Intrepid Gourmet

Tea for two

My love for travelling only comes second to that for chocolate. Not just the "getting there" or "being there" bits, but also the packing ritual, when I realise how much I managed to whittle down my belongings to the bare minimum. I still remember my 17-year old-self at Heathrow airport when I first travelled to Britain.  I turned up with a Samsonite suitcase the size of a large wardrobe in one hand and  - yes, I am ashamed - a matching beauty case in the other. In those salad days I still relied on the dubious advice of my mother, who is the kind of woman that likes to take the kitchen sink with her when she leaves home. 

But as the reality of modern travel dawned upon me, I quickly learned that hand luggage is the lifebuoy of the savvy traveller, and promptly ditched the beauty case. Nowadays I only dust off the oversize Samsonite when I travel to Venice, safe in the knowledge that I can't help stocking up on foodie goodies.

Usually, on work-related trips I take a small backpack or carry on with enough sample-sized toiletries and black clothes to look presentable in most circumstances.  Which may range from sitting on the floor during a crowded press conference to dinner a deux at the impossibly grand Hotel Crillon in Paris - in the same day.  Which is why last week I only needed to brush my hair and apply a smidgen of Ferrari-red lipstick as I rushed to an impromptu invitation to L'Obelisque, one of the two highly rated restaurants inside the venerable Crillon.      

The food, the wine and the company (which is not on the menu, I am afraid) were superb. Even more so the dessert I chose for both of us from a delectable selection by L'Obelisque pastry chef Christophe Felder: three doll-sized pots filled with vanilla, chocolate and taste-bud tickling tea custard.  My taste buds were so tickled that on my return to London I spent my lunch break sniffing teas at the Twinings shop on The Strand, looking for a variety of leaves that would help me recapture the taste of L'Obelisque's silky custard.  It turned out to be the musky aroma of Darjeeling tea. Don't use anything else in the recipe.    

Tea custard (serves four)

500ml whole milk

3 Darjeeling teabags

100g caster sugar

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 egg yolk

Reserve one tablespoon of milk and heat the remainder in a saucepan. Turn off the heat once the milk starts boiling and steep the teabags for about 10 minutes, until it turns the colour of cappuccino. In a bowl, whisk the sugar, cornstarch, egg yolk and the tablespoon of milk to obtain a smooth mixture. Remove the teabags, add the egg mixture to tea-flavoured milk and bring to the boil, stirring continuously. Boil for about five minutes until the mixture starts to thicken, then pour into four small bowls. Cool down to room temperature and refrigerate, preferably overnight.  Serve with a smug smile, mentioning to your guests that it's exactly like the eponymous dessert at L'Obelisque, if not better.

   

Taste this and marry me

On paper, it sounded like a dream. It was Valentine's day, I was in Paris and I was embracing a gorgeous French guy. In practice, however, it was somewhat less romantic. I had travelled to Paris to work and the gorgeous French guy was only temporarily in my arms while his maman was getting the feeding bottle ready. Oh, and he was in dire need of a nappy change.

Between working and tending babies, I still managed to steal some time for some Parisian stress-busting retail therapy, unable to ignore the romantic mood that permeated the whole city. Where else can one buy a beautifully presented box of "Lovers' tea?"

Book lovers of the gourmet variety, instead, can find solace at the exquisite Librairie Gourmande, which is packed to the gills with cookery books. On my fleeting visit, I was intrigued by a funny little book of seduction recipes, piquantly titled Taste this and marry me. I read the back cover blurb, which stated three reasons for buying the book:

1) You have just met the love of your life and you want to invite him over to dinner (hoping he will stay until breakfast).

2) You met the love of your life a long time ago and you never allow yourself to indulge him.

3) You haven't met the love of your life yet, but, in the meantime, you allow yourself fifty-two Sunday evenings to test new dishes on willing guinea pigs (that's about the number of the recipes). 

I was hooked. I grabbed the book and paid for it without even glancing at the recipes. Which - thankfully - turned out to be edgy and unusual, and come with suggestions on how to decorate the seduction scene, what music to choose or even what games to play (the gastronomic strip poker sounds enticing enough...)

Since I haven't met the love of my life yet and I have a few willing guinea pigs at my disposal, I decided to begin my weekend practice by starting appropriately with a starter - scallops with citrus fruit.   

Although seafood counters in British supermarkets usually cause me a fit of unconsolable melancholy, they can be relied upon for the usual suspects: run-of-the-mill salmon fillets, assorted shrimps, dodgy looking mussels and reasonable scallops. (I may be fond of my guinea pigs, but I reckon that there's no rush to cross town to shop at the best fishmonger's when I am just practising.)

The ingredient list is elegantly minimal: you need six scallops (three for yourself and three for the putative love of your life), one lime and one orange. As well as salt and freshly ground pepper, of course. 

Slice the lime in two halves. Zest and squeeze one half, thinly slice the other. Ditto for the orange. Now slice the scallops. Assemble artistically on a designerish plate, pour over the citrus juice, sprinkle with salt and pepper. You may serve it straight away, but I think it tastes better if you leave it in the fridge for a couple of hours before serving. In the meantime, you could spend the time primping yourself, maybe with some seductive red nail polish. (I like Lancome 104, which I wore on my toes last summer. It didn't get me a husband, but it caused a few fetishists to fall in love with my feet.)

Cafe society

My day job requires me to read on a daily basis the financial pages of several newspapers - yes, the sections that most people skip or put aside to line their pet hamster cage.  Some might think it tedious, but I often find sources of amusement in even the most mind-numbing reports. Especially when I come across interviews with executives of giant coffee chains who harbour ambitions to conquer the Italian market.

Good luck to them. Somehow I suspect that it will be a tad difficult to persuade us to give up our daily fixes of cappuccino (only until around 10am, because it's a breakfast drink) as well as all-day guzzling of mean espressos and macchiatos (100% arabica if you are either finicky, or a connoisseur, or both) for some watery drink flavoured with yucky syrup. We find it even more unforgivable that said watery drinks get served in a cardboard cup.   

And if you have ever tried a neat Starbucks espresso, with its burnt-tyre aftertaste, you know that there are less painful ways to atone for any sins you committed in the past.

I admit it, we Italians are not an easy bunch to please when it comes to coffee. I have friends who don't think twice about leaving a cafe if they discover it doesn't carry a coffee brand they approve of.  Thankfully, their tenacity often help them discover great coffee in the most unusual places.

Rialto bridge, despite its beauty, is one of Venice's worst tourist traps. If It weren't for the fish market and one of my favourite wine bars, I would cross it keeping my eyes closed in order to avoid seeing all the tat that's on sale. But it only takes a quick turn into a in a dark, silent alleyway in Venice to find Caffe' del Doge, a charming, comforting cafe that serves the best coffee in town.

It's in fact a tiny chain run by coffee buffs. But they don't want to sell you a lifestyle, a sitting room away from home that looks the same all over the world or even overpriced muffins. They just want you to enjoy carefully selected coffee - roasted Venetian style - in real cups, at your leisure, in company of good friends, in one of the most enchanting places in the world. I am afraid it's something you cannot possibly franchise.

When in Venice...

...do as us Venetians do. You will pass by several tempting patisseries during your wanderings in Venice. By no means, let yourself be tempted. Don't worry about the calories, sugar or cholesterol, just be thankful that you are in a wholly pedestrianised city.

You only have to take a look at the svelte locals to realise that being here is the ultimate fitness programme - unless you need to reach more distant islands like Murano, Burano or Torcello, you are on your feet all the time. As a result, you can indulge in more than one hip-expanding treat.

Once you let yourself be tempted by the tempting Venetians patisseries, you will be faced with a rather bewildering array of fruit tartlets, beignets and fragile puff pastries. But if you were me, you would be hopelessly drawn to a rather stubby chocolate blob that happens to be one of the highlights of Venetian patisserie: the poncetto.

Unless you are unfortunate enough to be cursed with an aversion to chocolate, you will find your nirvana as you bite into the crunchy coating, which breaks into a myriad of chocolate slivers on your tongue to reveal a sensuously thick texture giving off a faint alcoholic whiff.

Despite my pleas, no Venetian patissier has ever taken pity on my expat status and supplied the recipe. That remains one of my main goals in life. Stay tuned.

Return to civilization

Ask any Italian living in London what they miss most and the answer is always the same: the relaxed drinking culture. I am getting close to celebrating my 11th anniversary of life in the Big Smoke, but I am still unable to walk into a pub and spend the evening guzzling down beer.  The most I can manage is about half an hour - beyond that deadline I begin fidgeting, continually checking my watch and dreaming of being somewhere else, far away from the smoke, loud drunken voices and mind-numbing small talk.

It's not that Italians are not able to enjoy after-work drinks with their friends - quite the contrary. The thing is that we do it in a very Italian way, i.e. there has to be something nice to eat and something interesting to talk about along with the alcohol. Unsurprisingly, hotel bars in London after 6pm become the refuge of Italian, Spanish and French expats, since these places are the closest to our home drinking culture.

But  even the glitzy, art deco Claridges bar cannot beat a relaxed drink with friends in Venice, preferably at my favourite wine bar, Naranzaria, while enjoying a breath-taking view of the Grand Canal just behind Rialto bridge.

When in Venice, do as the Venetians do and ask for a spritz - a bittery long-drink made with prosecco wine, sparkling mineral water and either Campari or its slightly sweeter sister, Aperol. Its origins date back to the Austrian domination in the 19th century, when Austrian soldiers would order wine in Venice thinking they would get the light, sparkling white wines from Germany they were accustomed to. As a result, Venetian barmen began adding water to the much stronger Italian wines, then Campari, then an olive ..... and even the locals became hooked. Two centuries later, we are still hooked.

You will find us anytime between 11am and 7pm, a glass in one hand, a moreish nibble in the other, engrossed in juicy gossip with our closest friends and taking pity on the poor British tourists who ask us the way to Venice's only Irish pub (we always give the wrong directions, anyway...)

Let's retox

Just one week into the new year and you cannot turn anywhere without being bombarded with headlines about dieting and gym adverts.

This has an even more deleterious effect on my mood than the dismal January weather. Swapping mince pies for a diet of celery stalks sounds to me like a recipe for disaster. Calling it "detoxing" rather than simply trying to lose one's saddlebags/love handles/pot bellies (delete as appropriate) sounds plain ridiculous. Why deprive yourself of comforting food when you are already depressed as you face grey skies and a brand new year? But then, how do you get back into your pre-Christmas clothes?

That's when Japan comes to the rescue. Like me, the Japanese have an inordinate fondness for sweets. Every cafe worth its salt has a tea or coffee "setto," a set meal that comprises a hot drink and a choice of French-inspired, fanciful, elegant cakes - but only in doll sizes.

After I came back from my first trip to Japan, I found out I actually lost weight, despite treating myself to a setto every single afternoon for two weeks. Of course my daily sweet fix was on top of the healthiest diet in the world, but I was nevertheless enlightened.   

So, you can still have cake and eat it, too, in January - but have less of it. And perhaps you should try a dessert that will cheer you up, like zuppa inglese. Every restaurant in Italy had it on the menu during the 70s, and I never failed to order it when my parents took me out. It was so colourful, playful and tacky that it became de rigueur at children's birthday parties, where the liqueur in the recipe would be considerably watered down by concerned Italian mothers. Unfortunately, zuppa inglese disappeared from restaurants along with the 70s, but it still lives in the kitchens of us Generation Xers.

Zuppa inglese, a dessert made with layers of custard and sponge cake, may mean "English soup" in Italian and may loosely resemble trifle, but it's probably not related in ancestry, according to food historians. Depending on the source, zuppa inglese was invented in Tuscany in the 16th century, or in Naples two centuries later, supposedly made in honour of Lady Hamilton. By the 20th century, most of Italy had claimed it as its own, with regional recipes calling for candied fruit or a meringue topping.  My favourite is from Emilia Romagna, where both vanilla and chocolate custard are used in alternate layers (have ever I mentioned I am an incurable chocoholic?).

One unmissable ingredients for an authentic zuppa inglese is a shockingly hued liqueur called alkermes, which imparts a bright pinkish red colour to the sponge. In the old days that happened thanks to the use of cochineal in the manufacturing process, but nowadays it's due to a heavy use of E numbers. That's progress to you.

Alkermes is extremely difficult to get hold outside in Italy, where one has to get it from specialist shops, yet it's not the end of the world if you cannot find it. My mother, who doesn't share my passion for tracking down esoteric ingredients, reckons that using some good, plain marsala wine will do, and will probably be more palatable than alkermes' somewhat artificial aftertaste. However, the brat in me says you will lose the rainbow effect.

Zuppa Inglese (four small servings)

250g madeira cake, sliced (or ladyfinger biscuits)

6 egg yolks

150g caster sugar

2 teaspoons cornflour

500ml milk

vanilla extract

50g cocoa powder

alkermes and dark rum (or marsala wine as a substitute for both)

Make a vanilla custard by beating 75g of sugar with three yolks and one teaspoon of cornflour in a small saucepan. Stir in 250ml of milk and bring to the boil on low heat, stirring constantly. Boil for a couple of minutes, until the mixture starts to thicken, add two drops of vanilla extract, then transfer into a bowl to cool down. Make a chocolate custard with the remaining  sugar, eggs, cornflour and cocoa powder, repeating the steps for the vanilla custard.

Pour some alkermes into a bowl and soak enough slices of madeira cake (or ladyfinger biscuits, if using) to cover the bottom of a 15x15cm pyrex dish. Spread an even layer of vanilla custard. Then soak enough slices with the rum to cover the custard layer and spread a chocolate custard layer. Cover with a layer of alkermes-soaked sponge and another of vanilla custard until you fill the dish.

To please the child in you, sprinkle liberally with hundreds and thousands and leave in the fridge overnight. Zuppa inglese will help you face with a smile the remaining 51 weeks of 2007.    

 

The year of eating dangerously

  It's new year's eve and for once I am not getting ready to cook. In fact, I have just put my feet up while enjoying a cup of dark, smooth Spruengli hot chocolate - a gift from a thoughtful Swiss admirer - and thinking of what to wear to the dinner party I am not going to cook for.

Although my thoughts have been preoccupied with choosing the lipstick (a bright, festive red, if you want to know) instead of choosing the cheese, I cannot help going through this past year, which I spent cooking a lot. And eating a lot, sometimes weird things like crocodile meat (tastes like chicken, I am afraid). And getting mad when life didn't go the way I wanted, which happened more often than I expected (I am a perfectionist, I am afraid).

Although 2006 hasn't exactly turned out to be as sweet as a box of Pierre Herme macarons, I have eaten quite a few these of delights, which more than made up for destiny's slings and arrows. Sitting on a bench outside the church of Saint Sulpice in Paris while biting into a rose macaron is the ultimate medicine for the weary soul. It also tastes much better, and looks much better, than any medicine on the market.

That's why I decided that Pierre Herme's divine macarons are worth suffering a bit of ridicule for. So last time I visited Paris I travelled well prepared. Unless one buys a sizable number, Pierre Herme's creations are usually packaged in a rather flimsy plastic bag. While this doesn't cause too much trouble if the destination is nearby Saint Sulpice, the fragile nature of the macarons doesn't help them survive well the Eurostar journey back to London, where they arrive looking rather worse for wear. Not that the tired look detracts from their sublime flavour, but it's sad that to see such French beauties look a bit haggard once they reach British soil. I decided to spare them this ignominy and armed myself with a plan involving a Tupperware tub.

So, after making my choice (not an easy one, when the assortment includes vanilla, chocolate and foie gras, chocolate and coconut, pistachio, chocolate, truffle and hazelnut, chocolate, milk chocolate and passion fruit, coffee, chestnut and green tea, chocolate and caramel, fleur de sel, olive oil and vanilla, rose, chocolate and yuzu....), I placed the bag, tastefully decorated with the Pierre Herme logo, into my admittedly stylish food container. I carefully secured it to the bottom of my bag and made a run for the Gare du Nord to catch my train back to London. All under the gaze of the impossibly stylish, remarkably haughty staff of the Rue Bonaparte shop.

As I was stepping out, I noticed a small notice near the door. Pierre Herme was advertising for a counter job at its jewellery-like shop. For a split second, I was tempted to turn back and apply. I thought I had the "belle presence" required for the job, as well as a deep appreciation of the very items I would be selling.

But then, the macarons would become a habit, I thought, and they would lose their magic power to sweeten my life. Perhaps I would become haughty and snarl at those who make their devoted pigrimage to the Temple du Macaron. Never!

So I travelled back to London, but arrived at Waterloo International with a smile - and with the macarons intact.

May the new year be as delightful for you (and me) as a Pierre Herme macaron. Here's to a happy 2007! 

The perks of the job

Earlier this month I attended one of those Christmas corporate parties where champagne flows freely and there is an overabundance of artistic-looking canapes - the type that looks deceptively simple, but requires prehensile lips and well-toned jaw muscles to deal with. Things like those tiny spring rolls that spit out their content as you bite into them, or those devil-made miniature tartlets that collapse the moment you lift them off the serving tray. If only caterers stopped trying to be so clever and delivered food that party guests can actually savour without turning into social pariahs...

Anyway, while everyone had opted to starve in order to avoid the canape pitfalls, the conversation around me turned to what I do for a living. "Your job sounds so glamorous!," one of my interlocutors said rapturously. Well, at least I am glad it looks that way to outsiders, who probably cannot feel the stress that so far has been keeping yoga teachers, valerian tea manufacturers and upmarket chocolate shops in good financial health. But - like all jobs - it brings a few perks. Here's my favourite two: a breath-taking, full-frontal view of St Paul's Cathedral from my desk, and Smithfield meat market just round the corner.

Nothing gets me ready for a busy day ahead than cycling across Smithfield at dawn, when the market is in full swing, with white-clad porters yelling "Good morning, love!" as I zip past them, swerving to avoiding crates full of chopped up ruminants ready to be hauled to restaurants and butchers around London.   

Give and take some modernising improvements - such as refrigeration and sanitation - Smithfield has been functioning on this site since the eleventh century, and inside the current buildings since 1868. But it's not just the meat trade that gets the best of Smithfield. If you happen to be a journalist working an early shift  - or just an early bird - you can get your hands on the best, freshest meat cuts your money can buy. Especially if you are after something less bland and obvious than those depression-inducing packages found on supermarkets shelves. For example, a nicely plump boiling fowl.

Tortellini in chicken stock is a Christmas day tradition in northern Italy and it's something I cannot give up even if it entails shopping for food at insane hours (Smithfield opens at 4am and closes by noon). And then, I find that turning up for work with a chicken inside my handbag and hiding it inside the office fridge has a slightly subversive appeal.   

After going through the pains of shopping for meat at Smithfield, I couldn't possibly resort to ready-packaged tortellini - it would be akin to committing blasphemy. Luckily, another little perk of my job is the presence of one of London's oldest Italian delis, Gazzano & Sons, at 167 Farringdon Road. Their biggest draw is the fresh pasta counter, with several types of tortellini and ravioli, ranging from the strictest traditional varieties to the modish and trendy. Whatever type you choose, once you try the real thing, you will find it difficult to go back to the ready packaged stuff, I promise you. But for Christmas day it's best to stick to the tried-and-tested tortellini filled with meat and Parma ham.

To make the stock, simply place your bird in a sizable pot along with a stick of celery, a medium onion - peeled and left whole - and a carrot. Don't forget to add a couple of teaspoons of coarse sea salt. Cover with water and boil for at least an hour. Or use a pressure cooker and get the whole thing ready in less than half an hour.

Once the stock is ready, strain through a sieve and pour into a pot. Bring to a gentle boil and add the tortellini - around 70gr for each serving. Simmer very gently, otherwise the tortellini will burst, for around four minutes and ladle into individual bowls. It will be sublime. You will then realise that you will want it for life, not just at Christmas. 

 

Ageing gracefully

I think I am getting old. In fact, I am - since today is my birthday. As is customary with every birthday I have celebrated, my rule is that there must be a celebratory cake.

To tell the truth, there have been some exceptions during the years, but only if they were warranted by the circumstances. For example, I had a pineapple on a remote beach in Cambodia five years ago. Or sweet black beans at a zen buddhist temple on a mountaintop in Japan two years ago.

But if there is a patisserie within reasonable grasp, you can bet I'll be there on November 22. As an unreformed chocoholic, I tend to opt for the best-tasting antidepressant in the world when choosing the celebratory cake. Last year in Paris I effortlessly polished off two sizable slices of dark chocolate and raspberry cake at the sublime tearoom Mariage Freres. I got so high that I spent the rest of the afternoon with a permanent smile on my face, which failed to disappear even when I realised I blew up over 100 euros on fancy jam, teas and charcuterie while shopping at La Grande Epicerie food hall.

Although this year I am once again in Paris, I opted for celebrating at Laduree's 18th century-style tearoom on Rue Bonaparte. As soon as I grabbed the pastel-green menu, I was already expecting to keep up with the chocolate tradition and go for one of their famed chocolate eclairs. Or perhaps get high again with the decadent Carre' Chocolat - a black chocolate macaron topped with thin black chocolate leaves, black chocolate cream, black chocolate biscuit and chocolate zabaglione. I thought this black concoction would suit me perfectly, given that I wear black most of the time and have an aversion for pastel colours and girly fripperies.

Or so I thought until I spotted my nemesis: the picture-pretty, pastel-coloured, utterly girly rose-and-raspberry Saint Honore - and realised I couldn't possibly resist it. I am still not repentant: I have blamed it on old age.   

No trifling matter

"First catch your hare" is a phrase made famous by Britain's first domestic goddess, Hannah Glasse, in her seminal cookbook, The Art Of Cookery Made Plain And Easy, which came out of the presses in 1747. The book was truly revolutionary for the times, because its author simplified what had been until then fairly obscure cookery terms to the point that her recipe for roast hare starts with "take your hare when it's caught."

In these days of prepackaged meat cuts and ready-washed bagged vegetables, Mrs Glasse's instructions can sound eandearingly old-fashioned and irrelevant - until one tries traditional recipes that have become so traditional no one attempts to make them anymore. Take trifle, for example: the quintessential English dessert, redolent of afternoons spent talking about the weather.

To make a proper trifle one needs a proper trifle bowl, which comes in the guise of a round glass container that can show off a visually delectable combination of sherry-soaked sponge cake, raspberry jam, delicate creme anglaise and soft-as-a-pillow whipped cream. All of which is easier said than done - once you go out to buy one and realise that trifle bowls have disappeared from the face of the British high street (and British cyberspace, too).

It appears that the people who gave the world trifle don't make trifle from scratch anymore - they are just happy to eat ready-made, vile imitations concocted with glow-in-the-dark jelly and shaving-foam-like toppings.

But all's well that ends well. After months of searching, I have finally caught my trifle bowl - at Habitat, the democratic purveyors of minimalistic style to the masses. For the recipe, I have taken inspiration from the one listed in Jane Grigson's English Food, no less. However, even Jane The Great must have had her off days every now and then, because she suggests making a rather stingy custard with few eggs and - goodness gracious me - ground rice. So I decided to add some Italian flair and substitute it with an extravagant creme anglaise recipe from Italy, which calls for six eggs. Sometimes you just need to inject new blood.

English trifle  (serves eight)

1 packet of trifle sponges (or a 250g Madeira cake, sliced)

5 tablespoons sherry

1 jar (340g) good-quality raspberry jam

500ml whole milk

150g caster sugar

1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

six medium eggs

20g corn starch

250ml whipping cream

Put the trifle sponges (or the Madeira cake) into the base of your much sought-after trifle bowl, cutting them to fit if necessary. Pour the sherry over the sponge base, allowing the wine to soak in, then spread the jam evently over it. (I have insisted on using good-quality jam - my favourite is seedless raspberry made by Tiptree. Unlike most British jam brands, Tiptree actually contains real fruit as well as sugar.)

Next make the creme anglaise. Heat the milk in a saucepan with the sugar on low heat. In the meantime, whisk the eggs with the corn starch. Gradually add the milk, return the mixture to the pan and put back on the stove on very low heat until it begins to thicken, without boiling, stirring with a wooden spoon. Add the vanilla extract, stir one more time and remove from the heat.  Leave to cool, stirring occasionally to avoid the formation of a pesky peel, and spread over the jam layer. Whip the cream until stiff and spoon over the custard. Decorate with raspberries or slivered almonds. (Please, please, avoid those horrible tooth-breaking, silver-coloured sugar balls - conspiracy theorists say they were invented by evil dentists keen on boosting their business.)