Some snaps from last weekend – celebrating Chinese New Year in London. The best pasts were easting dim sum in Camden on Saturday (spicy cucumber; I could eat that forever), then heading to Chinatown on Sunday for the mass throw-down of fun snaps. Bang, bang bang. Xīn nián kuài lè!
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I scored these two very shiny and pretty cookbooks for a fiver at Oxfam Dalston:
Heston’s Fantastical Feasts by Heston Blumenthal, and Creole by Babette de Rozières. I bought the Blumenthal book mostly because it has instructions on how to make lickable wallpaper, a la Willy Wonka. But I am more excited about the Creole book, described as a “colourful and sumptuous celebration of West Indian Creole cooking”.
Just a bit of a preview before adding the to the towering pile of books next to my bed – aren’t the pictures luscious? Can’t wait to make some of the sweet dishes from the Creole book, like coconut flans with caramel, and try some traditional Guadeloupean ti’punch – a white rum and lime mix.
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I am on a real foodie kick at the moment! I just – belatedly – finished the last few pages of Gabrielle Hamilton’s Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef (which was very good, my tardiness wasn’t a reflection of the book’s quality at all), and have spent many happy hours leafing through the The Flavour Thesaurus for cooking inspiration. And now Kitchen Confidential, by Anthony Bourdain.
I’ve been hearing for years that Anthony Bourdain is a bit of a badass, and then a copy of Kitchen Confidential showed up in my Christmas stocking. Funnily enough the parts I’m enjoying thus far, are those moments from a softer time:
My brother and I were reasonably happy here. The beaches were warm, there were lizards to hunt down and exterminate with readily available pétards, firecrackers, which one could buy legally (!) over-the-counter. There was a forest within walking distance where an actual hermit lived, and my brother and I spent hours there, spying on him from the underbrush. By now I could read comic books in French and, of course, I was eating – really eating. Murky brown soupe de poisson, tomato salad, moules marinières, poulet basquaise (we were only a few miles from the Basque country). We made day trips to Cap Ferret, a wild, deserted and breathtakingly magnificent Atlantic beach with big rolling waves, taking along baguettes and saucissons and wheels of cheese, wine and Evian (bottled water was at that time unheard of back home).
A few miles west was Lac Cazeaux, a fresh-water lake where my brother and I could rent pédalo watercraft. We ate gaufres, delicious hot waffles, covered in whipped cream and powdered sugar. The two hot songs of that summer on the Cazeaux jukebox were Whiter Shade Of Pale by Procol Harum and These Boots Were Made For Walkin’ by Nancy Sinatra. The French played those two songs over and over again, the music punctuated by the sonic booms from French air force jets that would swoop over the lake on their way to a nearby bombing range.
There’s something about food & music isn’t there? The two seem inexplicably linked. Laura Vincent of Hungry & Frozen always lovingly lists her current sounds, and Turntable Kitchen matches recipes with records. How does Tame Impala with creamy couscous sound? I think they’ll even post you out a pack of ingredients with a song to match.
Music while dining matters too. I read an interesting article on the sometimes inspired, sometimes insipid music choices of restaurants and pubs and how they shape the experience.
Likewise, last night’s Mexican feast at Thor and Liv’s place probably would have had an entirely different atmosphere if we weren’t stuffing our faces to the sweet tunes of Mariachi El Bronx. (By the way, thinly sliced green apple, dressed with fresh lime and Swedish black salt is incredible. Think of that if you listen to the Mariachi song.)
What do you like to listen to when you’re eating, cooking, or dreaming of food?
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Last weekend Thom and I headed to Maltby Street in SE1. Tucked away from the tourists of Borough, and far from the puppy mêlée at Broadway Market, it has a reputation as a place to make a food pilgrimage. It’s for serious foodies. Of course, that ruled us out as the target market, but we still enjoyed ducking in and out of the railway-arches-cum-food-warehouses.
There was all manner of things to buy: crumbly cheeses, oatcakes, beer made from New Zealand hops, and fresh shellfish – still wriggling about in their polystyrene coffins. My favourite was the Colombian drinking chocolate, shaved from solid bars, and stirred into warm milk. I also really liked the remanents of industry lying about too – stacks of wood, old radiators, and piles of tiles. It was certainly interesting, so if you’re game for a different Saturday morning scene, head south to Maltby Street.
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This Christmas I was feeling rather lonely and discombobulated, without my favourite people. It’s all a bit strange to me, you see, the cold weather, the piping hot fruit mince pies, the grey skies and the duck boots. Plus Thom and I moved into a big empty flat on December 21st, and I was busy finishing up at work. So no tinsel or trees for us. I was almost sniffling when I thought about what I’d be missing out on. Summer. Crickets and cicadas. A cool strawberry daiquiri or five. Sandy beach towels. Endless sunshine. Fudge.
You see, every year in late December, I team up with my siblings or my mum to spend a day making fudge. It’s one of my family’s holiday traditions to make mountains of sugary treats, and distribute them to call our friends and whanau. Sometimes there’s pink and white coconut ice, and sometimes there’s chocolate slices, but there is always Russian Fudge, delicious and golden.
But here I was, stuck on the other-side of the planet. What I wouldn’t I have given to sit in the kitchen at Omaha, listening to it on repeat and argue with my sister? I would have happily listened to the awful Christmas CD my mum has been thrashing since 1992. Usually the cloying renditions of Feliz Navidad! et al makes my right eye twitch, but even the thought of it was making me dreadfully homesick.
On Christmas Eve Eve, on a last-minute trip to a department store to pick up more presents, we stopped by the kitchen-department. After extensive consultation and comparison, Thom decided to buy me a hand mixer. And after he left for work that night, I found myself on a mission.
Despite never making it alone, nor having my family was not here to gorge on the results, I decided to give myself a pep talk and make some Russian Fudge. For tradition’s sake. In our tiny local Tesco, I spent half an hour scanning the aisles for Golden Syrup and wondering if England even had it. Eventually I found it, and rushed home, gleefully. Soon enough, I had toffee boiling on stove and was sneaking a spoonful of sickly condensed milk. Then I started beating the fudge into reluctant submission, and the smell of a straining motor filled the kitchen… and it finally felt like Christmas!
Russian Fudge
{from the Edmonds Cookery Book}
3 1/2 cups sugar
125g butter
3 Tbsp Golden Syrup
1/2 cup milk
1/2 tsp salt
200g sweetened condensed milk (half a standard tin)
2 tsp vanilla essence
Put all ingredients, apart from vanilla essence, in a pot and bring to the boil stirring all the time. Boil for roughly 20 minutes, still stirring all the time. In a bowl of cold water drop a little of the fudge mixture (test throughout the 20 mins of boiling), when it is at the soft ball stage (your drop forms a small ball on contact with water) remove from heat. Add vanilla essence and beat with an electric beater for about 10 minutes until you can see it starting to set. Pour into greased tin and place in fridge to cool and set.
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It’s funny how scent triggers the heart of our memory system. I found the “Christmas Spirit”, courtesy of burning sugar and electrics. I also realised that while I may not have all my loved ones around me, I certainly am not alone (buying your girlfriend a beater = A+++), and that while I may not have sun, sand and warm temperatures, I can still bring a bit of my tradition to the Northern Hemisphere.
I hope you had a lovely holiday, and will enjoy a fantastic New Year, wherever you are.
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turophile, n.
1. a connoisseur of cheese, a cheese fancier
I just learned a new word, and I’m sure it’s one that will come in handy this Christmas.
“Oi, turophile! Get your hands off my brie!”
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Food, food and more glorious food at a market in Bastille, Paris. It was very early in the morning (thanks jet-lag) and we got there just as all the vendors were setting up. There was nothing to do but buy a nutella crêpe and perch on a bench waiting for them to open. It was the first time I tried nutella. Or ‘noooo-tella’ as the girl making it said. (As she I couldn’t help but think of Amélie, imagining records being made with a crêpe rake.)
Eventually the market jolted to life, and we bought as much cheese, bread and fruit as we could carry. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the intoxicating scent of fresh yellow pears, stacked high to the stall roof.
Bastille Market - Sundays
Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, Bastille, Paris.
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Le Refuge des Fondues offers little choice, but a lot of fun. I have wanted to visit this quirky Parisian fondue joint ever since I heard about its choice of wine glass; the humble baby bottle.
We walked in and asked for a table – no problem – we were shown a seat immediately. Then the fun started… I was told to clamber over the table and wedge myself in between the other patrons. Ladies! If you’re in Paris good manners prevail, which means you’ll be seated on the banquette, so wear pants.
Post-acrobatics, the waiter asked for our order. There’s only two choices to make here – red or white wine, cheese or meat fondue? Vin blanc! Fromage! And away we went:
The other diners are merry, the graffiti is coarse, the service is efficiently French, and the food is filling. For 18 euro you’ll receive a baby’s bottle of wine, a fondue to share, a sweet apéritif, and a platter of bar snacks to nibble from.
Do go if you’re in Paris, it is a hilarious dining experience. Be warned though: it’s hotter than the sun in there. Don’t underestimate the power of 30 fondue pots filled with burbling cheese and oil – you may have to seek refuge in more than one baby bottle of wine!
Le Refuge des Fondues
A. 17 rue des Trois-Freres, 75018, Paris, France
T. 0142552265
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The other night we enjoyed another edition of the Wine Cellar’s dinner club. It’s where all the people who work there and the groupies like myself come together and cook to a theme. (Duh, it’s called a pot luck, Amber.)
Anyway, Bastille Day was a huge hit, so this time we all went out for another country – Mexico! While the others offered amazing salsa, chili and quesadillas, I rustled up a desert of sorts: fried cinnamon tortillas. They are so easy to make, and delicious like Little Orbit donuts – you must try them for yourself.
Cooking oil
Cinnamon
Sugar
Tortillas (pre-made is easiest)
Cut up tortillas into small strips, or if you are feeling fancy, get out the cookie cutter. Fry the tortilla strips in oil till golden, then set aside on a paper towel to cool. Mix 1 part cinnamon to 3 parts sugar in a brown paper bag (or a container, but a bag means no mess). Put the now cooled strips into the paper bag and shake-shake-shake until everything is coated evenly. Serve with chocolate sauce, a fruit salsa, or just alone.
Oh and while you’re cooking, put on some tunes. May I recommend Down in Mexico by The Coasters? Made famous by that honky-tonk bar scene in Death Proof, and sure to get you dancing.
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Saturday afternoon lunch with my family at the Jade Dragon. The food was good, the people better. My family is hilarious, especially my little sister Courtney. However, it was a little emotional (cue me weeping over Thom’s shumai) because it was the last chance I had to see my grandmother before the big move. I’m going to send her lots of postcards though, so she better watch out.
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Perhaps one of the signs of a great party is no photos. If so, this little dinner party I hosted last week, a “soup kitchen”, was one of the best. I have only have two snaps to mark an evening defined by big pots of soup, simmering gently on the stove. Thank you to my beautiful friends for supplying: cheap vino for the mulled wine, bread for dunking and great conversation.
If it’s the middle of winter and you’re out to feed a crowd, there is no better path to follow than the way of the soup. I made a creamy cauliflower and potato, and a vegan ‘French’ onion soup (it turns out golden syrup is a good replacement for the more ‘spensy Maple Syrup).
Cauliflower and potato soup
{Adapted from Cuisine magazine}
100g unsalted butter
1 large brown onion, finely diced
2 cloves garlic, finely sliced
1 head cauliflower, cut into florets
4 large potatoes, peeled and diced
1 litre vegetable stock
salt & pepper to taste
3-4 tablespoons Dijon or whole grain mustard
100ml cream
Melt the butter in a large saucepan, then add the onion and garlic. Fry until translucent. Add the cauliflower and potatoes. Pour in the stock and milk. Cover, bring to a gentle simmer and cook until the potato is tender. Optional: a few splashes of white wine. When the vegetables are cooked, remove from the liquid, purée with salt to taste and the mustard. Return to the saucepan and bring back to heat, stirring gently. Serve with cheesy toasted bread for best results.
Yield: 4 servings
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cos·set/ˈkäsit/ verb: Care for and protect in an overindulgent way. Taking refuge from the winter winds that battered the city all weekend, the brunch club ventured out to suburbia out to Cosset, a sweet little café in Auckland’s Mt Albert. And indulge us they did.
It’s a warm and cozy place, filled with vintage furniture, stacks of magazines and lots of plants. The counter was stacked high with homemade bread and baking, and the staff were incredibly friendly. You can’t help but feel like you are taking tea in someone’s stylish living room.
I was delighted to discover that Cosset’s menu is entirely vegetarian, and was so delicious that the rest of the crew forgot about bacon. We ate: beans on toast with ripe avocado, coffee beans smothered in chocolate truffle, garlic mushrooms, and my pick of the day; toasted banana nut bread smeared with butter. We drank: star anise and feijoa sodas (made with Cosset’s own syrups), lavender lattes, and bracing Kokako coffee.
Oh boy, it was a lovely way to spend a lazy Sunday. With bellies full and minds humming from all the caffeine; we headed back to the car feeling, yes, cared for. I think we are all promising to ourselves that we will visit Cosset again soon.
Cosset
A. 1087 New North Rd, Mt Albert 1025
T. 09 846 0655
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I love good writing about food, and Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef
“I wanted a place with a Velvet Underground CD that made you nod your head and feel warm with recognition. I wanted the lettuce and the eggs at room temperature … I wanted the tarnished silverware and chipped wedding china from a paladar in Havana, and the canned sardines I ate in that little apartment on Twenty-Ninth Street. The marrow bones my mother made us eat as kids that I grew to crave as an adult. We would have brown butcher paper on the tables, not linen tablecloths, and when you finished your meal, the server would just pull the pen from behind her ear and scribble the bill directly on the paper like [the waitresses in France] had done. We would use jelly jars for wine glasses. There would be no foam and no ‘conceptual’ or ‘intellectual’ food; just the salty, sweet, starchy, brothy, crispy things that one craves when one is actually hungry.”
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Hello! My name is Amber Parkin. I'm a New Zealander living in London. I'm a writer obsessed with fondue, chesterfield sofas, vintage dresses, foxes, and 35mm.
Here I like to talk about fashion, design, food, travel, writing & books, and culture. Everything else (including my photography) goes into my digital notebook.
If you'd like to email me the address is amber@codeforsomething.com
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