"I feel like I've eaten quite a lot of pig's head," T said after pushing away a plate that I could barely look at all evening. It was jellied pig's head, to be exact. And, in case you were wondering, it was a jelly created by nature, without the use of any additional gelling agents.
We were at St. John's Bread and Wine (http://www.stjohnbreadandwine.com/home/), an offshoot of St. John's, whose founder, Fergus Henderson, is best known for his head to tail eating philosophy. Apparently, a large part of London is on board with him, as both restaurants are hugely popular.
I can see why. I'd have to take the word of T and his jellied head when it comes to the eclectic menu specialties, but my salad with little gem lettuce, spring onions, mint and lemon oil was divine, as was a plate of gorgeous roasted shallots whose insides were like cream. Served with a side of mint dressed with mustard and goat's curd that was as light and creamy as fresh ricotta, you combined everything on a dense piece of brown bread. Heaven. My favorite, though, was a beautiful dish of zucchini and broad beans that had been slow cooked in a luscious butter, parsley and mustard vinaigrette.
T almost ordered the crispy pig's cheek but they sold out. While vacillating between the quail with aioli and the ox heart, the look on my face guided his decision. A girl can only take so much...
Wednesday 31 October 2007
Monday 29 October 2007
Canal Boat
There are lots of canal boats between Camden Lock and Little Venice. We tried to find one after our exploration of the market, but due to the weather conditions, it didn't work out. I think it's cool how the Locks are built. An old fashioned system of transport. I can't explain the mechanics behind it, for me it's as foreign as football. T tried to explain it and even while watching a boat pass through, turn the locks and go from high water to low, I didn't understand how it worked. Literally, the boat is up high, then it's at water level. It can also go from water level to up high. It all depends on how the water is guided in through these locks. Just take my word for it. It's amazing. Who said the things invented in the past weren't way cooler than even our most advanced technologies today? Forget the internet. A boat that defies gravity, now that's cool.
Camden Market
I didn't really like this market. It's too bustling. Imgaine Venice Beach times 50, sprinkled with cocaine. Or, for those not familiar with the offbeat Venice, how about the Loop, times 80, soaked in ecstasy and sprinkled with cocaine. There were people here with mohawks and purple hair and tons of goth places. One woman I passed on the street had blood and teeth marks drawn on her neck. She was pushing a baby in a stroller. It was loud and congested and a bit chintzy in places. There were some cool stalls with purses and clothes, but it was raining and wet and muddy and there was water dripping from the ceiling everywhere we went. I like Spitalfield's better. This is definitely cheaper, but you pay a different price to get a value.
Saturday 27 October 2007
Comparison Shopping
One of my most favorite things in the world is comparing different food products. It's something of an obsession of mine. I like to try several different brands of the same product and take notes. Lately I've been off my rocker with comparison tastings, particularly because there is such an abundance of products here. I tried three kinds of artisan bread made from ancient grains, two kinds of cashew butter, three kinds of hummus, three kinds of sundried tomato cream, chocolate made with xylitol versus carob bars and xylitol powder versus stevia powder. Most everything I've been sampling comes from the UK, with the exception of the tomato creams, which come from Italy.
Sweet Tart
Well here it is. My first real creation. I've made creme brulee and creme caramel, caramels and sugar syrups, palmiers and meringues, but this baby is my full scale triumph. I made the puff pastry from scratch, made the pastry cream inside, laid out the fruit and glazed it with apricot jam. I ran out of fruit at the end so the pattern isn't consistent, but these things happen. I think it's purty.
Art Imitating Life
Song lyrics that have been playing in my head:
I never loved nobody fully
Always one foot on the ground
And by protecting my heart truly
I got lost in the sounds
I hear in my mind
All of these voices
I hear in my mind all of these words
I hear in my mind all of this music
And it breaks my heart
And it breaks my heart
And it breaks my heart
Suppose I never, ever met you
Suppose we never fell in love
Suppose I never, ever let you kiss me so sweet and so soft
Suppose I never, ever saw you
Suppose you never, ever called
Suppose I kept on singing love songs just to break my own fall
Just to break my fall
Just to break my fall
Just to break my fall
Break my fall
Break my fall
All my friends say that of course it's gonna get better
Gonna get better
I never loved nobody fully
Always one foot on the ground
And by protecting my heart truly
I got lost
In the sounds
I hear in my mind
All of these voices
I hear in my mind all of these words
I hear in my mind
All of this music
And it breaks my heart
And It breaks my heart
I hear in my mind
All of these voices
I hear in my mind all of these words
I hear in my mind
All of this music
And it breaks my heart
And it breaks my heart
and It Breaks my Heart
-Regina Spektor, Fidelity
Sometimes I feel like I've been running so fast and working so hard, I forgot to stop and look up. I saw love blowing past me in a long white dress. It stuck out its tongue.
I never loved nobody fully
Always one foot on the ground
And by protecting my heart truly
I got lost in the sounds
I hear in my mind
All of these voices
I hear in my mind all of these words
I hear in my mind all of this music
And it breaks my heart
And it breaks my heart
And it breaks my heart
Suppose I never, ever met you
Suppose we never fell in love
Suppose I never, ever let you kiss me so sweet and so soft
Suppose I never, ever saw you
Suppose you never, ever called
Suppose I kept on singing love songs just to break my own fall
Just to break my fall
Just to break my fall
Just to break my fall
Break my fall
Break my fall
All my friends say that of course it's gonna get better
Gonna get better
I never loved nobody fully
Always one foot on the ground
And by protecting my heart truly
I got lost
In the sounds
I hear in my mind
All of these voices
I hear in my mind all of these words
I hear in my mind
All of this music
And it breaks my heart
And It breaks my heart
I hear in my mind
All of these voices
I hear in my mind all of these words
I hear in my mind
All of this music
And it breaks my heart
And it breaks my heart
and It Breaks my Heart
-Regina Spektor, Fidelity
Sometimes I feel like I've been running so fast and working so hard, I forgot to stop and look up. I saw love blowing past me in a long white dress. It stuck out its tongue.
Observations on the Tube
There was a grape stuck in the door.
Edgware Road irks me because I want to put an e in Edg.
A man had a book that said, "Training in Different Environments." His shoes were shiny and clean.
A woman with streaked black and blonde hair was wearing black lycra pants. I didn't know they still made lycra pants.
Cooked rice has a high risk of contamination. I had no idea. I didn't learn this on the tube, but I was thinking about it somewhere between Edgware Road and Baker Street.
Edgware Road irks me because I want to put an e in Edg.
A man had a book that said, "Training in Different Environments." His shoes were shiny and clean.
A woman with streaked black and blonde hair was wearing black lycra pants. I didn't know they still made lycra pants.
Cooked rice has a high risk of contamination. I had no idea. I didn't learn this on the tube, but I was thinking about it somewhere between Edgware Road and Baker Street.
Wednesday 24 October 2007
Three Observations
1: There was a man with a bicycle that had wreaths of garlic, onions and shallots hanging from the handlebars. He had a sign that said "Stop me and buy some."
And people did. There were at least three people running up to him like he was the ice cream man. He had a French accent. His onions looked a bit worse for the wear, but who am I to judge?
2: Yesterday, a man was playing beautiful accordian music beneath my building. The music floated all the way up to the fifth floor and filled the room with peace and joy. When I walked outside he was playing "La Vie En Rose."
3: When you go into a store, the salespeople ask, "Are you alright?" At first I thought it was because I look perpetually lost and confused, and sometimes appear as if I'm on the verge of barfing, but no, they ask everyone that.
And people did. There were at least three people running up to him like he was the ice cream man. He had a French accent. His onions looked a bit worse for the wear, but who am I to judge?
2: Yesterday, a man was playing beautiful accordian music beneath my building. The music floated all the way up to the fifth floor and filled the room with peace and joy. When I walked outside he was playing "La Vie En Rose."
3: When you go into a store, the salespeople ask, "Are you alright?" At first I thought it was because I look perpetually lost and confused, and sometimes appear as if I'm on the verge of barfing, but no, they ask everyone that.
Tuesday 23 October 2007
A Tale of Two Massages
Michael was tall, portly and sweated profusely and Li-Li was petite, soft spoken and smelled like cinnamon.
Michael’s hands were like giant blocks of sandpaper, and his bloated fingers felt like boiled tofu on my back.
Li-Li’s fingers were smooth as silk and her hands glided across my body with a delicate artistry I found quite pleasing.
Was Michael even in the room? Hard to tell. For such a large man, his pressure was awkward and barely noticeable. In fact, for most of the massage, I wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing. He said he’d had training. He carried with him a binder with consent forms and questionnaires about my areas of pain and health history. It appeared as if he’d done this before.
But when he stood in the room with me before we began, staring down at the table and said, “Okay, I’m ready,” I thought perhaps he hadn’t a clue how this was supposed to play out.
“Ready for what?” I asked.
“You can get on the table now.”
“Uh, no,” I replied. “You can go out of the room while I get on the table.”
I kept nearly all my clothes on, though I never once felt uncomfortable. My roommates were in the next room and besides, Michael was nothing but a gentle giant who, not surprisingly, didn't get enough repeat customers to know how to act.
He didn’t seem to have a clue about the human body, where the pressure points are, how to stimulate the blood flow or channel the lactic acid from the body. It was the worst massage I’d ever gotten in my life.
Yes, I found him on Craigslist. Still, it was all on the up and up and was the equivalent of $60 usd, the norm for massages in the U.S. Here, massages start at $140 usd and go up to $240. I’m not kidding. I called immediately when I saw his prices.
Of course, I wouldn't call back.
A few days later, while walking down my street, I saw a sign in the window of a Chinese Medicine shoppe: $70 usd for an hour. I thought I’d give it a go.
The woman at the front desk was gruff and spoke in one word sentences. She was ready to get me on a table then and there. Before I even knew it, I was ushered down a long hallway, down several flights of stairs and down another long hallway to a small room with a table covered in paper.
There was no sheet in sight. What was it with the UK and no sheets?
“Where’s the sheet?” I asked Li-Li.
She smiled and nodded. She spoke no English.
“You take off, you take off,” she said, pointing to my pants and shirt.
“But the sheet?” I whined.
She closed the door. At least she let me get on the table in privacy. But what was the point, exactly, if she was going to see all of me anyway?
I decided to drape my pashmina across my unmentionable areas. When she walked in, she laughed.
“Towel, towel,” she said, while draping a scratchy bath towel across the area the pashmina was covering.
Thank goodness.
For the next hour, Li-Li paddled me, slapped me and pounded on me as if she were tenderizing a piece of meat, and the table was rocking back and forth as if it might launch into orbit. I had my eyes open the whole time.
This was not a massage for the faint hearted. Thank God. It was just what I needed. A real massage. One where contact is made on the skin, where I feel the results instantly. My muscles closed their eyes and sighed. They were finally relaxed. Finally free of all the luggage toting, the house and hotel and apartment moving, the rigors of standing so long in a hot kitchen, the feel of new pavement beneath my feet.
“Thank you,” they whispered.
Michael’s hands were like giant blocks of sandpaper, and his bloated fingers felt like boiled tofu on my back.
Li-Li’s fingers were smooth as silk and her hands glided across my body with a delicate artistry I found quite pleasing.
Was Michael even in the room? Hard to tell. For such a large man, his pressure was awkward and barely noticeable. In fact, for most of the massage, I wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing. He said he’d had training. He carried with him a binder with consent forms and questionnaires about my areas of pain and health history. It appeared as if he’d done this before.
But when he stood in the room with me before we began, staring down at the table and said, “Okay, I’m ready,” I thought perhaps he hadn’t a clue how this was supposed to play out.
“Ready for what?” I asked.
“You can get on the table now.”
“Uh, no,” I replied. “You can go out of the room while I get on the table.”
I kept nearly all my clothes on, though I never once felt uncomfortable. My roommates were in the next room and besides, Michael was nothing but a gentle giant who, not surprisingly, didn't get enough repeat customers to know how to act.
He didn’t seem to have a clue about the human body, where the pressure points are, how to stimulate the blood flow or channel the lactic acid from the body. It was the worst massage I’d ever gotten in my life.
Yes, I found him on Craigslist. Still, it was all on the up and up and was the equivalent of $60 usd, the norm for massages in the U.S. Here, massages start at $140 usd and go up to $240. I’m not kidding. I called immediately when I saw his prices.
Of course, I wouldn't call back.
A few days later, while walking down my street, I saw a sign in the window of a Chinese Medicine shoppe: $70 usd for an hour. I thought I’d give it a go.
The woman at the front desk was gruff and spoke in one word sentences. She was ready to get me on a table then and there. Before I even knew it, I was ushered down a long hallway, down several flights of stairs and down another long hallway to a small room with a table covered in paper.
There was no sheet in sight. What was it with the UK and no sheets?
“Where’s the sheet?” I asked Li-Li.
She smiled and nodded. She spoke no English.
“You take off, you take off,” she said, pointing to my pants and shirt.
“But the sheet?” I whined.
She closed the door. At least she let me get on the table in privacy. But what was the point, exactly, if she was going to see all of me anyway?
I decided to drape my pashmina across my unmentionable areas. When she walked in, she laughed.
“Towel, towel,” she said, while draping a scratchy bath towel across the area the pashmina was covering.
Thank goodness.
For the next hour, Li-Li paddled me, slapped me and pounded on me as if she were tenderizing a piece of meat, and the table was rocking back and forth as if it might launch into orbit. I had my eyes open the whole time.
This was not a massage for the faint hearted. Thank God. It was just what I needed. A real massage. One where contact is made on the skin, where I feel the results instantly. My muscles closed their eyes and sighed. They were finally relaxed. Finally free of all the luggage toting, the house and hotel and apartment moving, the rigors of standing so long in a hot kitchen, the feel of new pavement beneath my feet.
“Thank you,” they whispered.
Singapore Noodles on a Tuesday Night
Tonight, I made shrimp fried rice for my boys and then K and I went to see Ratatouille. What a lovely little film. I was entertained from start to finish.
Afterwards, we went to a Chinese joint and had Singapore noodles, corn and crab soup and roasted duck fried rice - at 10:30 p.m. That's the European way. And K's way. He's corrupting me in the food department. Often, I eat 5 meals when I'm with him. This weekend he wants to cook me paella.
Afterwards, we went to a Chinese joint and had Singapore noodles, corn and crab soup and roasted duck fried rice - at 10:30 p.m. That's the European way. And K's way. He's corrupting me in the food department. Often, I eat 5 meals when I'm with him. This weekend he wants to cook me paella.
The Real Cost of an Education
I think all my classmates must be rich. You almost have to be, to come to the best cooking school in the world and live in one of the most expensive cities in the world. No one, it seems, complains about prices. No one seems at all fazed by anything, actually.
Am I the only one shocked by it all?
I'm lucky to have received a full scholarship, but as far as I know, no one else has. There are only two per year, for anyone in the world who wants to apply and the chances of the second scholarship recipient being in my group is slim. The cost of tuition is astonishing, as is the cost of living. Apartments and food are astronomically priced. Still, there are 60 students in pastry alone. About 85 percent of them are Japanese, another 15 percent are Indian and the other five percent of us are Americans. So does that mean there are a lot of wealthy Japanese and Indians with a penchant for sweets? I'm not really sure.
I do know that one of my friends went to UC Berkely, wants to take her next course in Sydney, Australia (why not?) and her parents are currently touring Europe, having just eaten at the coveted Alain Ducasse in Monaco. Something tells me she's not pinching pennies. When my parents and I went to France, we ate bread and cheese on the grass beneath the Eiffel Tower. A beautiful lunch, Ellis style.
Another girl admitted to taking this course as a hobby. Her partner is a lawyer working in London for a few months and all they do is go to Michelin starred restaurants and the theatre. "I decided to come here because, really, what was I going to do for 3 months, shop?" she said. Wow.
Yes, I saved and worked six jobs to be able to have money to live on, but my bank account is vanishing with each breath I take. I don't go out to eat. I've only had falafel and cheap noodle dishes since I arrived. I've been cooking the rest of the time. If I go out to eat, I have to plan for it in my weekly budget, but none of my classmates seem to bat an eye at the idea. Amazing.
No matter what, though, I am getting a phenomenal education in more than just pastry. You can't really put a price on anything I've been learning and discovering. It's been truly brilliant thus far. Will I keep complaining? Probably. Would I trade this experience for anything in the world? Not a chance!
Am I the only one shocked by it all?
I'm lucky to have received a full scholarship, but as far as I know, no one else has. There are only two per year, for anyone in the world who wants to apply and the chances of the second scholarship recipient being in my group is slim. The cost of tuition is astonishing, as is the cost of living. Apartments and food are astronomically priced. Still, there are 60 students in pastry alone. About 85 percent of them are Japanese, another 15 percent are Indian and the other five percent of us are Americans. So does that mean there are a lot of wealthy Japanese and Indians with a penchant for sweets? I'm not really sure.
I do know that one of my friends went to UC Berkely, wants to take her next course in Sydney, Australia (why not?) and her parents are currently touring Europe, having just eaten at the coveted Alain Ducasse in Monaco. Something tells me she's not pinching pennies. When my parents and I went to France, we ate bread and cheese on the grass beneath the Eiffel Tower. A beautiful lunch, Ellis style.
Another girl admitted to taking this course as a hobby. Her partner is a lawyer working in London for a few months and all they do is go to Michelin starred restaurants and the theatre. "I decided to come here because, really, what was I going to do for 3 months, shop?" she said. Wow.
Yes, I saved and worked six jobs to be able to have money to live on, but my bank account is vanishing with each breath I take. I don't go out to eat. I've only had falafel and cheap noodle dishes since I arrived. I've been cooking the rest of the time. If I go out to eat, I have to plan for it in my weekly budget, but none of my classmates seem to bat an eye at the idea. Amazing.
No matter what, though, I am getting a phenomenal education in more than just pastry. You can't really put a price on anything I've been learning and discovering. It's been truly brilliant thus far. Will I keep complaining? Probably. Would I trade this experience for anything in the world? Not a chance!
Marzipan Creations
Several of you were inquiring about my marzipan sculptures. The bad news is, I haven't gotten to create any. We had a one-hour lesson on them, but I was in the back and couldn't see. Plus, it wasn't a hands on lesson, so it was rather pointless. This is pretty advanced stuff. We get to make roses in a few weeks and that has me excited. This photo is the work of my instructors and was taken by one of my classmates.
Monday 22 October 2007
Tea with Mary
The notes used to be waiting for me in the morning. Tiny swatches of scrap paper with chicken scratch scribbles, telling me how dear I am. Reminding me to put a coat on because it's going to be cold outside and always, always telling me to come and visit soon. Some days I would knock on the door, a towel draped across my shoulder and a freshly washed cup in my hand. "Just stoppped by to say hello," I'd smile, while going back to the suds in the sink, never wondering how loud the silence must be in her world. I had a little Buena Vista Social Club on the stereo and Mary was dozing off to another news program or a re-run of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. That five second hello from me might've just been the only human contact she'd had that day.
In the mornings before I left for work, I'd always drop a note under her door. I'd begin, "Sweet Pea..." That was the name I gave her and it always made her laugh. We had weekly tea together, me and Mary, and her raspy voice and hands shaking from Parkinson's never seemed to bother me much. I introduced her to Lady Grey tea, and she could never remember the name of it when she ran out, but no need. I always had another box waiting outside her door.
Mary is still feisty at the age of 94, but sometimes I still wonder what it sounds like in her world? How loud are the walls that surround her, there in her tiny apartment? Mary loved to play the piano. Said that she dreamed of being a teacher since she was 12. And today, her fingers don't work. Not even to slice a tomato, yet alone to caress the keys of her beloved baby grand. But she laughs. She still has an impish smile and always tilts her head and looks to the floor when I call her Sweet Pea. A darling little girl she is, that 94-year old thing. I guess it's really up to us. How we age. How we perceive things and how we treat others. More importantly, how we treat ourselves. All of it, good and bad, is up to us. And Mary plans to make 100. "That's my goal," she chuckles. "I'm not ready to throw in the towel just yet."
In the mornings before I left for work, I'd always drop a note under her door. I'd begin, "Sweet Pea..." That was the name I gave her and it always made her laugh. We had weekly tea together, me and Mary, and her raspy voice and hands shaking from Parkinson's never seemed to bother me much. I introduced her to Lady Grey tea, and she could never remember the name of it when she ran out, but no need. I always had another box waiting outside her door.
Mary is still feisty at the age of 94, but sometimes I still wonder what it sounds like in her world? How loud are the walls that surround her, there in her tiny apartment? Mary loved to play the piano. Said that she dreamed of being a teacher since she was 12. And today, her fingers don't work. Not even to slice a tomato, yet alone to caress the keys of her beloved baby grand. But she laughs. She still has an impish smile and always tilts her head and looks to the floor when I call her Sweet Pea. A darling little girl she is, that 94-year old thing. I guess it's really up to us. How we age. How we perceive things and how we treat others. More importantly, how we treat ourselves. All of it, good and bad, is up to us. And Mary plans to make 100. "That's my goal," she chuckles. "I'm not ready to throw in the towel just yet."
Ode to a Cashew
Dear God, if I should die tomorrow, please reincarnate me as a cashew, so I can languish in a giant vat of shimmery cashew butter, swimming all day in its subtly understated, molten sweetness with all my bretheren. I love them. My cashew brethern. They get me. They sate me in a way that ice cream never could, they tickle my palate gently enough to leave me hungering for another bite. All day I dream of swirling my spoon inside my cashew butter container, feeling the spoon's heft give way to all that supreme creaminess. It's naturally sweet and perfectly silky, but nothing so assaulting to my tongue as peanut butter. It's not so bitter on its own like tahini and just plain better for you than oily Mr. Macadamia. I mean, who wants to swim in a vat of macadamia anyway?
Sunday 21 October 2007
The $5 Head of Lettuce from Italy
Tastes a bit like radicchio. I couldn't resist because it was so pretty, but I was underwhelmed.
Saturday 20 October 2007
A Prince, A View and Some Spaghetti
I saw Prince William today. On TV.
He was in the stands at the rugby game, cheering on England. You, dear friends and family, will be proud of me. I know enough about rugby to know who's playing. England v. South Africa. Last week it was England v. Paris and Edith Piaf's "Non je ne regrette rien" was blasting over the speakers as a cool hush fell over the Parisian side of the stadium. Poor guys.
Unlike any other sport that exists, I can somehow follow rugby. I'm not going to say I love it. The people here are mad for it. I like it sometimes. Especially when I catch a glimpse of my Prince in the stands.
K made dinner again tonight. I was starving and had to wait until 9 p.m. to have starters. They eat so late in Europe! It was worth the wait, though. A lovely plate of parma ham, fresh asparagus, olive oil poached red peppers and soft boiled eggs. Delish.
I certainly worked up an appetite today. T and I went to Regent's Park, which is simply lovely. We settled into a rose garden with roses still in bloom, and had tea and a brownie in the Regent's Park Garden Cafe. The brownie reminded me of the world's greatest brownie I make, a result of a tedious testing of 20 brownie recipes. T said it was the best brownie he'd ever had in London. He says the brownies here are rubbish. This one was cut thinly, almost like a biscotti, and was rich and fudgy without being too sweet. There were half pieces of hazelnuts in the mix, which was a lovely touch. We'd already been walking an hour or two by that point, so it was nice to stop and have a tea break.
We decided to go to Wagamama's for lunch, crossing yet another thing off my list. I only knew of one near Marylebone so we cut through the Park, spotting ducks and swans on our way. What a brilliant day for a walk. The weather was superb.
We walked through my favorite park in Marylebone and there was a little market where they sold jewelry, clothes, food and other artsy items. By the time we made our way to the restaurant, we'd been walking around the city for about 4 hours. After lunch, T asked if I'd fancy a trip to London Bridge. Why not? He showed me his office, which is on the 9th floor of a spectacular all-glass building built by a prominent British architect. Amazing. We sat on black leather swivel chairs, looking out onto the Thames, watching giant boats ferrying tourists en masse, and looking out over the whole city as if it were ours to rule. The Tower Bridge was at eye level.
After about six hours of walking, I had to go home. I came home and napped a bit then awoke to some brilliant aromas in the kitchen. Spaghetti bolognese. Bon appetit.
He was in the stands at the rugby game, cheering on England. You, dear friends and family, will be proud of me. I know enough about rugby to know who's playing. England v. South Africa. Last week it was England v. Paris and Edith Piaf's "Non je ne regrette rien" was blasting over the speakers as a cool hush fell over the Parisian side of the stadium. Poor guys.
Unlike any other sport that exists, I can somehow follow rugby. I'm not going to say I love it. The people here are mad for it. I like it sometimes. Especially when I catch a glimpse of my Prince in the stands.
K made dinner again tonight. I was starving and had to wait until 9 p.m. to have starters. They eat so late in Europe! It was worth the wait, though. A lovely plate of parma ham, fresh asparagus, olive oil poached red peppers and soft boiled eggs. Delish.
I certainly worked up an appetite today. T and I went to Regent's Park, which is simply lovely. We settled into a rose garden with roses still in bloom, and had tea and a brownie in the Regent's Park Garden Cafe. The brownie reminded me of the world's greatest brownie I make, a result of a tedious testing of 20 brownie recipes. T said it was the best brownie he'd ever had in London. He says the brownies here are rubbish. This one was cut thinly, almost like a biscotti, and was rich and fudgy without being too sweet. There were half pieces of hazelnuts in the mix, which was a lovely touch. We'd already been walking an hour or two by that point, so it was nice to stop and have a tea break.
We decided to go to Wagamama's for lunch, crossing yet another thing off my list. I only knew of one near Marylebone so we cut through the Park, spotting ducks and swans on our way. What a brilliant day for a walk. The weather was superb.
We walked through my favorite park in Marylebone and there was a little market where they sold jewelry, clothes, food and other artsy items. By the time we made our way to the restaurant, we'd been walking around the city for about 4 hours. After lunch, T asked if I'd fancy a trip to London Bridge. Why not? He showed me his office, which is on the 9th floor of a spectacular all-glass building built by a prominent British architect. Amazing. We sat on black leather swivel chairs, looking out onto the Thames, watching giant boats ferrying tourists en masse, and looking out over the whole city as if it were ours to rule. The Tower Bridge was at eye level.
After about six hours of walking, I had to go home. I came home and napped a bit then awoke to some brilliant aromas in the kitchen. Spaghetti bolognese. Bon appetit.
Friday 19 October 2007
Standing at the Platform
It's a funny thing about trains. You always feel them coming.
When you're standing at the platform, it's easy to tell when a train is arriving. Not by any visual cues, though. You feel it. First, the ground shakes just a bit. Then, the wind begins to blow all around you, tickling your cheek and brushing up against your leg. Then, you hear it. It whistles as it lurches forward, the sound of bell and brakes dusting your eardrums at the same time. Then, you see it.
All this warning, though, before the train actually comes.
Sometimes, while I stand there waiting, I can't help but wonder if love arrives in the same way. Do you know when it's coming? Can you feel something before you actually know it exists?
I'm not sure. I like to think that anything that wonderful makes itself known to you purely in feeling and never by sight alone. After all, love is a visceral sort of thing. You feel it pulse gently through your blood, feel its elusive shock across your fingertips. You hear it in your laugh, its echoes sound like waves of warmth when you say good morning to your neighbor. Love, I think, is like a train.
It approaches slowly, and when it arrives, everything about you already knew it was coming and couldn't wait for the door to open.
When you're standing at the platform, it's easy to tell when a train is arriving. Not by any visual cues, though. You feel it. First, the ground shakes just a bit. Then, the wind begins to blow all around you, tickling your cheek and brushing up against your leg. Then, you hear it. It whistles as it lurches forward, the sound of bell and brakes dusting your eardrums at the same time. Then, you see it.
All this warning, though, before the train actually comes.
Sometimes, while I stand there waiting, I can't help but wonder if love arrives in the same way. Do you know when it's coming? Can you feel something before you actually know it exists?
I'm not sure. I like to think that anything that wonderful makes itself known to you purely in feeling and never by sight alone. After all, love is a visceral sort of thing. You feel it pulse gently through your blood, feel its elusive shock across your fingertips. You hear it in your laugh, its echoes sound like waves of warmth when you say good morning to your neighbor. Love, I think, is like a train.
It approaches slowly, and when it arrives, everything about you already knew it was coming and couldn't wait for the door to open.
What the Korean Told Me
"Your work is so lovely," I told a very shy girl who was washing her dishes at the sink. "You have such great detail. Do you paint or draw, perhaps?"
"Yes, sculpture," she nodded, not looking me in the eye. Then she said no about five times when I referred to the quality of her work. She was so modest. Imagine, she had the most beautifully intricate cookie designs in the whole class and totally denied it.
Eventually, though, she began talking to me and inquired as to where I was from. We were smiling so much at that point, sharing pleasantries, that my cheeks hurt.
"May I ask, perhaps, what it is you do back home?" she said.
When I told her I was a writer she said, "Oh! How very different."
And when I told her I write about food, so the connection isn't that far fetched, she said, so sweetly, "If I ever have question about something, can I ask you?"
How adorable. My new little Korean friend. Maybe she can help me learn how to make better tuiles.
"Yes, sculpture," she nodded, not looking me in the eye. Then she said no about five times when I referred to the quality of her work. She was so modest. Imagine, she had the most beautifully intricate cookie designs in the whole class and totally denied it.
Eventually, though, she began talking to me and inquired as to where I was from. We were smiling so much at that point, sharing pleasantries, that my cheeks hurt.
"May I ask, perhaps, what it is you do back home?" she said.
When I told her I was a writer she said, "Oh! How very different."
And when I told her I write about food, so the connection isn't that far fetched, she said, so sweetly, "If I ever have question about something, can I ask you?"
How adorable. My new little Korean friend. Maybe she can help me learn how to make better tuiles.
Observations of the Day
Here's what I've observed so far: Japanese girls are incredibly artistic and work daintily and with great focus; tuile batter is so time sensitive, one second can make all the difference between a gorgeous basket and a broken cookie; pastry work is as much about intuition as it is science and patience; there's a reason I didn't become a math teacher; and creme anglaise is my favorite beverage in the whole world.
To further expand on my observations, I'll start bottoms up. One, creme anglaise, as you may well know, is a sort of liquid custard used for plate decorations, sauces for fruits or various desserts and is also the base for ice cream. What it is, to me, is a tasty beverage. I sometimes want to pour the entire bowl directly into my mouth, it's so luscious.
Secondly, I got a D in Geometry. This, after repeated meetings with my teacher who begrudgingly agreed to meet with me before school. I just don't get it. Algebra is difficult enough for me to wrap my brain around, but the spatial relationships and shapes in Geometry completely allude me. So this is why I could not make a paper piping bag to save my life. The teacher had us cut our waxed paper into triangles. It took a few seconds for me to remember what that was. I know, bad...once that was done, I watched as everyone seemed to fold theirs with ease, but I struggled to understand the assembly process. I almost cried after 5 tries, and I realized suddenly that my mind just doesn't grasp this sort of learning. I honestly didn't understand. It was like if you put a box with those little circle and square pegs in front of me, I probably would've put them all in the wrong slots. Of course, mine was the bag she used to make an example of how to pipe out our tuiles.
"My, there's a little knick in this one, then, isn't there?" she said, while watching my dough squirt out curved instead of straight.
"Let's just snip off the end and see how that works."
Nope. Well, okay, then.
Luckily for her, I don't mind curved dough. I'm not particular. Which probably doesn't make me a natural pastry chef but let's remember, I want to know foundations. Delivery isn't my main aim, as I don't plan to plate desserts in a restaurant. My creme caramel turned out lovely and so did my jalousie, so I've got the products down. Just not the art. That will come with time...maybe. Until then, I'm going to buy my piping bags, thank you very much.
As far as intuition goes, I'm still trying to hone mine. This applies as much to people as it does pastry. They said the creme anglaise should not be too wobbly when you shake it. Ours wasn't. Apparently, though, it was too overcooked. How to tell? That's where the intuition kicks in. That too comes with time.
Tuile 101: you bake them at a high temperature for a very short time (3-5 minutes) and once removed from the oven, you must instantly shape them into baskets or squigglies or whatever you want directly onto the shaping tool. If you wait even a second, it dries and then hardens and cracks if you try to shape it. I'm not too quick on the draw where these babies are concerned. I will add this to my list of techniques to practice. Creme anglaise is, of course, on that list. Yeah! More for me to drink.
The Japanese girls in class really work hard at their artwork. I'm impressed. It's a learned patience, I think. They focus a lot on detail and tiny precision. They also tend to look very frightened while doing so, which, to me, takes the fun out of it. I wasn't at all frightened when I was making squiggly lines and dots. :)
To further expand on my observations, I'll start bottoms up. One, creme anglaise, as you may well know, is a sort of liquid custard used for plate decorations, sauces for fruits or various desserts and is also the base for ice cream. What it is, to me, is a tasty beverage. I sometimes want to pour the entire bowl directly into my mouth, it's so luscious.
Secondly, I got a D in Geometry. This, after repeated meetings with my teacher who begrudgingly agreed to meet with me before school. I just don't get it. Algebra is difficult enough for me to wrap my brain around, but the spatial relationships and shapes in Geometry completely allude me. So this is why I could not make a paper piping bag to save my life. The teacher had us cut our waxed paper into triangles. It took a few seconds for me to remember what that was. I know, bad...once that was done, I watched as everyone seemed to fold theirs with ease, but I struggled to understand the assembly process. I almost cried after 5 tries, and I realized suddenly that my mind just doesn't grasp this sort of learning. I honestly didn't understand. It was like if you put a box with those little circle and square pegs in front of me, I probably would've put them all in the wrong slots. Of course, mine was the bag she used to make an example of how to pipe out our tuiles.
"My, there's a little knick in this one, then, isn't there?" she said, while watching my dough squirt out curved instead of straight.
"Let's just snip off the end and see how that works."
Nope. Well, okay, then.
Luckily for her, I don't mind curved dough. I'm not particular. Which probably doesn't make me a natural pastry chef but let's remember, I want to know foundations. Delivery isn't my main aim, as I don't plan to plate desserts in a restaurant. My creme caramel turned out lovely and so did my jalousie, so I've got the products down. Just not the art. That will come with time...maybe. Until then, I'm going to buy my piping bags, thank you very much.
As far as intuition goes, I'm still trying to hone mine. This applies as much to people as it does pastry. They said the creme anglaise should not be too wobbly when you shake it. Ours wasn't. Apparently, though, it was too overcooked. How to tell? That's where the intuition kicks in. That too comes with time.
Tuile 101: you bake them at a high temperature for a very short time (3-5 minutes) and once removed from the oven, you must instantly shape them into baskets or squigglies or whatever you want directly onto the shaping tool. If you wait even a second, it dries and then hardens and cracks if you try to shape it. I'm not too quick on the draw where these babies are concerned. I will add this to my list of techniques to practice. Creme anglaise is, of course, on that list. Yeah! More for me to drink.
The Japanese girls in class really work hard at their artwork. I'm impressed. It's a learned patience, I think. They focus a lot on detail and tiny precision. They also tend to look very frightened while doing so, which, to me, takes the fun out of it. I wasn't at all frightened when I was making squiggly lines and dots. :)
Thursday 18 October 2007
Sick of It...Literally
Pastry school is a lot like nursery school. When one person gets sick, everyone gets sick. I couldn't figure out how I got a cold until I went to class this morning. Everyone was sniffling and coughing. Even the chefs I passed in the hall were toting tissue. Now, I think it's spreading to both my roommates. Darnit.
Thank God I got a bit better in time for class today. It has not been a fun week.
To make matters worse, I just realized I paid $8 for a jar of mayonnaise. At the time I must've made this purchase consciously, but now, somehow, I'm still shocked. It's really good, though. Amazing, actually. But still...
Thank God I got a bit better in time for class today. It has not been a fun week.
To make matters worse, I just realized I paid $8 for a jar of mayonnaise. At the time I must've made this purchase consciously, but now, somehow, I'm still shocked. It's really good, though. Amazing, actually. But still...
Pastry Chef Personalities
"You have to eat it. Eat it!" Msr. Chocolat commanded, as I stirred a pot of milk and sugar.
He was telling me, in his delightful French accent, to heat the milk, not eat it, and I wanted to giggle, but had to remain quite serious.
"Do we use a whole egg in this recipe?" a student asked.
"Yez, but I don't sink you vant ze shell, no?" he said with a smirk.
This one's a sarcastic fella, and I love it. Each chef has their own personality. Mdme. Flour is friendly, lively and very straightforward. Msr. Butter is softspoken, yet firm, and very kind. Msr. Chocolat, is devilishly handsome, very precise and has a wonderfully dry humor.
We were all scared he'd be mean, so that's a welcome relief.
He was telling me, in his delightful French accent, to heat the milk, not eat it, and I wanted to giggle, but had to remain quite serious.
"Do we use a whole egg in this recipe?" a student asked.
"Yez, but I don't sink you vant ze shell, no?" he said with a smirk.
This one's a sarcastic fella, and I love it. Each chef has their own personality. Mdme. Flour is friendly, lively and very straightforward. Msr. Butter is softspoken, yet firm, and very kind. Msr. Chocolat, is devilishly handsome, very precise and has a wonderfully dry humor.
We were all scared he'd be mean, so that's a welcome relief.
Scrambled Eggs
I made scrambled eggs today. That might not have been a bad thing, had I not been trying to make creme anglaise.
The thing is, creme anglaise, much like scrambled eggs, is incredibly easy to make. It takes only milk, sugar, eggs and a careful eye to watch the pot. You must constantly stir until the foam on top subsides. Truth be told, I was doing that. Then, my partner asked to take over. So I let him. I went outside to blow my nose (have a cold) and when I came back, voila, eggs a la scramble. Now, I could blame him, but I won't. It could've just as easily been my fault. Perhaps we were so close to being done that had I noticed, I could've said it was time to remove it from the stove instead. But I am not yet trained well enough to make that call. Besides, I'm constantly messing things up, and he never blames me. We're a team. You celebrate the successes and take responsibility for the mistakes - together. Who would've thought I'd learn to play so nicely in pastry class?
Finally, when our second batch was done, we made batter for tuile cookies, raspberry coulis, creme caramel and creme brulee. All of the cremes are so similar and take very little time to prepare. All of this will sit overnight and tomorrow we will learn to decorate our plates and show it to the chef. Tonight we'll be learning how to make marzipan animal sculptures. This, I can't wait for!
The thing is, creme anglaise, much like scrambled eggs, is incredibly easy to make. It takes only milk, sugar, eggs and a careful eye to watch the pot. You must constantly stir until the foam on top subsides. Truth be told, I was doing that. Then, my partner asked to take over. So I let him. I went outside to blow my nose (have a cold) and when I came back, voila, eggs a la scramble. Now, I could blame him, but I won't. It could've just as easily been my fault. Perhaps we were so close to being done that had I noticed, I could've said it was time to remove it from the stove instead. But I am not yet trained well enough to make that call. Besides, I'm constantly messing things up, and he never blames me. We're a team. You celebrate the successes and take responsibility for the mistakes - together. Who would've thought I'd learn to play so nicely in pastry class?
Finally, when our second batch was done, we made batter for tuile cookies, raspberry coulis, creme caramel and creme brulee. All of the cremes are so similar and take very little time to prepare. All of this will sit overnight and tomorrow we will learn to decorate our plates and show it to the chef. Tonight we'll be learning how to make marzipan animal sculptures. This, I can't wait for!
Tuesday 16 October 2007
The $2 Fig
I bought just three things at Fortnum & Mason: a jar of artichoke and garlic cream, a box of Elderflower tea and a tiny fig, about half the size of an apricot. Together, I paid almost 20 usd. The fig was a calmyrna, and I'd never had one before. It was $2. The cream, I'd found in Napa last year and it has been the singular best purchase I've ever made. I have been unable, until now, to find it anywhere, online or otherwise. The tea is like heaven. Elderflowers are in everything here and they taste like a garden kissed by rainbows, mixed with just a bit of sweetness. The flavor is very difficult for me to describe. I'll have to think about it.
What I have to say about Fortnum & Mason is this: go if you want to see luxury at its most gawdy. While I adore food, and going to grocery stores is like going to church for me, even I found this place a bit much. I found it ridiculous to even consider paying $70 for a tin of tea. Nothing there is affordable, save for the tiniest piece of licorice or a jar of preserves. It's set up like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory for grown ups, complete with crystal chandeliers, varnished wood and about a million attendants dressed in perfectly ironed uniforms, acting as both security guards and maître d'hôtels in the finest restaurants.
The place looked like a museum, the way things were on display. It was quiet in there, too. Too quiet for a store. I felt like I couldn't touch anything.
Still, it was a sight to behold. Gorgeous glass counters filled with every kind of chocolate imaginable. A pastry case with luscious looking cream cakes, parfaits, financiers and tiny olive oil and blueberry finger cakes. There were jams stacked up to the ceiling along entire walls. Biscuits from every country. There's a wine bar downstairs and a cafe on top serving $18 leek and onion tarts. Downstairs, there's a full scale gourmet market, with cheeses, meats, pates, caviar, wine and groceries. There were 11 kinds of vanilla, a million colors of sugar and even a section with confections made with insects. I picked up a lollipop and freaked out. There was a scorpion in it.
It's elegance at its most elegant. A playground for the rich. It's an institution in London and now I've seen it. Consider it crossed off my list.
I won't even tell you about Lauduree. It looked like a diamond store. The place was ensconced in gold and macaroons were $6 a piece. That's total bullshit. Beautiful, yes. Ostentation at its worst, though, and I'm not really into that sort of thing. Can I appreciate food as art? Of course. I just don't think it needs to be delivered in a box made of gold wrapped in $100 bills.
What I have to say about Fortnum & Mason is this: go if you want to see luxury at its most gawdy. While I adore food, and going to grocery stores is like going to church for me, even I found this place a bit much. I found it ridiculous to even consider paying $70 for a tin of tea. Nothing there is affordable, save for the tiniest piece of licorice or a jar of preserves. It's set up like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory for grown ups, complete with crystal chandeliers, varnished wood and about a million attendants dressed in perfectly ironed uniforms, acting as both security guards and maître d'hôtels in the finest restaurants.
The place looked like a museum, the way things were on display. It was quiet in there, too. Too quiet for a store. I felt like I couldn't touch anything.
Still, it was a sight to behold. Gorgeous glass counters filled with every kind of chocolate imaginable. A pastry case with luscious looking cream cakes, parfaits, financiers and tiny olive oil and blueberry finger cakes. There were jams stacked up to the ceiling along entire walls. Biscuits from every country. There's a wine bar downstairs and a cafe on top serving $18 leek and onion tarts. Downstairs, there's a full scale gourmet market, with cheeses, meats, pates, caviar, wine and groceries. There were 11 kinds of vanilla, a million colors of sugar and even a section with confections made with insects. I picked up a lollipop and freaked out. There was a scorpion in it.
It's elegance at its most elegant. A playground for the rich. It's an institution in London and now I've seen it. Consider it crossed off my list.
I won't even tell you about Lauduree. It looked like a diamond store. The place was ensconced in gold and macaroons were $6 a piece. That's total bullshit. Beautiful, yes. Ostentation at its worst, though, and I'm not really into that sort of thing. Can I appreciate food as art? Of course. I just don't think it needs to be delivered in a box made of gold wrapped in $100 bills.
The Plumber's Pies
The plumber came back. This time, he brought pies.
This apartment is like a revolving door. Yesterday, the landlord walked in without calling and stayed the whole day. She had her hairdresser come to fix her extensions. She stayed for dinner too.
Today, the bell rang and there was the plumber, ready to paint the hall closet.
In one hand he had a bucket and mop and a bag with dust rags and in the other hand he had a bag of mince pies.
"I'm very angry with this batch because the dough is too heavy," he said, dropping the bucket on the floor. "You see, you've got to do it just right. Are your hands cold? You've always got to run them under cold water.
"First, blend the butter and flour together. I use a mixture of regular and self rising flour. Then, I beat my eggs separately. Don't be tempted to use large eggs. That was my problem. Add the eggs and sugar until the dough just holds together. Don't over mix or your dough will be too heavy. Refrigerate the dough for at least an hour, though a couple of hours will do nice. Then it goes hard, but don't worry bout 'at. You have to work it, but not too much."
He told me about his pie pans, the molds he uses for cutting, how he flutes the edges gently with his fingertips...it was pure cinema.
And the pies? Well, they were fantastic. I don't care for mincemeat, so I scooped that out, but the crust itself was rich and buttery without being too sweet. And though it was heavy, I liked it. I don't want my pies to be light and delicate. You can save that for puff pastry. I was very impressed.
"They tell me I got beer money and champagne tastes," he said, while washing out the cupboard.
I'd surely raise a glass to this guy.
What I Eat
These are a few of my typical British daily staples. PG Tips tea is like our Lipton. It's in everyone's cupboard. I love Nairn's oat cakes. I get the plain as well as the herbed ones, and dip it in my hummus. And every day I eat muesli. This one from Jordan's is very nice, no added sugar.
Monday 15 October 2007
One Messy Sandwich
My friend Ellen told me about Maoz after her trip to Amsterdam and couldn't stop raving about it. She ate there six times, and when we looked it up online before my trip, discovered there were two locations in London. Today I wanted to cross at least one thing off my list, so off I went in search of it. When I finally found the place, I realized it was in a bit of a sketchy area - right across the street from a gay porn shop. A strip club was just round the corner. No thanks.
I decided to walk around the area - Picadilly Circus/Leicester Square - imagining I'd stumble upon the second location at some point, but not really knowing how. Then again, I'm lucky, so it would stand to reason that I would find Maoz eventually. And I did. After about 40 minutes of walking down darling little streets and browsing funky shops, I found the street right in front of my nose. Too bad this one was across the street from a store called Dirty White Boy. There were also sleus of jackhammers going off from construction workers right in front of another sex shop, so go on and make any analogies you'd like...I was starving so I went in anyway. The street, Old Compton, was actually quite darling with tons of little cafes and funky restaurants. Maoz is a falafel bar. You get white or wheat pita, freshly made falafel, hummus and fried eggplant and then you go to the salad bar and add whatever toppings you want. I had a delightful yogurt sauce, cilantro sauce and some parsley and lemon juice flecked couscous. It was a gigantic sandwich and I had the hardest time keeping it all in one piece, keeping it off the floor and my pants and keeping my face from being painted in it all. I took this picture, which made the people at the table next to me laugh, but I'm used to it. I take photos of my food all the time.
Sunday 14 October 2007
Primrose Hill
As you can see, Primrose Hill is just lovely. It's so lush and green and peaceful. Kids run down the hill, never seeming to tire, dogs play and people sleep. I love watching people be free. It reminds me that all of us require open spaces.
I took my shoes off and just sat in the grass. No blanket, no bug repellent. Bugs crawled on me from time to time and even a little ladybug landed on my bag. None of it bothered me. It was pure bliss.
Saturday 13 October 2007
Marylebone
This is one of my favorite areas in all of London. It's where the Cordon Bleu is. My what a posh place! It's a foodie's paradise. There is a fresh fish place I pass every morning, the glorious seafood on display in the window. There are cafes and patisseries, tapas bars, all manner of restaurants, kitchen shops...there's a fabulous farmers market on Sundays. I love walking through the streets each morning.
My Favorite Park
I discovered this park my first week here, when I was going to scout out my school. Jo told me to cut through this park behind St. Marylebone Church on Marylebone Road. It's a lovely little courtyard and sometimes I eat my lunch here or just sit here and listen to music on this bench.
Devil on the Bridge
I saw this guy as I was walking on London Bridge, looking out at the Tower Bridge. I don't know what he was singing about, but he seemed rather content.
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