The Violet Hour

The sky overhead looms with helium-balloon clouds, threatening rods of rain one minute and spilling golden pools of sunshine the next. I shut my eyes and I am on a rooftop in a New York twilight with my sister, sipping a cocktail I made especially…

It’s made with my current favourite soft option (sorry elderflower, but take a break), violet cordial; an acquired taste that reminds me of my grandmother’s penchant for violet creams from Fortnum’s. In your early evening tipple, a splosh of this will add a little extra garden to the botanical notes gin lends and goes extremely well in a vodka and tonic too…or at any time with sparkling water, fresh from the Soda Stream.

I can’t think of a better reason to bring on summer… and wonder if Jay Gatsby would approve.

The Violet Hour

The measurements are up to you (it’s a party after all)but you need:

1 dash Monin violet cordial
1 shot Absolut Citron, vodka or gin
Tonic water
Ice

Come Back Chicken and a Big Apple

As food goes, there’s nothing more homely than roast chicken. It was the first thing we cooked in the box-fresh oven in the new kitchen and the last thing we laid on for my sister and brother-in-law last Friday night, hours before they jetted off to a new chapter in New York. I had been desperately flicking though my mental rolodex of ways to make them stay and failing that, I settled on a dish that might remind them to return home one day…

We managed to cram in a decent enough amount of wine as well – not so much that it got too emotional – plus some passion fruit creams in little espresso cups from my Christmas copy of Kitchen Diaries II, speckled with the seeds and soaked in a pool of golden juice, which accompanied my teaspoon with every mouthful, right to the bottom.  Once blasted Banuary is over, I am going to give it a bash with other fruit as it was particularly delicious and super easy.



What’s below is NOT rocket science obviously but how I do my roast chicken which, the BSG tells me, is pretty good. The basic formula will take on almost anything throughout the year; fresh herbs such as sage or tarragon, or wild garlic in the cavity, spices like Ras-el Hanout or Harissa and yoghurt rubbed into the skin and sit proudly alongside any salad as well as lasting you through the week. Good for the diet and the budget: what better friend could you ask for right now?

Basic Roast Chicken

You need:
1 chicken (free-range. One of those happy Woodland-roaming ones will do – not sure of the weight but should cost you between 6 and 8 pounds)
1/4 lemon
½ onion
Fresh thyme sprigs (optional)
Olive oil/butter
Salt & pepper

Remove the chicken from the fridge 10 minutes before you need it to bring it to room temperature and then place it in a roasting pan. Heat your oven to 190C. Slice the top quarter off a lemon and squeeze it over the top of the chicken before putting it into the cavity with the thyme sprigs and the half-onion. Drizzle the top and legs with oil or smear with a few knobs of butter. Season generously with salt and lightly with pepper before putting into the hot oven.

Cook for 20 minutes, before taking the tray out and turning the chicken over breast-side down (be careful here!). This should do some basting for you and ensure that everything is as juicy as possible. Return to the oven and cook for another 20 minutes before turning the chicken back over, spooning some of the basting juices over the legs. The onion, lemon or thyme may fall out at this stage, but they will go towards making lip-smacking gravy as they cook away in the tin. The skin should crisp up and brown in this last 20-30 minutes.

After between an hour and 5 minutes and an hour and a quarter’s cooking time, the chicken should be done, but to double check, insert a skewer between the leg and the breast to see if the juices run clear. It is almost always an hour and 10 minutes for me, but ovens vary. Lift the bird out and set onto a board, covering with foil if you like. It does well to rest for 10 minutes while you make the gravy; it will be juicy and easier to carve after resting.

For the gravy: drain off as much of the clear fat from the tin as you can, squeeze the remnants of the lemon quarter with the back of a spoon and keep any bits from the onion in there which have caramelised but not burnt, discarding the rest. Put the tin over a medium heat and scrape the sticky brown bits loose – they will be packing valuable chickeny flavour. Add a knob of butter and melt it. You can add a tablespoon of plain flour at this stage and cook it lightly, for thicker gravy. Add some hot or boiling water – about an espresso-cup’s worth – and a slug of white wine, smear it all together and simmer for a few minutes. Taste, adding more water and seasoning if necessary.

New York (and no, I haven’t forgotten there’s a Barcelona Part 2).

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 relieved to have packed my umbrella but the next morning the city made its entrance under a high blue sky and in dazzling sunlight, which stayed throughout our stay. New York had dressed for the occasion and the BSG had her best side. We spent the days wandering her ordered streets, the concrete seemingly unrolled over the island like a sheet, coating every yard of it save a few green breaks and countless steaming drain covers where the hot realm beneath stole its respite in long sighs. Our moments of recess generally took the form of refreshment; Katz’s Deli was a must and the first mark on our map. I must admit that it was a lot bigger than I’d imagined it, appropriately loud (and that was just the staff behind the counter) and brash; utterly at home in this city, then.

I had pastrami on rye. I refuse to call it a sandwich because the hand versus cutlery debate didn’t even get a look in. Even the ‘regulars’ employed the metal, like overweight climbers with crampons, to climb this exquisite mountain of warm, spiced beef (and in my case, tomato, Swiss cheese and lettuce; strangely, adding extra, non-meaty ingredients made me feel more virtuous, albeit adding to the workload). Thank goodness we’d covered half the city on foot beforehand; the thing was huge, but my golly it was sublime – I don’t think I uttered an intelligible word over one syllable for the duration. The BSG had the brisket on rye, but no amount of tangy, yellow mustard-aise could make up for his obvious food envy – luckily I needed help. I took a photo, but the perfection didn’t translate and I’m not sure I can find the words either, but you gotta trust me. Iced tea was the perfect choice to wash it all down. Oh, and a plate of crunchy gherkins pickled to varying degrees. Yup, I ♥ NY.

A lunch at Anthony Bourdain’s Les Halles seemed a great lunch spot and didn’t disappoint. My steak tartare, mixed ‘tableside’ was hot and salty and had my first invasion of anchovies in the dish; they were very welcome. The BSG, undeterred by a solid few days of grazing big ordered the choucroute but still couldn’t get over his phobia of that bright, tight-skinned orange US staple, the frank (not Joan Rivers). So no, there were no ‘streetside’ snacks for us, not even so much as a pretzel - no room - and I’m still not sure what a corn dog is.
TBC…
* These were very much on order in the Rangers ice hockey game we saw one night - a game where fighting is positively encouraged and seen as a great skill. Still, preferable to a mouthful of puck I suppose…

Not guilty…

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 a shrine to all things artificially coloured and flavoured: Dylan’s Candy Store, a New York must-see, according to Ari. ‘How sour can they be?’ I thought. Well let me tell you, it was endured rather than enjoyed - the child in me wouldn’t let me spit it out.

Dylan’s is not a place to go if you are feeling in any way fragile, waves of colours and flavours hit you as do immediate thoughts of overdue dentist trips. I wondered how the staff could stand it, listening to candy-themed classics such as ‘Lollipop’ on an interminable loop, and retain their teeth (not to mention their sanity). Don’t read this wrong – it was a marvel: I was 10 again, eyeing up the everlasting gobstoppers and custom-coloured M&Ms. For this riot in glorious technicolour I had been well prepared. Just the day before, we’d spiralled up the smooth white snail-shell of the Guggenheim for the kaleidoscopic Kandinsky exhibition: an altogether different feast for the eyes. The museum stands on the edge of the park, an alien monolith in the towering Upper East Side landscape.

 

Too often, food that is most immediately obvious is sugar-laden, guilt-rich, and high in fat. Luckily, Dylan’s was a case of reverse psychology for me, otherwise I would still be there chomping my way through it all. Looking at my ‘to eat’ list, a great number of items were laden with healthy dollops of vice, however food-guilt is not something I am troubled by. The hot pastrami bagel (I’m told it is called the Reuben, piled high with mustard, cheese and pickles) tackled one lunchtime was New York in a bite, and I don’t regret a morsel of it. Like everything here, it was big…but I coped, and got some help in.

After reading many internet entries about the city’s perfect burger, I had an inkling that perhaps I was trying too hard – surely none of them were too shabby? An evening at PJ Clarke’s, a red brick tavern style place, a two storey bastion in a forest of glass towers, satisfied my craving. I am not entirely sure that I am all that high-maintenance – just give me a soft bun, some ketchup and a gherkin and I’m happy. However, I must say that this was a satisfying experience all round, the burger was slightly crisp on the outside, smothered in golden melted cheese, with a side of crispy matchstick fries in their obligatory paper. In the Big Apple, the burger is a different creature, unpretentious and easy to eat, and it must be approached accordingly (if it comes in a plastic basket, so much the better).

Another night: another world. Dinner at Rouge Tomate was homage to eating healthily and sustainably, concepts that are perhaps less visible behind the hotdogs, pizzas, bagels and other fast foods on offer in this city. We were told proudly but not sanctimoniously that our meal would provide three quarters of our recommended daily nutritional needs – not bad so far. But the trouble with things that are really good for you is that so often they are on their way to disgusting, stopping en route at bland and insipid. Not so here, everything was cooked to bring out the natural flavours of the ingredients, and to prove how delicious the results are, the restaurant had just been bestowed with its first Michelin star. Its laid-back appearance belied this; it was convivial and unstuffy, with lots of natural wood and a long cocktail bar. We were lucky enough to sit in a booth looking out onto the vast dining room; the whole thing felt very Sex and the City.

The ceviche of fluke I had to start was exquisite to behold. Sprinkled with micro herbs, kiwi and mango, the petal thin slivers of fish were scattered with popcorn which was fun and gave an interesting textural dimension. It was fresh and fragrant, tangy on the tongue: I felt very virtuous and not at all like I was compromising. The enormous scallops (the two were enough) that followed were perfectly caramelised on the outside and delightfully translucent within, and worked well with stir-fried sprouts and sweet goat’s milk polenta.

Sprouts get such a bad rap due to people’s hideous childhood memories of being force-fed overcooked balls of yellow mush, but for me they are a lifelong love and I must champion these misunderstood greens. Slicing and stir frying them keeps their important bite and makes them different creatures altogether…especially with little bits of bacon and chestnuts for the impending festive season.

Mariza’s squash soup tasted like Christmas in a bowl and whilst Dad’s gravadlax came second to the exciting apple salad it sat under, the venison he had next packed an extremely tasty and similarly festive punch. We shared a tangy California white wine, recommended by the sommelier who knew her stuff. The combinations were thoughtfully conceived and fresh-tasting, the flavours made complete sense, and at the risk of stating the blindingly obvious, everything tasted like it should at its best, if you know what I mean. Even after a pudding each we did not feel so overwhelmed that we couldn’t squeeze in another cocktail…

As the plane taxied for take-off last night, New York gave me her swan song, one last frisson of what I would miss, leaving the city for another year. An island of lights in a sea of inky darkness, her flashing firework displays providing a mental snapshot to carry with me until we meet again. Next time I will bring the BSG, there’s lots more food exploring to do.

Chomping my way through the big apple

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 discord building, the orchestra tunes up for the melody of another day…Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, I reckon.

This metropolis doesn’t shut down; transitions between night and day are marked not by stops and starts, but rather by a change in tone. This place is brash, fast, sleepless, beguiling, never more so than during these first waking moments, and right now it feels like it is all mine. From Dad’s apartment on the 29^th floor, it is all at my feet (or rather a long way below them – I am told that on rainy days you can be in the clouds up here), a man-made carpet of activity and adventure lying before me.

On the eve of my departure for this city that never sleeps, we thought we’d enter a New York state of mind with some transportative cocktails at 69 Colebrooke Row, a Prohibition-style speakeasy of a cocktail bar, a handy seven-minute walk from my half-packed suitcase. The owner and head alchemist, Tony Conigliaro, has won the title of something like ‘the absolute best bartender in the world…ever’, so says the BSG, so we were in for a treat. We stepped from the chilly night into a low-lit, cosy room, softly resonating with a tinkle of jazz. The whole place felt like a secret. Given seats at the bar, at the mouth of the magician’s cauldron and by far the most exciting place to be, we huddled over the menu, whispering at the possibilities. I had the Death in Venice, an elixir of Campari*, grapefruit bitters and Prosecco – it took me on a dreamy holiday for long after I had finished it. The BSG ordered his usual, an Old Fashioned, which he said was the best he’d ever had. We will go back, again and again, until they can no longer stand the sight of us.

So here I am, and without my BSG. With regards to spare time, I felt it only appropriate to state my intentions early on; I am a food tourist, eager to take food souvenirs back home. My Dad, Step-mum and stepsister were expecting this and have done some preliminary research…I have 10 days and an appetite. So this week, work dominates, next week, food.

Still, a girl’s gotta eat…

 

First stop was a food shop, always a good method of immersing oneself in a different eating culture, and this excursion didn’t disappoint. Dad and I squeezed our way through the adoring crowds of marathon supporters (no, we weren’t running, and no, I don’t have a marathon in me, but I think people who do are amazing), intent and devout in our mission. Nestled underneath the arches of the 59^th Street Bridge, the patter of running shoes bravely soldiering on twenty feet above us and unheard, we found ourselves in an ivory temple to food, our chosen place of worship this Sunday morning, cavernous and beautiful. This was the Food Emporium, one of a chain of many supermarkets in the city, but I got the distinct impression we were in the smartest (the neighbouring Conran Shop was a clue). These ivory halls celebrated foodstuffs of every variety – this was not a weekly drag round soulless aisles under flickering strip-lights – this was an experience, an event where abundance and choice are key. How many UK shops can boast a whole shelf of peanut butter? This was my kind of spirituality, packaged any way you wanted it.

At Bloomingdales (an early stop, natch), my stepmother and stepsister led me to Forty Carrots, where we indulged (or rather drowned) in the most gigantic cumulus of frozen yoghurt known to man (Ari says it’s the best: it was spectacular, bigger than her face, and would have kept a small village going for a week). We all got brain-freeze, which explains the fit of impulse buying that ensued…

A stateside childhood treasure for me (up there with Archie comics and Reese’s Pieces), is the garish and irresponsibly categorized breakfast cereal they call Froot Loops. There it was, staring at me from the kitchen cupboard, the last box left from a variety pack; I had to try it once more. I must say that although a tiny part of me still loved them, it was to be my final foray into this hyperactive realm of coloured (all natural flavours eh?) breakfast confectionery. Well, perhaps I’ll revisit Apple Jacks just one more time…

* When it comes to Campari, I am a bit of a Johnny-come-lately I must admit, the bitter taste was to me reminiscent of pencil-sharpenings. Until recently, that is, when I realised it was for sipping rather than quaffing.