can't cook, won't cook

I love Sundays. In our household, Sundays usually mean a delicious home-cooked meal and a great bottle of wine from the rack. As ordinary as this sounds, it’s not. 

A few months ago we bought this handsome-looking 12-bottle wine rack from a charming little shop in Islington, and filled it up with some beauties. I mean, we’re not talking 2005 Château Lafite Rothchild kind of standard here (far from it), but they’re certainly not the Tesco’s Finest kind, let’s put it that way. The rule was that we were only allowed one from ‘the rack’ on special occasions. But, as it turns out, we don’t come across many of those, so Sundays have become our special occasions instead. 

Luckily for me, nowadays, my home-cooked meals are prepared by one hell of a cook. I’m not being biased (ok, maybe just a little) - there have been days when things have gone wrong - but some of the best food I’ve ever eaten have come from this compact kitchen in this very ordinary central London apartment. 

You see, my cook actually cooks for a living. So imagine my Sunday dinners; they’re like being on a chef’s table, but rather than being restricted to a tasting menu, I get to choose what I eat. Jealous? 

Girls are often the ones who cook at home, not necessarily because they’re better; that’s just the way things have panned out. But if you were me, would you want to? Particularly if you were certain that your best ever, tried and tested recipes would in no way match the chef’s? So for the past fourteen months that we have been together, I have not once cooked for him. Not even an egg. 

However, my luck has run out. The chef has insisted that I cook for him once in a while. I told him that I couldn’t. Because truthfully - omelettes and spaghetti bolognese aside - I really don’t know much about cooking, and being one of the most impatient people I know definitely hasn’t helped.  

He put forward a very valid point that someone who loves to eat; (and who is always so readily equipped with opinions about other people’s food) should at least know the basics of cooking. So, in an attempt to combat my fears, he has offered to teach me. Lesson one took place last Sunday and first dish up was braised shin of beef with polenta and pickled beetroot. 

The beef was deliciously rich, melt-in-the-mouth soft, while the polenta perfectly smooth and creamy, and the sharp beetroot, with a hint of natural sweetness, was a refreshing contrast. It was the perfect Sunday plate, and as it happens, not as complicated as it sounds. Not only did I learn how to cook, I also learnt how to wait 24 hours for my food. Two birds; one stone... success. 


Ingredients:

Braised beef

1 kg shin of beef - cut into 2 inch pieces 

2/3 bottle red wine

1/3 bottle red Port

3 carrots - peeled and cut into small pieces

2 onions - peeled and cut into small pieces 

1/3 celeriac - peeled and cut into small pieces 

a sprig of thyme

1 tsp whole black peppercorns

4 juniper berries

2 cloves garlic

1 bay leaf

1.5 litres beef stock

Beetroot

6 fresh beetroot

salt

ground black pepper

olive oil

a splash of red wine vinegar

1 tsp sugar 

Polenta

125 g pre-cooked polenta

500 ml chicken stock 

500 ml milk

25 g butter

25 g grated parmesan cheese

1. Place all the ingredients apart from the beef stock into a stainless steel or glass container, and marinate for 12 hours. Take out the beef and strain the marinade in a colander placed over a saucepan. Pat the beef dry with kitchen towel, season well and sear in a hot pan with a little olive oil until golden. Remove the beef from the pan and place on a plate.

2. In a separate casserole, add a little olive oil, the drained vegetables and the spices. Cook for five minutes until lightly golden. Then add the meat followed by the marinade. Bring to the boil and simmer for 10 minutes until the red wine and port reduces by half. Add the beef stock and bring up to the boil. Cover the pan with a lid and place in the oven at 180°C for four hours.

3. Take a piece of aluminium foil, place the beetroot in the centre, season with salt, pepper and a drizzle of olive oil; then wrap up and place on a baking tray. Cook in the oven for two hours. After two hours, check whether it’s cooked by inserting a small knife into the beetroot. If it slides in easily, it’s ready. Place the cooked beetroot in a glass bowl and cover with cling film. Once cooled down, peel off the skin using your hands, and cut into segments. Place in a bowl, add the sugar, vinegar, olive oil and season.

4. Once the beef is cooked, take out of the oven, carefully remove the pieces of meat and place in a clean pan. Strain half of the cooking liquid through a sieve on to the beef. Place the pan on the heat and bring to the boil. Boil for 10 minutes, constantly basting the meat with the juice, until the sauce begins to thicken. Remove from the heat and keep warm. 

5. To cook the polenta, pour the chicken stock and milk into the pan, bring to boil and whisk in the polenta. Cook for 10 minutes until it starts to thicken; add the butter and parmesan, season to taste.

6. Once plated up, finish with a dollop of horseradish. 

not smitten with Bread Street Kitchen

After an evening that involved several glasses of wine and too many chunks of cheese shared between two friends, I was finally persuaded to start this blog. The deal was simple: that I must (no excuses) review the next restaurant I visit and just press ‘publish’. 

Said meal happened to be at Gordon Ramsay’s new all-day dining concept, Bread Street Kitchen. However, after dinner, I thought very seriously about breaking my own promise. I had such high hopes that my first post would be a positive one. Otherwise I’d just become known as this fussy, stuck-up cynic who always has something bad to say about absolutely everything, wouldn’t I? 

A week later, I came across a review of Bread Street Kitchen by Tracey MacLeod for The Independent – both a shock and a surprise – and felt an irresistible urge to write this post after all. I honestly don’t want to slag off Tracey MacLeod (a respectable food critic) or Gordon Ramsay (sorry, that’s a lie – I do)... but seriously, what was he thinking - £5 million (apparently, that’s how much was spent on this restaurant) - and what was she thinking: “nearly everything we ate was good”! 

I suddenly realised that this is what blogs are for: venting your frustration about how bad your last meal was (and of course, singing praises for the dishes that leave you smiling for the rest of the night, and sometimes, throughout the next day – trust me it’s happened), even if no one else agrees. 

One New Change in St Paul’s, already home to Jamie Oliver and Adam Perry Lang’s steak joint, Barbecoa, seems to be a breeding ground for oversized restaurants. It is of no surprise then that its newest resident, Bread Street Kitchen, sits no less than 250 people at a time. The décor was, I soon discovered, probably its most praiseworthy feature. Black and white chequered floors gave the gigantic space a nice brasserie touch and although it was far too brightly lit, the use of old angle-poise lamps, clamped onto the brass rails behind our seats, was clever. 

The website boasted that the ‘wine balcony’, a feature that stretched the entire wall above the open kitchen, held more than 2000 bottles. It certainly was a feature, a feature that could have been seriously awesome, but was instead ruined by hideous green neon lights. And funnily enough, not one of the 2000 bottles was what we had ordered. It was almost half way through our first course when our waiter casually informed us that they didn’t have any of that particular wine left and would we mind choosing another. We ended up with a carafe of a New World Pinot Noir which we didn’t feel enthusiastic enough to finish or remember the name of. 

First thing that struck me was the menu. Divided into five sections, the ‘Raw Bar’, ‘Salads’ and ‘Sides’ were pretty self-explanatory, but ‘Hot Kitchen’ and ‘Wood Stone’ were such a bizarre choice of words to sum up the remaining two. I still can’t get my head around the idea behind the concept, because I can’t figure out what distinguished the dishes that came under those ‘clever’ titles. 


The best dish we had was, without a doubt, the crispy pig’s head croquettes: soft, salty and rich on the inside; crispy on the outside. Though far from mind-blowing and much less ‘porky’ than I had hoped, they were really rather decent. On the other hand, the accompanying green chilli mayonnaise which I got so excited about, didn’t show the teensiest sign of heat. If I were to be picky about it, (which in this restaurant is ill-advised because you’ll not only wind up hungry but also infuriated that you’ve wasted precious time and money), I’d point out that the texture, though smooth, was far too dense. Close your eyes and it’s no different to Hellmann’s, straight out from the fridge. 

It all went downhill from there. The inattentive service: staff that didn’t seem to know or even look the slightest bit interested in the food they were serving didn’t help, but it’s forgivable. I didn’t expect perfection seeing as it was barely the end of the first week since the opening, but I’ve probably had better service at a Little Chef on the A1. 


The octopus carpaccio, dressed with capers, olives and saffron vinaigrette was drenched in so much saffron and capers that the sea-fresh smell of the octopus, the richness of the black olives and the sharpness of the vinegar were nowhere to be found. The braised pork collar with mustard glaze that followed was also far too salty. We were unable to finish it, even with large mouthfuls of mashed potato accompanying each bite. We faced quite the opposite dilemma when it came to the crab tagliolini with spring onions, chilli and parsley, which was so bland that it became almost tiring to eat. With each mouthful, my brain was working hard, trying to think about the flavours I should have tasted on my tongue, it felt like homework. 

At this point, instinct kicked in and we fought our hardest for survival. Using our forks, we shredded the pork thoroughly into tiny strings, then mixed them into the pasta. The idea was to simultaneously inject some flavour into the almost tasteless tagliolini dish while making the heart attack-inducing, over-seasoned pork more edible. Aside from outings at various Korean restaurants and (at the height of their popularity) Shabu-Shabu joints, I have never before prepared my own meal at a restaurant, and if I can help it, I hope never to do so again. 

With the man behind it being Ramsay, whose tarte tatin remains one of my top five in England, I was confident that when it came to dessert, a British classic like bread and butter pudding couldn’t fail. Like most women, I generally despise having to admit that I was wrong but there was no escape from this slimy, soggy pudding, which was far too milky, yet not quite sweet and unctuous enough. 

So what can I say... I am most disappointed that my first post wasn’t more cheerful. I can only hope it serves as a warning to those being slowly seduced by the pretty photographs of the restaurant on the website. The fact that it’s part of Gordon Ramsay Holdings means nothing. If anything, it’s a guarantee that it will be representative of the fact that the man himself, in his own words, “doesn’t give a flying  f***.” 


One New Change, 10 Bread Street, London, EC4M 9AB +44 (0)20 7592 1616

dreams

I had a dream. I dreamt that when I eventually got myself together to start my own blog about food (one of the things I love most in life - people excluded), it would be something spectacular. The truth is that I’ve been thinking about this blog for far too long, about how to make it spectacular/ cool/ intelligent/ unique/ funny etc., that I’ve actually gone off the idea. After all, there are thousands of food bloggers out there trying to do the same thing. How could my abnormally large appetite (this is measured by height to food intake ratio - I am 4ft 11 and eat like I’m 5ft 11) combined with my unusual obsession with raw beef compete? 

Then I realised it wasn’t a competition. The truth is, I simply love eating. I love eating great food. I make special trips to eat great food. I plan holidays around eating great food. I have often missed paying my bills so that I could go and eat great food. And much to the annoyance of my friends, family and work colleagues, I love talking about it even more. It makes me happy and quite frankly, if I’m talking then I don’t get so hungry all the time. So this long overdue blog is really for me. And to my dear friends who have been involuntarily subjected to my verbal hour-long reviews every time we go out for dinner together, this blog will now be where I satisfy my uncontrollable hunger (excuse the pun) to comment on every single little detail about everything that passes through my lips. So hopefully, you’ve heard the last of it. 

The dream has yet to come true, but at least I finally got off my greedy arse to start this blog. I’ll just dream of something else tonight... a lifetime supply of Paris’ Chez Denise’s steak tartare perhaps.