Do, or do not. There is no try.

Why did you do that?

Um. I don’t know.

Ok. Well, do you remember the last time you did that?

Yes.

And how it went wrong that time too?

Um. Yes.

Ok, so you did it again.

Um…Yes.

Hmm. Well, next time, shall we try for you not to do it again?

Um… … Yes.

So run most conversations The Boy and I have on the rare occasions that he cooks. Inevitably something will go wrong, and, most probably will be something caused by him having repeated a mistake he’s made before.

It leaves me blinking. Sometimes, even speechless (much to his delight).

We talk about it sometimes, other times we engage in animated debate about it. But, what we both agree on is that cooking and food, for me, is second nature, and for him doesn’t even register on the nature-scale.

The majority of women think about make up, making themselves up and how to save up for that killer dress. I think about seasons, seasonings and how to save up for that killer saddle of venison. I’ve been cooking pasta from the age of 7 for my brother and father and me (my mother worked away a lot), so it’s no surprise that now, 20 years down the line, I’m comfortable with cooking (and really comfortable with eating. Grin).

The Boy, on the very far removed other hand, did not cook. He has the blessing of a very caring mother who did it all for him. At university, like so many other student beings, he lived off frozen pizzas, beer and bread. So, aside from all the other wench-like qualities I have thrust into his life since we have been us, he’s had a rude awakening into what good food is, and, cooking. How he has to learn at least something about it.

It may not surprise those of you who know me to hear that first on the agenda was pasta. I will now admit to having purposely put the fear of Zeus in him about over-cooking it. I made it perfectly clear when we set out on this voyage of culinary discovery that my neck turns red, my eye twitches and my throat closes when someone over cooks pasta. And it worked beautifully. Never has such attention been paid to a pan than when The Boy is cooking us pasta. Aside from the very first time he cooked it when it was actually over-cooked, he has never produced anything other than assuredly al dente pasta. (And in my defence, even with that first sloppy attempt, I didn’t turn into The Incredible Hulk on him. I’m actually a big pussy cat at heart.)

However now I find myself facing a bigger problem. He has grown comfortable with pasta, which is great, but it is largely reliant on my being there and talking him through every step. If I don’t tell him to do something, he won’t do it, even if this is something that needs doing, like turning a pan down if it’s burning. Why not? Because I didn’t tell him to.

How can I teach him to use his intuition when intuition relies on previous experience? And how can he build up genuine previous experience if he’s only comfortable cooking when I am telling him what to do? When I do it’s as if I am to be the puppeteer and him my floppy, inanimate play-piece. (No analogies to be made there please).

The times that I’m not able to retain my usual patience of a saint (ha.ha.), our kitchen episodes turn into Episodes. I see red at the lack of pragmatism that pervades his actions. Why did you continue to cook the vegetables if you could see them burning? Don’t you think you should add more water to the rice if it’s not cooked but the water has evaporated? And how do you think you peel an egg?!!?!?!

After such an episode, he will no doubt tell me that he’s not “good enough” to cook without a cookbook, and next time he’s going to pick a recipe and cook from a book.

Fine. Please do.

Fast-forward to the cooking from a book day, and, guess what? He’s concentrating so hard on reading the steps and wondering whether slicing means long bits or small square bits, and where it might tell you what to do if the potato isn’t soft even though you’ve had it in the pan for the time it says in the recipe, that he doesn’t have time to cut at all and serves up raw potato. And probably burns something too, just for good measure.

And so we’re back here again.

Do you remember me telling you that cutting things the same size means it cooks at the same time?

Yes.

Ok, so why didn’t you do that this time.

Um. I don’t know.

Ok. Did the recipe tell you to?

Um… no. Well, it just said ‘slice’. But I didn’t know what that meant and then I had to put it in the pan and it wasn’t ready.

Why didn’t you turn the pan off to give yourself some time?

Um… … I don’t know. The recipe didn’t say that.

Blink.

Breathe.

Blink.

You hear it all the time nowadays – food writers or chefs sharing a recipe on TV or in a magazine, and saying that it shouldn’t be something to constrain the cook. It should be something to inspire. Instead of being something for a novice cook, I think recipes are something for a more experienced cook. How else do you know what to do if your recipe attempt starts to go off-piste? Or what might be a good substitute for chervil?

A novice cook should be in the kitchen messing around, fully concentrating on the messing so that if it messes up, they’ll remember what caused the mess and hopefully not do it again. How can a recipe writer possible intuit what its reader might understand from ‘a medium heat’, or ‘rolling boil’ if they’ve never experienced that before? It’s not the writer’s fault. They can’t possibly predict all the potentially misunderstandings of their recipe. But, then, as a novice obediently following a recipe, what are they supposed to do when the pan they believe to be on a medium heat has scorched their garlic into demonic brown gravel and filled the kitchen with smoke? It’s not in the recipe, so maybe it’s right…?

Yes there are beginners’ cookbooks, but, much like life, the best way to learn is to do. And to do wholeheartedly. Yoga teaches its pupils the importance of being present. Simply being in the moment in which you are now. Being here fully and completely. And in the kitchen that’s all you need. An engagement with your product and processes, even if that’s simply not letting the teabag stew or the Vienetta melt (a heinous crime worthy of being hung, drawn and made into carpaccio). I don’t expect The Boy to suddenly start meditating in the lotus position before he enters the kitchen, but, what I do hope is that one day soon he’ll stop believing he can’t do it alone and start believing it’s worth a go. Have a stab at it. Suck it and see. Risk it for a biscuit.

No questions about it: a Wagon Wheel, with jam. Easy.

Je sais quoi

There are times that I eat out as a practical measure – perhaps to catch up with a friend after work for longer than a just quick drink, or a plate of something nearby your evening’s destination be it theatre, gathering or film.

Then there are the times I eat out for the eating element – The Boy and I will book a table in ‘good’ restaurant to mark an occasion, and for probably the whole week preceding it I will be perusing the menu and flapping my hands in excitement at the impending feed.

On Friday we were lucky enough to see ‘The Audience’, with lovely lovely Helen Mirren. I go weak at the knees with love for her and her talent as an actress, so The Boy got outrageously large amounts of brownie points for finding those tickets. As a thank you, I said I would get the dinner beforehand. But, that left me in a no-man’s land between the two scenarios above – we needed to eat something as a practical measure (remember, I have an appetite on me nearly all the time, so the idea of not eating one evening is just silly), but as a thank you for the theatre tickets, I wanted to eat something for the eating of it.

Hmmm.

Practicality reigned initially, in that I knew it would have to be somewhere close to the theatre. Soho. Doesn’t exactly narrow the options down, does it?

But, in one of those perfect-alignments-of-the-heavenly-bodies moment, I happened to start looking at the Arbutus restaurant group, comprising Arbutus, Wild Honey and Les Deux Salons. Set up by Anthony Demetre and Will Smith (not the Wild West Will. A different Will), Arbutus was the first restaurant they opened back in 2006, in Soho. The year after saw Wild Honey open in Mayfair, and a Michelin star awarded to Arbutus, and in 2010, Les Deux Salons opened in Covent Garden.

I was surprised at my own reaction to the menus. There is very clearly a French theme running through them all. And me and French food don’t get on, for two main reasons: butter and cream. Bleh. I can’t do either of them, especially not in the quantity that the French use them. Give me olive oil and sauce-less dishes any day. Thus my affinity with Italian food. However, their menus got my attention and Arbutus and Wild Honey were both promptly added to The List Of Restaurants I Want To Eat At. Les Deux Salons is just that bit too typically French.

A table was booked at Arbutus for 6pm, the a la carte menu (I don’t believe a kitchen is seen at its best through the eyes of a pre-theatre menu). A word, however, must be said about the pre-theatre menu. It is £18.95 for two courses or £20.95 for three, running until 6.30pm Monday to Saturday.  They also offer a plat du jour for £10 including a (250ml) carafe of wine. The dishes offered do not look like the impoverished relatives of the finer forays into gastronomy found on the full menu. They feature on the a la carte too. I’m not sure that many Michelin starred restaurants in London offer those kinds of deals. Even the a la carte menu is reasonably priced. Already I felt myself warming to this group.

The interior of the restaurant is elegant without being intimidating, airy without being impersonal and alive without being hectic. We were showed to our table, and, after a Week (note the capital) I needed some wine. I’m not sure if he was a dedicated sommelier, but a gentleman came to take our drinks order soon after we’d sat down, and when asked a few questions about the wines, was able to direct us to something we might like. If we didn’t like it he would take it away and we could choose something else. Wines are listed as 750ml, or as 250ml carafes, and, guess what? The 250ml price is nearly exactly a third of the 750ml price.

The Eyebrow smiled.

Next came choosing the food. Mediterranean fish soup immediately grabbed me, followed by roasted cod fillet, baby squid and squid ink, with sea purslane. The Boy was toying between a steak tartare and Dorset crab for starters, with a main of lamb, carrot and cumin puree, Madeira-braised celery and pine nuts.

Our waiter came and I asked if the soup was cream based. Woe upon woe, it was. Immediately he asked if I was lactose intolerant. I explained that I luckily wasn’t, but it was more that I didn’t enjoy creamy dishes. He smiled, said he was lactose intolerant, and then proceeded to take me through which dish didn’t have a creamy sauce and which dish he could ask Chef to omit the creamy element. He also said, when taking my mains order, that he would ask Chef not to cook the fish in butter. I hadn’t even thought to ask that. I had never thought to ask that.

Were it more polite, I would have sat with my mouth agape.

I took his advice and went for the Dorset crab with avocado, peas, peanuts and loquats, followed by the cod. Given I was having the crab, the boy went for the steak tartare and then the lamb. That I don’t like avocado (one of the many reasons I drive me mad. I try so hard and every time it just makes me body-squirm and pull a face that would make the International Gurners’ Association proud) or peanuts didn’t matter. I hate making fusses, and having worked in a kitchen know how irritating it can be having an order come through holding this and that and the next thing. I resolved to strategically place said offending items to one side of the plate.

The starters arrived and we tucked in. The Boy’s tartare was a tart yet mellow mix of Tabasco, soft, delicate flesh and Worcestershire sauce. My crab was sweet and fruity, the loquats firm and tangy, the peas were freshly podded and raw, the avocado was, drum roll please, enjoyable. Yes. Thin slices of firm avocado. None of the usual slippery, paste-like slime that has me wriggling in dismay. The Eyebrow smiled again.

The mains were as triumphant as the starters. The Boy’s lamb was a long fillet, encased in a thin layer of skin so crispy it looked like pancetta. The meat was soft and rich, obviously having benefitted from the layer of fat seeping in as it cooked. The accompaniments were delicious too, the Madeira-braised celery being a particular favourite, and a small ramekin of Dauphinoise potatoes had him grinning from ear to ear.

My fish was impeccably cooked – the cod was light golden on the outside, yet the flesh inside was as tender as sashimi. The baby squid were delicious, lightly floured and pan-fried, still soft and wonderfully salty. My one suggestion would have been a bit more green. The purslane was literally a few tiny leaves on top of the cod. I can’t help but think, even if only visually, a serving of samphire, peas or braised little gem would have helped.

It was only after I had completely cleaned the plate that I realised there had been no squid ink. There was a smear of pale yellow that, I have to admit, didn’t have an enormous taste, but definitely no black. When our lovely lovely waiter came back, I asked politely where the ink had been. He blinked. It was the black on the plate. He hadn’t brought the mains plates to our table, so hadn’t spotted there was no black. I said there was yellow but no black. He smiled. Oh that must be because Chef uses butter or cream in the squid ink sauce.

I don’t know what I appreciated more. The relaxed yet enjoyable atmosphere of the restaurant; the fact that the waiter knew so much about each dish and had no qualms telling us what he personally would recommend; that the wine is the same price whether you get a bottle or carafe; that the Chef listened to what the waiter asked and followed it through in all aspects of the meal; or how beautifully they cooked everything.

I’d like all of the above please. Arbutus deserves all the praise it gets. There is no pomp and no ceremony. They provide ‘fine-dining’ in an unassuming environment, at reasonable prices, with personable, thinking waiters and chefs, and the emphasis lying firmly on the food. That meal has lifted my spirits and has given me hope that restaurants aren’t only out to make a profit. It was a rare occasion where the practical need to eat met with the emotional need to eat good food. Arbutus is the genus name of a group of evergreen shrubs and trees. I knew I liked trees for a reason.

It is only after writing this that I happened upon a Jay Raynor review of another, nearby restaurant in which he reveals that when asked for a “reasonably priced quality place” he recommends Arbutus. Amen to that.

Now be good, and do as I say

It’s Sunday morning. I have stayed with my parents the previous night, and as I knew would be the case, a request has been made for cake. Two types. A traditional ginger cake and Maids of Honour. My father loves good, honest cake. None of this cupcake or whoopie whatever rubbish. Cake. The types of cakes that are quintessentially British, that no other nation really comes close to making.

These requests sent from on high are always welcome. I wouldn’t ever think to make them for me, so having an excuse to try my schpoooon at some wartime or old-fashioned recipes is refreshing.

Only problem was that there was no curd cheese (for the Maids), and the bicarb tub looked old enough to take centre stage on The Antiques Roadshow. So off I trotted to the local Waitrose.

Now then, a moment please. Waitrose. Oh what heavenly, hallowed ground you occupy both on this earth and in my heart. Your lights are not neon; they are a softer, empyreal glow. Your colours are a showcase of Farrow & Ball neutrals, not acrid primary colours that offend the retina. You are never so big that I feel my life slipping through my fingers as I complete an odyssey of the aisles. You are smaller and more perfectly formed, a size that means I leave the same person as I entered, not a hysterical, fraying shadow of my former self. Your products are enticing, your sourcing and range considered. You give (aisle) space to goods that other purveyors shun in favour of the mass-produced, characterless items. You allow smaller producers to shine.

Back to Sunday morning. Waitrose. Curd, bicarb and perhaps a basket full of other treats, in the queue at the check-out. Behind me was a gentleman. And after a few minutes, behind him appeared another gentleman with his two daughters. I am officially abysmal at accurately identifying ages, but, I suppose the girls were around 7 or 9 years old, and the two men between 45 and 55.

As with most check-out queues, there is always that quick, stolen glance backwards or forwards over  your fellow queuer’s wares. A quick dip into their life. A snatched eyeful of what makes them tick. (Or is that just me?) Anyway, the two men did exactly that, but not only the food, over each other too. After a pause, the man next to me turned to the father and asked him if he had really competed in the triathlon on the t-shirt he was wearing. Yes he had actually. Pause. Did he do that kind of thing often? Oh yes, since 2009 now, yup, regular triathlete. And this year it’s an Iron Man too. Yes, in training for that. (Now. I must say that to look at him you would be forgiven for not immediately associating his physique with someone who completes triathlons, let alone an Iron Man.)  Pause. The man next to me also did triathlons, and had done the triathlon on the father’s t-shirt. Pause. As I knew would be the case sooner or later, there it came. The Question. What time did he get? I squirmed quietly to myself. There was only 7 minutes between the two of them.

The conversation then continued on to the father giving forth about his strengths and weaknesses in the triathlon. ‘Transitions’ weren’t his forte; however his entry into the water was spot-on. As the restrainedly competitive conversation continued between these two mid-life-crisis men, my eyes wandered to the girls. They were happily unloading the trolley onto the conveyor, and as they went, they were identifying which items they loved, or were going to eat all of, or were not for the other one. Typical sibling chatter.

What was untypical (in my opinion), was that with some items, such as breadsticks (grissini), one girl told the other how excited she was about eating these and how she loved them with soup because they were like ginormous cretins (I think she meant enormous croutons. I failed in stifling my snigger), only to have her sibling round on her. No, breadsticks are bad. Didn’t she remember that Daddy had told them they were made of bread and that bread was bad? She personally was looking forward to the noodles and stir fry, and she hoped Mummy would make it with prawns again because prawns are nicer than meat. Perhaps in an attempt to strike back after the grissini put-down, her sibling took the opportunity to now remind her that Daddy had said prawns were bad for you because they don’t have any protein in them and that meat is better.

I could hear the conversations right there and then. Their father giving forth about the pros and cons of prawns and bread, all of it as misguided and misinformed as the rest. Breadsticks being made of bread? Has he eaten one? Did they not remind him of a cracker as opposed to a French baguette? And bread being bad for you? Pray tell, why, if bread is so bad, were there two huge farmhouse loaves in their trolley? And prawns not containing enough protein – let me guess, this is because when one is an Iron Man in training, the diet has to be protein, protein, protein.

Perhaps some of this prattle had been misinterpreted by the girls – perhaps their father had warned them against eating too much bread, or had tried to encourage them to eat more meat highlighting its benefits in contrast with something they did enjoy eating…But I can’t help to think that because he was essentially an Iron Man (in his head), he felt it was his duty to confer upon all around him how best to nourish themselves, based purely on the skewed vision he had for himself and his training.

A growing little person needs something from every food group. I would argue that a growed big person still needs something from every group, but perhaps it is less important than for the growing. The father had made a decision to train for triathlons and Iron Men, but that should remain a decision for his life. Is it right he should bestow his own opinions about his own decision on his two children? Where is the line for parents to stop at between beneficially guiding and informing offspring based on their own previous ‘life-experience’, and dictating and moulding their children based on their current life decisions that can be less firmly informed? Parents are human, and, being human can get it wrong. But there was something that didn’t sit well with me about these two young girls counselling each other incorrectly on what they were and were not allowed to eat.

With a heavier heart than usual, I left Waitrose and went home to bake. When distracted, I can often make mistakes, such as forgetting to fold in the lemon juice in a lemon cake, but luckily Mr Triathlon Extraordinaire made no impact on my work. Lo and behold Maids of Honour, complete with home-made (rough) puff pastry.

  

My father, my toughest critic and my baking Yoda, gave the nod of approval. And I gave a sigh of relief. He guides, he cajoles, he criticises and he (sometimes) commends, but he’s never withheld or demonised food. It is something to be enjoyed, to be looked-forward to and to be appreciated. He’s had a long-standing health issue, and through it all, the occasional honest home-baked cake provides him with a stronger kind of respite than all of his medicines do.

It is from him and my mother that I have adopted the instinct to turn to food to comfort others. Not in a I’ve-just-gorged-on-17-Galaxy-bars-and-now-hate-myself-for-it type way. That’s an immeasurably unhealthy relationship to have with food (anyway, Galaxy, why would you?). Comfort in the sense of providing enjoyment and pleasure, whether in one mouthful or in a whole meal-ful. I hope those girls grow up seeing past their father’s opinions. I hope she continues to enjoy prawns and her sibling continues to eat ginormous cretins.

How do you like your eggs...?

Ordering a dry latte, and not a cappuccino.

Using a sun bed before going on a beach holiday.

Getting eye lashes for your car’s headlights.

The regularity with which I see Japanese brides and grooms having their photos taken on Westminster Bridge or in St James’ Park, wedding dresses billowing in the fumes.

These are some of the concepts that my mind just cannot compute. I can see no reason why someone may feel compelled towards any of them.

Brunch. That’s another one. Why? How? When? What?

I have been blessed with the ability to sleep for around 6 hours and then wake up. This means that I am normally bumbling around from 8am on the weekends, after I’ve woken up, tried to go back to sleep, failed to go back to sleep, tried to lie still, failed to lie still, got bored and got up.

Brunch seems socially acceptable any time between 11.30am to 1pm. Now, does the length of time between 8am and 11.30am (at the earliest) mean that I can eat something? And if I do, does that then make my brunch a lunch? And if it does, then lunch is unreasonably early and I will be gnawing on my own hand come 4pm.

(As you may have intuited, I have also been blessed with the ability to eat. And be hungry. Lots.)

So, if we assume that brunch is intended for those lucky souls out there who can sleep and sleep, and sleep (Ahem, The Boy, cough cough), and who probably rouse at around 10am thus making an 11.30am meeting entirely doable, then it is effectively a big breakfast eaten whenever they finally wake up and face the day. By the time I get to the brunch I am normally swaying gently from the hunger which has also rendered me incapable of any real conversation.

When you find yourself in such a state, the most important thing, obviously, is to eat. And now we find ourselves sitting in front of a brunch menu.

What, oh what, can tempt me to end this personal tumult of hunger and fragility? And before you start reeling off endless egg dishes or that de rigueur brunch dish of ricotta pancakes with bacon and avocado, stop. The other ability lovingly bestowed on me from above is the inability to eat cooked or hot food for breakfast. Only if it is icy cold can I perhaps toy with a few sschpoonfuls of porridge. Toast doesn’t really excite me, but if it did I may perhaps be able to eat a slice. But, other cooked or hot food, no.

So, in front of the brunch menu, faced with an array of baked, fried, poached, scrambled, and boiled eggs; chorizo, streaky bacon, sausage and black pudding; hashes, pancakes, fry ups and French toasts – none of them grab me. For a lunch, yes, oh yes, like Sally, YES. Eggs and black pudding and pancakes, send them my way. But, for the first foodstuff to pass my lips in the day, I just cannot. Were I religious, this would be against my religion.

As for the cold food options, they are a few token offerings at the end of a brunch menu, sweet enough to crystallise your insides, smaller portions than the cooked food, but still the same price. Granola/ muesli with Greek yogurt and ‘seasonal berries’ (who knew berries grew in the depths of winter??). Organic fruit compote. Toasted sourdough/ rye bread/ 29 grain pumpkin seed loaf with homemade preserves. Banana loaf with honeyed ricotta. I have yet to find a brunch menu offering a cold option that doesn’t include your recommended daily allowance of sugar.

And so now we hit the same old predicament. Do I simply accept that I will pay through the roof for an overly sugary pimped up bowl of tooth-cracking cereal, or do I upset myself and the rest of my day by trying to throw myself into the full spirit of brunching and order something brunchy…I have tried both, and neither leaves me with a warm, glowing feeling.

A dear friend of mine positively purrs at the thought of brunching. When I asked her to specify what is the purr-generator, she said it is the food. The dishes offered on a brunch menu are her idea of heaven, and would be for brunch, lunch or dinner. As for the time issue, if she wakes up early, she eats a small bowl of something, and if she wakes up later, she readies herself for demolishing her brunch. Luckily she is a tea-drinker so she avoids having to battle against vats of creamy, milky M**m***h rubbish served up in nearly every café nowadays.

I suppose that makes perfect sense. Were I able to eat hot food as the first meal of the day, or if I had a sweeter tooth, I suppose I would enjoy brunch. If I either was able to stomach that coffee or didn’t like coffee at all, then I suppose brunch would be less hateful. And if I wasn’t so averse to eating something before eating out, then I guess I wouldn’t arrive in a state of dysautonomia. But, to me, eating before eating out seems counter-productive. You are going out specifically with the intention to eat, so why would you ruin said activity by eating beforehand?

And it is at this point in time that I slump to the floor (mentally) and put my hands up. It’s not brunching, it’s me. I am not fit for its purpose. My palette is from another planet where sugar doesn’t pervade everything, coffee is more than hot milk threatened with espresso, and hot food comes at dinner time (yes, hot lunches are a problem too. Except soup in winter. Otherwise it’s raw stuff please. Not raw as in The Raw Food Diet raw, but raw as in crunchy raw normal stuff, like salads. Grains and pulses are a goer, and they’ve been cooked. But they’re not hot at the point of eating). There’s no hope. Asking me to ‘do’ brunch (why do we ‘do’ brunch but eat dinner?) is like asking Christina Aguilera to ‘do’ refined. It’s just not going to happen. So let’s leave her to her mud-pits, me to my bran flakes and you to your eggs.