed in our hotel room we turned on our heels and made a BSG-line for the Boqueria. It didn’t disappoint these two Barca beginners and we quickly found a table in one of the many establishment around its fringe. At 5 o’clock it was a late lunch, even for the locals, but we happily washed down grilled octopus and prawns a la plancha with frosted bottles of cool cerveza, ignoring the rain.


   

















Artfully losing ourselves in the Gothic quarter we took in some gargoyles, the other Cathedral and followed our instincts towards the harbour. But by golly sightseeing is thirsty work; now it was time for another drink. Again the guidebook came up trumps and led us to a Xampanyeria (Cava bar) in an old garage in Barceloneta which served, unsurprisingly, cava, by the coupe. They had the BSG at cava, and they had me at coupe.

Can Paixano is a crowded, rowdy, standing-room only joint where you have to holler over the counter for your drinks at the perennially patient and smiling staff. The atmosphere is brilliant and the fizz and delicious hot entrepans and tapas are robust and apt foil to the sheer quantities of booze being quaffed: you have to order food with your drinks. The floor, strewn with discarded sandwich wrappers, testifies to this fact. There being no time for indecision you just choose anything from the huge wooden menu boards and hope for the best. We did and weren’t disappointed with plates of sizzling chorizo and morcilla. It’s as cheap as it is filthy at under a Euro for a glass of the house stuff (not surprisingly it is full of international students.) We’d had such fun that in our two-day stay, we made the trip twice.
















Then it was onwards, through the thunderstorms, to Cal Pep….

Wagyu very much

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, there was that gravy…

We followed this up with a winner of a Mark Hix recipe: autumn fruits macerated in Sloe Gin atop a good blob of rice pudding. After this kind of eating, there was only one strategy: it was to be danced off until dawn.

 

The leftovers (we couldn’t believe our luck) were the stuff of dreams. And doorstop sandwiches, Thai noodle soups…

Nigella’s Moroccan Lamb, Jemima’s way

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 - at which time you want to evacuate. Until I got to know this family I’m not sure I knew anyone - save my Mum and her copy of The Cookery Year - who actually dipped into cookbooks very often. I mean, they look lovely and are fun to peruse and pipe-dream your way through but how many recipes from their beautiful pages does the average person actually attempt?

The BSG’s sister, Jemima, treated us to a feast recently. Inspired by three bedside muses from the cookbook pile, Yotam, Nigella and Valentine, she laid on a spread that belied her pitiful nurse’s pay and night-shift induced fatigue. By day - and often by night - she is nothing short of heroic. If ever such care were to be translated into food, it was at this supper.

After a starter of beetroot and goat’s cheese with peppery leaves and mint came the main event: Nigella’s Moroccan leg of lamb with Yotam’s jewelled couscous, re-interpreted by Jemima. The meat was tender and infused with aromatic flavours within and crisp and caramelised on the outside (impossible to resist swiping the charred bits off the carving board with my fingers as I pretended to clear up afterwards). Marinated in a bag in the fridge first for 24 hours, it was as if the animal had grown up in a souk and had been taking on the flavours all its life and Jemima’s addition of a drop or two of rosewater lifted it skywards to sublime. It was a spiced dream of a roast, perhaps the best lamb I’ve eaten anywhere. Moorish indeed.

1 leg of lamb, approx. 2.5kg

2 tbsp ras el hanout spice blend

2 lemons, juice only

2 clove garlic, minced

6 tbsp olive oil

1 bunches coriander, fresh, chopped

Make incisions all over the leg of lamb, and then mix the ras-el-hanout with the lemon juice, oil, minced garlic and coriander.

Using your fingers, push pinches of the mixture into the holes. Rub the remaining aromatic paste over the lamb and then put it into a large freezer bag, squeeze out any air and then tie it up and leave it to marinade in the fridge overnight, or for longer.

Pre-heat the oven to 200°C/gas mark 6, and take the lamb out of the fridge to come to room temperature.

Put the leg of lamb into a roasting pan, squeezing any marinade out of the bag over the meat. Roast the lamb for about an hour and a half (though J says one hour and twenty mins), by which time it should be aromatically blackened on the outside, and still tender and pink within. Let the lamb rest once it comes out of the oven for at least 15 minutes, though I leave this a good hour after it's come out of the oven.

Mr Ottolengi’s couscous was light and scattered with gems: emerald cucumber ribbons and ruby-like pomegranate seeds amongst other goodies. It was the perfect side dish, though I am sure one that’d be a very good protagonist in the absence of the meat. And don’t get me started on Valentine’s buns! Soaked like bath-sponges (similarity ends there, they were light and perfect) in a of oranges, cardamom and honey; we definitely each had one more than we ought.

With this kind of culinary confidence flowing through the BSG family veins, it’s rather uncharacteristic of him to be so jittery. For the first time ever he is worried that he’s going to mess up, wait for it - roast beef.

But this is not just any old beef. Its Kobe beef (oooooooh) from the very first UK-bred herd of Wagyu cattle. A select group of us are donning our critics’ bibs this weekend to see what all the fuss is about and we’re overexcited to taste this extra marbled brute, which has now been hanging for a good few weeks. Our super friend Tam’s Dad has been dedicated to this project, lovingly farming the herd in Suffolk and we’ve bagged our lucky selves a considerable chunk of the first steer to hit the block (for mates’ rates bien sur). We can’t wait to try it, before the rest of the herd goes to top restaurants all over the UK. Watch this space for pictures and verdict on what promises to be the ultimate roast!

* This recipe inspired me to reach for one of the many Nigella books we have on our shelves, which made me realise that when she is not voluptuously binging on sweet things by the milky light of her fridge in that satin dressing gown she is really a very happy-making cook.