catch-up

May 16

Sometimes I feel like a bit of a hypocrite, calling this blog “Food Writer’s Diary,” because I imagine you thinking that every food-related event I attend is mentioned here.
People often comment to me after reading my little blog that they can’t believe how many lunches, press dinners, cocktail parties, book launches, goat-milking competitions, almond harvest tours, chef conventions etc. I go to.
But in fact, I go to even more of them than you think.
Why, this week, all I mentioned was my attendance of the opening of Scarpetta and a dinner at the James Beard House. But I also had lunch at Les Halles with a couple of people from International Enterprise Singapore to discuss ways to promote restaurants and ethnic cuisines. I had a salad and blood sausage, the American from IES had a salade Niçoise, and the Singaporean had soupe à l'oignon gratinée and duck confit; I'm not sure what can be learned from what we ordered, but it was interesting, nonetheless. So was the fact that, when discussing marketing strategies, we were eating in a French restaurant best known for its relationship with Anthony Bourdain, who was chef de cuisine there before becoming a famous writer and TV personality.
Then that night I had dinner at Felidia with some travel writers, a publicist from Orange County and staff from some of the hotels she represents. There were actual vocal Republicans among my dining companions, and you don’t see them very often in my circles in New York. To the publicist's discomfort, we engaged in spirited political discussion. We remained polite about it, though. Perhaps torture and capital punishment are not traditional topics of conversation at press dinners, but, I mean, we’re all adults, and exchanging ideas is good for the soul.
And then the next day I stopped by Aureole for summer cocktails being promoted by an orange liqueur company and caught up with my old friend Julie Besonen, who grew up in Arkansas but whose family is from Minnesota. It turns out she’s from that part of Minnesota where people eat Cornish pasties. This delighted me, because in the coming week’s issue of NRN I have an article on the growing trend of hand-held foods, with suggestions of items from other countries that could catch on here. I mentioned the pasty, which is already quite the rage in the mining areas of Minnesota and Michigan's Upper Peninsula, where it was introduced in the 19th century by Cornish miners and picked up by others, including Julie’s Finnish ancestors. Her family’s pasties actually aren’t hand-held, but are made into regular-sized pies. I discussed with her the great carrot controversy — some people add carrots to their pasties, an act that outrages traditionalists, including Julie’s father, some of whom consider it an unwelcome Scandinavian innovation.
Crazy Scandinavians, always eating carrots.
And then from there I stopped by the Rink Bar, which is what the famous skating rink at Rockefeller Center becomes once the ice melts. They were having an opening party, so I sipped on a raspberry lemonade and then a lychee Martini before heading to the Beard House dinner mentioned in my previous blog entry.
But that’s not all I did this week, either. Last night I went to a new Brooklyn spot called JakeWalk, where Dave Wondrich was mixing up a new cocktail of his, JakeWalk punch, which had aperol and lime and candied ginger, among other things. Cheese-and-whisky and cheese-and-wine pairings were being offered, and jamon Iberico paired with sherry, and head cheese and rillettes, and fondue.
While sampling the whisky I had a really nice chat with Dave Crofton, the pastry chef at One Girl Cookies. I told him that I bake like a cook — kind of winging it as I go, playing it by ear. He said that pastry chefs, contrary to popular wisdom, have to do that, too. You can’t just follow formulas, you have to look at the dough, see how it's behaving, adjust it if it’s not working right.
I also learned that One Girl Cookies is working on getting a beer and wine license, so that’s exciting.
And that, I think, is all of the food events, restaurant meals and drinkfests that I attended this week. Unless I forgot something.

A Tasty Badger

I’ve recently spent some time working at a food magazine based close to Portobello Road in west London (every single time I think, say or even write the words ‘Portobello Road’ I end up with a tenacious little ear worm of the song of the same name from the innuendo ridden Disney musical ‘Bedknobs and Broomsticks’. For those of you who haven’t seen the movie the reference will no doubt be lost, those of you who have seen it will now be humming the song relentlessly for the next couple of hours and for that I apologise). Given my proximity to Notting Hill and the fact that I was working on a food title, it is hardly surprising that I enjoyed a few gastronomic related experiences during my time there: As one who has an almost unhealthy passion for bookshops and all things food related, ‘Books for Cooks’ on Blenheim Crescent is something of a personal Mecca and I did well to limit my purchases to a solitary tome. The market rivals many that I’ve seen on the continent, even on quiet days, although Friday is by far the best day to experience it. I also had a truly outstanding falafel from a small van although my request for hot chilli was almost denied to me and it was only on proving that I could handle the fiery sauce by sampling a small amount that he relented and tipped some onto my wrap. A Spanish food shop nestling just under the Westway had the largest selection of Manchego cheese I’ve ever seen and the Gran Reserva that I plumped for was an exquisite example. But by far my favourite moment was a serendipitous visit to a pub called The Fat Badger.

I’d phoned the pub earlier in the week to talk about a campaign that the magazine was running in support of British pig farmers and ended up chatting to the amiable head chef, Will Leigh, formerly of Kensington Place. His unbridled enthusiasm for food was immediately evident and we spent a good few minutes discussing the delights of cruibeens and other such delicacies. A couple of days later, I’d arranged to meet a friend there and walked over after work. He was running late and so I ordered a drink and went in search of the chef to indulge in some food chat with a fellow enthusiast. As it was barely half past five, the quiet before the storm of evening service meant he was more than happy to talk and it was a genuine pleasure to discuss matters ranging from the provenance of his pork to the benefits of buying smoked eel from Holland with someone so profoundly passionate about it. Gradually, as the place busied we realised that few people would get served if he wasn’t behind the stove so we shook hands and parted company, he to the kitchen and I to a worn Chesterfield sofa with a pint and my book waiting for Tom to make the arduous journey from Shepherds Bush (a treacherous two miles). I was busy thinking of ways to convince him that we should stay for more than just a drink when Will returned from the kitchen and headed over, bearing a plate of what looked like incredibly tasty food.

And it was. It was one of the tastiest plates of food I’ve had in a long, long time. Thick chunks of pork belly rillons with soft, meltingly soft fat and succulent flesh with artichoke hearts and crunchy croutons and a zingy fresh gremolata which gave the dish a zesty lift. Good? The best description, and compliment, I can give is that it was the sort of food that just forces an unstoppable smile spreading across the face thanks to its absolute perfection and I can’t wait to go back.

www.thefatbadger.com

Tip Top Tapas

Even the best-laid plans can sometimes be scuppered by external circumstances. As a result of the appearance of a substantial amount of cloud and rain displacing the unseasonably delightful weather we have had recently, yesterday’s summer themed meal of fresh rocket, Jersey potatoes and lamb failed to materialise and we were left with a dinner shaped hole where it had previously been residing in the consciousness. As an alternative I decided to attempt an exercise in improvisation by using up the various items in the fridge and cupboards that were nearing the end of their consumable existence. Better they end up as sustenance rather than compost. An aging chorizo sausage provided ample inspiration for a mini selection of hearty tapas, perfect for conjuring up images and flavours reminiscent of more Mediterranean climes while outside the rain dripped down the window in energetic streaks and the trees shook at the whim of the wind.

The piquant chorizo was cut into little gem sized cubes and fried in a little olive oil until the edges were beginning to crisp and the paprika had leached out and stained the oil a deep red. At the last minute two generous handfuls of broad beans and some chopped garlic were added to the pan and cooked for no more than a minute. The pale, almost translucent, green of the mass of beans was studded throughout by tasty little morsels of sausage. To go with it, a simple tomato sauce (garlic, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, smoked paprika and a tin of tomatoes blitzed to a smooth consistency) was reduced down to an intense and warming thickness and pepped up with a little cayenne pepper before being poured over some fried potato to make a quick patatas bravas.

Buoyed by my recent bread making success I felt it would be right to bake an appropriate loaf to match the general theme. Using white bread flour and olive oil in place of wholemeal flour and sunflower oil resulted in a lighter loaf with an amazing resistance and slight chewiness that was just perfect for mopping up the tasty sauces that were left over. Unfortunately, hunger proved victorious over patience and we sat down to eat picnic style on the lounge floor before we could even think of taking any pictures. But we did manage to get one of the bread. Again.