Food, Ritual, Emotion.

Some things in life are sacred. Today is Sunday, and we have enjoyed a cooked breakfast, and will later eat a full roast dinner (Beef rump, mmm). Sunday for me, is a two meal day. It has been for as long as I can remember. You get up later than usual, eat an enormous breakfast at about 10.30, and then start to feel hungry again at about six. It used to be that I’d spend my afternoons doing homework and enjoy having a roast dinner cooked for me by my mum, but then I started making better gravy than her, and then I left home, and now I think if I suggested to Diesel that he make a roast dinner, I’d get laughed out the house and into a carvery. Whilst on paper eating the same meals week in week out (obviously there are variations) sounds pretty boring, but actually it’s incredibly comforting. Also, you can’t eat muesli on a Sunday (what would be the point of Sunday?) So, this in mind I thought I’d share some of my thoughts on cooking Roast beef and English breakfast.

English breakfast

Try and avoid as much as possible frying things. This may go against received wisdom (it’s not called a fry-up for nothing), but an English breakfast including fried eggs, fried bread, fried bacon, fried sausage etc. is a sure-fire way to give yourself crippling indigestion. Also, having a plate full of food coated in fat is just not very appetising. My favourite eggs on an English breakfast plate are scrambled, but that’s probably because my favourite eggs in the world are scrambled. Other than scrambled eggs, poached eggs work very well (dried properly, obviously. There are few things more disheartening at 10.30 on a Sunday morning than being served poached eggs on wet toast). It goes without saying that your eggs should be fresh, free range, produced by hens that sleep on Egyptian cotton sheets and get read a story before bedtime. 

Bacon should be dry cure, smoked. Buying cheap bacon (and sausages) is a false economy, because the extra weight will be made up with water and preservatives. That’s why cheap bacon is slimy, emits a disturbing amount of white matter when cooked and ends up 1/3 of its original size. Decent bacon will not feel wet to the touch, and when cooked remains roughly the same size as it did when it was raw. I love my George Forman grill for sausages and bacon, but a standard grill with a tray beneath to collect the fat is just as good. As far as fried bread is concerned, I just don’t know how anyone can eat it – brown toast/toasted soda bread/toasted breakfast muffins with a liberal application of quality butter all the way. Heinz baked beans (obviously), cooked for a long time over a low heat so they get a bit smashed up and sticky (cowboy beans my mum calls them). Fried mushrooms are my one major exception, my favourites being button mushrooms fried whole in butter, salt and pepper and a splash of Worcester sauce. 

I’m not a massive fan of tomatoes with breakfast, but if you must, avoid at all costs tinned tomatoes (why, WHY would anyone do this?), and a tomato cut in half and bunged under the grill as an afterthought is no one’s idea of fun. Your best bet is to roast some cherry tomatoes whole in the oven on a low heat, seasoned properly with a bit of olive oil and a splash of red wine vinegar. Weddings/birthdays/serious hangovers, some grilled quality black/white pudding takes it up a notch. For a really special treat, dip a piece of brown bread in a bit of the bacon fat and toast under the grill. Controversial I know, but never add hash browns, and serve where possible with freshly squeezed orange juice and a bottle of Lanson Black Label.

 

Roast Dinner (beef)

I know someone who when asked at a job interview ‘what would you say is your biggest weakness?’ responded with ‘um, probably roast potatoes’. This is a sentiment I 100% echo, so, when cooking roast dinner, always do more roast potatoes than you think you will need. One of my favourite après roast moments is finding a few potatoes left in the roasting dish about two hours after we’ve eaten and been sprawled on the sofa groaning unable to move. Diesel doesn’t know they’re there which means they’ve got my name written all over them. There’s still some gravy. It’s all cold but that doesn’t matter, even cold roast potatoes with cold gravy are delicious.

When making roast beef always plan to eat earlier than you really want to, because you will always eat later (by at least an hour) than you plan. Lay the table. Eating soup in front of The Simpsons on a Tuesday night is understandable, but if you’ve made the effort to cook one of our most important national dishes, you owe it to yourself to eat it at the table and bask in the complements that should be showered upon you. Drink red wine, it’s the law on a Sunday. Roast your potatoes in goose/duck fat if you can. Never in good olive oil, and season your potatoes well during roasting. Also, after the pre boil (take it as far as you dare. The longer they boil for the better really, but obviously they’re far more prone to disintegration as a result), shake the pan around in a frenzy. The more fluffy and smashed up they are, the crispier they’ll be. 

I’m not going into which vegetables you should choose or how to cook them, other than to say that for my money it’s worth keeping it simple. Steamed until just cooked and dotted with butter and salt and pepper are all the decoration roast dinner vegetables need. The beef, potatoes, Yorkshire puddings and gravy are the stars of this show. Gravy is essential. Put the roasting pan you cooked the beef in (leaving the beef to rest for at least half an hour) onto the hob, add a tablespoon or two of flour and cook out for a few minutes. Add a good glass of red wine and wait until it’s cooked out, and then add hot beef stock (good quality shop bought stuff is good enough) about a ladleful at a time. Always do more than you think you’ll need. Beef gravy is my favourite soft drink, and running out of it when eating a roast makes me want to cry. Add a decent tablespoon of horseradish sauce, season, taste, adjust, taste, adjust, taste, add another stock pot/cube if it’s not intense enough. When you’re happy, strain and keep warm.

 

Don’t cut the beef too thin – you’re not running a budget restaurant; this is Sunday dinner in your own home. Keep the slices at least 1, preferably 2 cm thick. Anyone can make batter, and anyone can heat oil in the oven in a roasting tin until it is screaming hot, ergo anyone can make decent Yorkshire puddings. Any Yorkshire pudding left over? Eat it covered in golden syrup if you have any space left. 

When you serve a roast dinner, don’t plate it up; put your plates and bowls of potatoes, vegetables and meat on the table for everyone to help themselves. It feels like more of a feast that way, and also means that you get to decide exactly how many roast potatoes you get. I hate having my roast potato quota dictated to me. Lastly, never make roast dinner just for yourself. It isn’t worth it, and frankly I can’t think of anything more depressing (who would you raise a toast with?)

France (part one)

Is there anywhere as simultaneously sexy and uncomfortable as a beach? Lots of hot bodies, all within touching distance, everyone wearing at the most a onesie. Brown skin oiling up brown skin with hot hands and wandering eyes. Just as you drift off into a happy daydream involving you (but a stone lighter sporting an all over tan), the two topless Swedish beauties to your right, and Mr ‘can you tell why I’m wearing these budgie smugglers with such confidence’, you have to swat another fly off your face. In so doing manage to cover yourself in a shower of sand which sticks to your freshly applied sun lotion, and knock your can of sprite over onto the book you’ve just started reading. You didn’t bring another book, you didn’t bring another towel, and you now look like a fish finger. Not sexy (Don’t even get me started on the sand-in-sandwich issue).

Every year, about a week after returning from holiday these memories have pretty much faded and you start to crave the beaches again. You forget the stones, the cold sea, the impossibly irritating flies, and can only remember the Swedish. That’s how memory works. Still, I can say with utter confidence that on my recent holiday to Nice in the South of France, the first for two years, I have no unpleasant memories I hope to forget. Well, nearly. The ten (ten!) mosquito bites I received on day one caused me no small amount of grief. However I ate, as they say, like a King. The choice to come to France for me was based in no small part on its gastronomic potential. It’s France for goodness sake. Undisputed home of the foodie world. The nation that gave us croissants, foie gras, the Roux brothers and to no lesser degree, frites. Our last overseas trip other than a few trips back to Blighty and a week in Croatia (pizza and pickled salad mainly) was a week spent in Taba, Egypt. Great snorkelling, awful food poisoning. Everyone I know who has been to Egypt contracted the same horrendous stomach bug. So with this in mind, I was desperate to go somewhere the food would be brilliant and the potential for food poisoning wouldn’t be 100%.

I suggested Nice, and Diesel agreed. The weather was beautiful and the daily highlight of eating pretty much everything on offer made it all the more perfect.

I had a few ‘If I had to die right now, that would be OK’ moments, and nearly had Diesel stolen off me by a beautiful, stacked French waiter in Monaco*. I kept a record of everything we ate at every meal (It makes terrifying reading, probably equivalent to six months in the gym), but to avoid boring you to death, I’d like to give you the highlights. However, there were so many highlights I’m splitting it into two parts. Part two to follow at a later date. Enjoy.

Chez Michelizza

We were warmly welcomed into the home of Madame Michelizza, the mother of a good friend of ours here in Guernsey, originally from Nice. In the 24 hours we were there, we enjoyed two of the most epic meals I have ever been lucky enough to be invited to. Not only was the food beautiful, it is always such a joy to be cooked for by someone's mum. And despite the fact that we spoke virtually no French and they spoke virtually no English, we all got along just fine. I know I said I didn’t just want to list things I’ve eaten, but I don’t know how else to do these meals justice. On our first evening with them we were treated to: 

Saturday evening (deep breath)

Six types of cured sausage (including duck sausage and wild boar and pistachio sausage).

Nice olives

Fresh French bread

Pissiladiere (Essentially a pizza topped with slow cooked onions and olives. Home made dough and everything. It was every bit as good as I had been promised)

Lamb skewers (brought from Italy. Seasoned only with salt and pepper. Awesome).

Ratatouille (my first ratatouille in France. I know I sound like a twat but this actually meant quite a lot to me)

Cheese (One of the ooziest, stinkiest Camenberts I’ve ever eaten, kick you in the teeth Roquefort, local goat cheese)

Homemade almond cakes and coffee

Sunday Lunch

Sausage, nuts, olives and bread again

Oysters

Foie Gras and homemade fig jam

Homemade beef lasagne (nothing at all like lasagne I’ve eaten before. Brought to the table by a family friend, over the border from Italy, made by two Italian mammas (his sisters), layers and layers of the lightest most delicate handmade egg pasta, bite sized beef meat balls, light tomato sauce, mozzarella and pecorino cheese, and not a drop of béchamel sauce in sight. A revelation)

Roasted duck breast (cooked to perfection, absolutely perfectly seasoned with salt and a locally grown type of chilli pepper)

Cheese (as before)

Homemade almond cakes and coffee

Champagne, Italian white and red wine (including a sparkling red which went extremely well with the sausage and olives and such).

The best bit however was Laurent’s Nephew. I don’t normally go crazy over kids but he was gorgeous. He also thought Diesel was hilarious. And was the subject of my favourite photo of the whole holiday. Yep, we were definitely in France.

Petit déjeuner tous les jours

One of the best things about being on holiday in France/Spain for me has got to be fresh bread every morning for breakfast. What made it even better was Diesel going out to purchase it every morning. French bread with soft boiled eggs and parma ham, french butter and apricot jam, or even on its own with a coffee. One of the most affordable gastronomic luxuries there is.

Our first lunch

Our first venture into Nice, the sun was shining, we were feeling relaxed and happy, and as we wandered past a small Bistro that had tables of French people in suits having business lunches eating delicious smelling food, we decided to stop, try out our French and get something to eat. It was the best decision we made all day. I had the best steak tartare I have ever eaten with a well dressed salad and hot crispy frites followed by a delicious selection of small desserts. The best of which was a mini choux pastry bun filled with soft chocolate ice cream, covered in dark chocolate and chopped roasted hazelnuts. The coffee was strong and the wine lent a rosy tint to the rest of the day. Only problem is, I can’t remember what the restaurant was called (One very good reason why I am not writing a travel blog).

Pressed foie gras

Dinner on day two. The foie gras was only the starter, one part of a much bigger meal that included truffle risotto (with shaved truffle, darling), fillet steak Rossini, a beautiful bottle of Beaujolais, etc. However the stand out memory for me was my starter because it was just brilliant. I only got a thin slice, but as with all great foods, only a small amount was more than enough. Let’s have the foie gras debate another time, but for now just believe me when I say that eating the first mouthful of that foie gras with the caramelised  figs made my eyes involuntarily close and my mind wander. Nothing else mattered. It is moments like those that I live for.

(Part two to follow).

*I thought the amount of attention, constant stream of free nibbles, smiles and compliments on our French were a bit unwarranted (esp. as I was sporting some pretty awful mosquito bites on my Tesco value no-tan legs), but then when Diesel told me with a smug grin that the waiter had given him a ‘cheeky wink’ on our way out, and I clocked Diesel’s tight white T-shirt, I put two and two together – my boyfriend looks like gay bait. 

Fruits De Mer, a lesson learned...

 

On our recent visit to France (more posts to follow), one of the things I had wanted to do from the moment we decided on our destination was to go out to lunch and enjoy a full, fresh, fruits de mer, with (of course) a spanking bottle of white wine to go with it. My vision was clear: Diesel and I, exchanging witty anecdotes, the sun shining off our crisp white tablecloth, my polished Channel sunglasses and the glistening ice on the silver platter on which rested deep red lobster, plump orange mussels, sea fresh oysters in all their saline glory, cheeky little langoustines... you get the picture. I imagined we would be there for a good few hours, most likely enjoying a second bottle of wine, skipping off the restaurant terrace smashed but happy, with hearts (and wallets) as light as a feather into the late afternoon sunshine for a romantic walk along the sand.

As it turned out, when it actually came to it, my experience was nothing like the above.

They say you should always listen to your parents, and I’m not ashamed to admit that it took me a number of years (and many tearful, anguished, ‘I didn’t ask to be born’ themed arguments) to appreciate that. But by and large, I think I do. ‘Clean as you go along’ (mother) really does make life easier and more pleasant. ‘When you have finished packing your suitcase for holiday, remove half of the clothes and take twice the amount of money’ (thank you dad). And of course, avoid at all costs the ‘bucket and spade’ crowd when you’re on holiday, ESPECIALLY when it comes to food.

I spent many holidays in southern Spain as a teenager scoffing at my parents’ insistence that we shun the popular seafront restaurants with their plastic visual (why does anyone put photos on menus ever) menus and ruby red overweight British tucking into spaghetti bolognaise (sans spaghetti, con chips), and instead seek out some dark and imposing tapas bar full of overweight middle aged moustachioed Spanish men drinking cerveza, smoking a constant stream of super strength cigarettes, and tucking into small plates of strange looking food. It is because of these experiences that I know what real Spanish omelette tastes like, why marinated anchovies are one of the most delicious things in the world, and that it is always worth putting yourself outside your comfort zone where food is concerned, because it might just be delicious.

Anyway, against my better judgement we decided on a seafood restaurant just off the sea front, in the heart of the Old Town (we were running out of time). It was located in pretty much dead central tourist town (woman going round with individually wrapped roses, lots of shops selling novelty ashtrays, Matre ‘Ds herding holidaymakers into their restaurants, ‘hello, English? I have perfect table for you, good food, yes? Follow me...’). We had walked past this place on a few occasions and seen others enjoying fruits de mer, and at a distance, in passing, it had all looked so good. Perhaps if I’d have stopped to have a closer look, gotten past the pretty colours, I’d have seen that the chef likes to cook his lobsters until they are so overdone they disintegrate. Or that the distinct lack of gambas was hidden by piles and piles of shrimp and tiny winkles that remained impervious to all shellfish excavation equipment. Or that the chef did not think it necessary to scrub the shells of the mussels or winkles. Or just that overall, the quality of the whole thing was, well, shit.

Now I’m no expert, but I have been shown how to make a fruits de mer platter by a great chef (Paul Wilson, one of the best chef’s I have and will ever be lucky enough to be taught by). I know exactly how long to cook lobster for from live to get it perfect, and that the tail and claws need to be cooked separately because their cooking times differ. I know how important it is to steam mussels until they are just opened, and to dress them well in a simple vinaigrette while they’re still warm so they absorb the flavours, and I know that something as simple and perfect as an oyster only needs the most basic of accompaniments*. I also know that if your only accompaniment to a whole plate of food is one sauce, you should have the decency and respect for your customers to make it fresh. A monkey could make fresh mayonnaise, and we were in France!

However, we’re the fools here. We went to this place by choice when we should have known better, and we got everything that we deserved. To make matters worse, Diesel was suffering from tonsillitis, and whilst not really wanting fruits de mer, shared it with me anyway. Being sickly, he wanted a side order of chips, and being the angel that I am, I gallantly suffered the shame of ordering the chips alongside our fruits de mer. On so doing, I received a disgusted and quizzical look from the waiter (understandable I suppose), but then to add insult to injury, when the chips arrived they had to go on a raised platter to make room for everything else (thus enabling all passersby and other diners to see what utter chumps we were), and to top it, all they made a big performance of presenting us with a cheap bottle of tomato ketchup** THAT WE DIDN’T EVEN ASK FOR. The shame. Diesel thought this was all hilarious, and decided to take a photo for posterity. At least one of us had a good time.

Most annoyingly, it had all been my idea. The fruits de mer, minus the oysters was a total disappointment. It was so bad, when they took the plates away we even turned on each other:

Patronising French Waiter (PFW): ‘Was everything good Sir?’

Diesel: ‘Ah, oui oui! C’est magnifique!’

Amy: *silently bristling*

PFW number 2 (brilliant communication between front of house staff at this place): ‘Can I clear your plate Sir? Was everything good for you?’

Diesel: ‘Oui, C’est magnifique!’

Amy: ‘Diesel! Stop telling them everything was magnificent. It fucking wasn’t.’

Diesel: ‘Why don’t you tell them it was shit then??’

Amy: ‘Don’t be ridiculous’

PFW: ‘Madam, did you enjoy your meal?’

Amy: ‘er, er, , Oui, c’etait bien, merci’

Diesel and Amy: *silence*

Amy: ‘I think we should leave now’

We smashed the bottle of wine and left. Remember, never eat where the locals aren’t, my mum was right.

*If you are going to try and improve on the simplest form of perfection that is an oyster by using a squeeze of fresh lemon juice or adding a bit of chopped shallot in red wine vinegar, then the least you can do is use a good quality vinegar and ensure that the shallots are FINELY chopped. I seriously wanted to walk in the kitchen, throw the bowl of onion chunks in cheap vinegar at the chef, snatch his knife and demonstrate how to cut a shallot finely. I’m far from an expert, but even I can do that right. If you can’t pal, do us all a favour, pack up your knives and fuck off home.

**All of you will by now know that I love tomato ketchup - but even I have limits.

(In) Consistency

 

A very good friend of mine told me some time ago that the most important thing about writing a blog is to be consistent. It doesn’t matter whether you update your blog once a day, once a week, once a month, or even once a year. The important thing is to ensure that you actually update it when people expect you to. Ah, wise words I said nodding sagely, feeling pretty good about the fact that for three weeks (three weeks!) I had managed to upload posts on a regular basis. How naive I was. It wasn’t that I stopped enjoying the blogging; it was just that my life turned upside down a bit. And it was all purely because of decisions that I made. And wanted to make. And in all honesty, as far as writing this blog, it made me feel like a bit of a fraud. Even reading the headline now makes my face flush...’financially stable but unhappy financial compliance consultant...’

Essentially my story is this: For nearly a year and a half, I worked as an apprentice chef here in Guernsey. Loving every minute of the actual cooking, but struggling (drowning might be a better way of putting it) financially, missing out on spending time with my wonderful boyfriend and friends and family, and living in a perpetual state of fear that a tooth might fall out and I wouldn’t be able to pay for a false one, or I would get sick and not be able to pay to go the doctor. Unlike the UK, Guernsey has no National Health Service, and believe me, I could not afford to pay for insurance. Just like many others that live on this island. So, like many others at the (in my case literally) bottom of the food chain, I just kept my fingers crossed and was extra careful with my knives. 

A few months ago I reached the point where I felt that I just didn’t want to live like this anymore. So in short, I went to see a recruitment consultant, had a couple of interviews, and got a job in a bank. I know that pretty much makes me a sell out, but that’s just the way it is, and actually, I’m feeling pretty good about the situation. I can eat out more often, not stress out so much about how much bread costs, not worry about the financial burden of getting sick, see Diesel and my friends and family more often, and I have a hobby back. By the way I hate the word ‘hobby’. It makes me think of girl guides and collectors badges. I still feel passionate about cooking and eating and just food in general, but now I have lived the dream, and seen the reality. 

Cooking for a living is fun, exhilarating, satisfying, rewarding, the camaraderie in a small team of chefs is similar to being on a tight knit sports team. But it is hard, sweaty, heavy, dirty work. The hours are long, you feel undervalued by your employers (a theme similar to almost every kitchen I worked in and almost every chef I spoke to), you miss out on a real life and real friends, you have to serve other people and be around at their convenience, and give up your social life, and generally work your nuts off, even when you really, really just want to curl up in bed and forget the fact that you’ve no idea how you’re going to pay your next credit card bill. Yep, fun times. So I’ve left it...for now. I don’t think that this is it for me and food. One day when I’ve got some money saved and the time is right I’ll open my deli/tea shop and live the dream once again. But for now, it’s just not feasible (is that the smallest violin in the world somewhere in the distance I hear??)

Anyway, in my opinion that means that now more than ever I have a reason, no, no, a need to write this blog. I hope not to turn into just another of the tedious bloggers whose ‘yummy chicken curry’ makes you want to reach for the power cable and wrap it round your neck, so I’ll do my best to keep this entertaining, and more than just a record of what I eat. If you think it’s getting shite, please tell me. I’m sure even Dickens needed a kick up the arse every now and then (did I just actually compare myself to Charles Dickens? Yep, looks like I did. A bit of controversy can’t hurt – See AA Gill’s weekly review in The Sunday Times Magazine). And I promise that this time, even if I have any more major life changes, I’ll at least try a bit harder to be consistent.