Dabbous: The Perfect Meal

They say that good things come to those who wait, but better things come to those who are patient. The former implying an uncertainty of whether what you are waiting for will eventually happen, or for that matter what it actually is you’re waiting for at all; and the latter being regarded as a virtuous character trait rather than one small step away from serial procrastination.

 It was with fervent virtuosity then that I loitered in the corridors of culinary curiosity for the best part of nine months; three whole trimesters in which my anticipation gestated to dangerously raised levels at the thought of the much revered and amply praised restaurant, nestling behind the satisfyingly named ‘Goodge Street’ station (say it, and add a few more OOOs).

In January of this year I was sitting on the tube perusing the Evening Standard, second only to the Metro in the polls of poor spelling, and in the review section there appeared a five star gushing about “the new place in town” – Dabbous. Being the romantic gent that I am, (rendered thus by years spent absorbing Danielle Steele novels on the shag pile that lies in the shadows of my flame licked inglenook, whilst memorising the scripts of every Richard Curtis film that made it to VHS), I took the liberty of calling up to reserve a table for the inevitable Valentines Day romancing. This would surely raise the game.

 I picked up the phone and made the call. However, not entirely unlike Pat Bateman trying to make reservations at Dorsia, I was met by the psychotic frivolity and unbridled condescension of a totally inconsequential sub-human and/or maître d’.

“A table? For two? On VALENTINES DAY!!!! . . . . . . Aah ha, ah haaa . . . . . ah ha ah ahahahhahaHHAAAAAAAA!”

The phone went dead.

We went to Tom’s Kitchen instead, which was good but incredibly overpriced for something you or I could have made at home armed with a slow cooker whilst watching American Psycho, or Love Actually.

The first available spot was October 17^th at 7:15pm, bearing in mind I was calling at the end of January, and as I rarely plan more than a week or two in front of me, and certainly not beyond December 21^st of this year as that very well may be the end of life on Earth, it seemed like a good idea to make the reservation and plan my year around supper. Not entirely out of character as my days revolve around mealtimes so it’s really the same concept but on a larger scale.

The 17^th came round and my girlfriend and I arrived separately, meeting in the cobbled street of Goodge like lovers from a Parisian romance novel, ready to stuff our faces with the inevitable edibles. We were shown downstairs to the cocktail bar by a relaxed, friendly, and particularly good-looking girl who must have been the same age as us, and could quite possibly have been the person who so cruelly belittled me all those months ago through the medium of narcissistic laughter. (This of course never actually happened; the phone conversation was nothing but amiable and drenched with the tones of cordiality).

 After a delicious ‘Beer Grylls’ and a punchy ‘Fizzy Rascal’ we were escorted convivially to our table and, on recommendation of the waiters who outnumbered the diners (yet whose presence was welcome and a far cry from the floating garcons one encounters at many a classic French restaurant, intent on refilling your wine glass after even a drop has had chance to evaporate), we opted for the ‘Tasting Menu’.

Hispi cabbage with sunflower

Celeriac with muscat grapes, lovage and hazelnuts

Coddled free range hen egg with woodland mushrooms & smoked butter

Braised halibut with coastal herbs

Barbecued Iberico pork, savory acorn praline, turnip tops & apple vinegar

Fresh milk curds infused with fig leaves; fig and pistachio

Chocolate soaked brioche, barley malt ice cream, azuki beans & pecans

The cabbage had been soaked in something delicious and was served with an incredible sauce, complemented further by the crunch of the sunflower seeds. The celeriac came in its own juices, cold, sharp and fresh, with a sweet edge provided by the muscat grapes. The coddled egg with it’s smoked butter and earthen fungi, nestling in a nest made of hay and served in the perfectly topped shell from whence it came, transformed the meal from a collection of interesting ideas into an intricately woven yarn of reliant flavours, transporting the senses and instilling emotion. The halibut was subliminal. The pork left me speechless and with a sudden urge to immigrate to Spain. The fig needed no introduction, and even brioche, something for which I harbour a passionate dislike, made me question my moral ethics and political standing.

It was quite simply fantastic, so much so that on the way out I booked another table for the soonest possible opportunity, which, as it turned out, will be half way through November.

2013 that is.

 £54.00 a head for the taster menu (cheaper than the Valentines menu at Tom’s Kitchen) and worth every penny.    

Beef Wellington swedged between a Chive Pancake and a healthy schmear of Ardennes Paté, with a Swede, Beetroot and Potato Gratin, boiled Vegetables; and Smoked Streaky Bacon with Shaved Sprouts and Leeks cooked in clarified Butter and basted in Béchamel.

‘100 things to do before you die’ - When you type this into Google it reciprocates with a myriad articles, guides and bucket lists compiled by people the world over, detailing their pre-death aspirations to complete a ton of activities and or/actions before the final curtain draws on what they may perceive to have been a rather dull existence.

There are the generic boxes that many wish to tick before meeting their maker: jumping out of a plane appears to feature heavily for instance, along with Scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef, and running a marathon for charity. I even signed up to throw myself from a Cessna over the Bay of Islands in New Zealand a couple of times, unfortunately it was too breezy on both occasions and I was relegated to soaking in a hot tub of sulphurous water that smelt like ass (farting in a crowded place - number 86 on one list I’ve found). As for the Scuba diving I’m game should the opportunity arise; whilst re the marathon I got pissed earlier this year and entered a wager with my little sister insisting I could run a sub 3h 40m in London in two years time – my list expands.

There are some sentimental ‘to dos’ as well; ‘No 33. fall deeply in love – helplessly and unconditionally’. This can’t be planned I don’t think, and the harder you try to make it happen the further away it will become; a bit like Chinese finger torture.

In the past couple of weeks I’ve had to add ‘Boxing Match for Charity’ to my bucket having (again gotten drunk and) agreed to put up my dukes in the name of inebriated machismo, but more importantly a charity set up to research a rare mitochondrial condition that has affected a young relative of a friend of mine. In the name of this good cause and to punish myself for agreeing to run 26 miles around London and to inevitably have my arse handed to me in the ring in Spring 2013, I have decided to throw myself into training and have joined a gym called MAD (Martial Arts Den). The first session was exactly as it sounds, I’m not a fighter, yet.

Tomorrow morning I board a plane for Colombia to hike to the lost city with my Dad and big sister; I’ve now discovered it is a big one on the top 100 travel spots to hit before you pop your clogs, and this is what got me thinking about the things I want to do before I get burnt in a box and scattered on a trance floor somewhere in the first place. Not just because it is a great trip and something I’ve wanted to do for ages, but also because having read the government’s travel page instructing British citizens to “avoid the area at all costs” as there is “a high risk of kidnap by Colombian guerrilla rebels”, it may well be one of the last exciting things I get to do before said bucket is begrudgedly kicked.

So perhaps I should be taking stock of the last 25 years of my life, the first quarter; and the stocks are high after the Spring of my youth. Not in a literal sense of course, my bank balance is as it always has been, somewhat negative, and fortunately utterly incongruent with my positive outlook and zest to viva la vida. However after a fantastic birthday week wherein I ate at Dabbous, one of the best meals I’ve ever had (review to come), and got properly surprised with a party organised by my delightful girlfriend (see No 33), I wanted to reflect while I had the chance. 

Watercress and Mixed Leaf Salad with Broccoli, Beans, Stuffed Olives, Feta and Tomato in a Sharp and Spicy Dressing

Are things better in small packages?

I’m sure there are plenty of blokes out there trying to convince their girlfriends “it’s not the size, but what you do with that counts”; and in the bedroom this may be true, to a degree of course, nobody wants their manhood mistaken for a third nipple prompting an embarrassing yet discreet visit to Doctor Christian, and the subsequent airing of an extreme close up through an electron microscope of your miserable member. Joyful.

Extremities aside there are analogies across the board that illustrate the relativity between size and performance. For example; the Ariel Atom has the small and compact engine from a Honda Civic Type R, and with only 2.0L of space in the block head and a meagre 245bhp, on paper it should be annihilated by say, an Aston Martin V12 Vantage that boasts a whopping 6.0L twelve cylinder engine that pumps out 510bhp, more than double the horses whinnying in front of the Atom. However due its tiny frame and weight of 610 kilograms, the Ariel can run rings around the Aston and put a far bigger smile on your face.

The wild Mustang horses of the North American Plains are tiny, only a few hands and feet tall; stick them next to a Suffolk Punch and they’d be in danger of being crushed, but dangle a carrot in front of them and you can bet which one would have their night vision first.

What it comes down to, I think, is a question of practicality amongst your surroundings. It may be fun to have Lexington Steele in the boudoir and a Hummer in the driveway, but before long you’d end up walking around in nappies and running over small children. Likewise if you go to the other extreme and shack up with Doctor Christian’s latest charge and start bowling around in a G-Wiz, you will become extremely unsatisfied and have no room in your car for friends, shopping, or anything at all for that matter.

I’ve started to wonder if the same can be applied to man’s best friend, and what kicked started this thought process was yet another addition to the Gloop family. You may recall a few weeks ago the introduction of my new and beautiful Labradoodle; Boom Gloop the first. Well Boom was supposed to be called Eddie originally, according to my mother, and it was only after much deliberation and a few demi-dubbings along the way (Noisily, Ozora and Dave) that he finally became official. Mumsy wasn’t satisfied however, and after a couple of weeks spent wafting through the corridors in a billowing Dickensian blouse, staring into space whilst vacantly mumbling the name “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie”, before threatening to set herself alight in front of the inglenook; we thought it best to find an Eddie after all.

So it was from the post-apocalyptic climbs of East Lincolnshire, an inbreds throw from the aptly named Grimsby, betwixt the perpetual mists of pathetic phallacy, that wee Edward was rescued from the clutches of a man whose brother’s sister was quite clearly his mother.

Eddie is the G-Wiz of dogs, the third nipple; he weighs 1.5 kilos and is quite simply ridiculously small. His belly doesn’t fit him and dangles on the floor, he can’t walk further than 20 feet without assistance, he can’t climb onto the sofa so I had to fashion a ramp (pictured at the bottom), which he is still too tiny to ascend without rolling off the side onto his inherently weak back, before being mauled by the unrelenting Boom and then stepped on by anyone over 4 feet tall. He would be of regular size amongst the Lilliputians, and on the small side should he ever encounter a borrower. I used to think the Paris Hiltons of this world were ludicrous for carrying their Chihuahuas around in their Louis Vuitton bags, however I now realise that far from being an accessory, it is an absolute necessity, to ensure the Eddies don’t become as flat as the Lincolnshire they came from!

There is one very important thing that redeems the utter impracticality of such a small creature, a factor that sets it well and truly apart from an electric micro car and an exceptionally small penis: He is impossibly cute. I can guarantee you that driving into the park on a summer’s day waving your pecker from the window of an oversized battery will not draw the right kind of attention. Stroll through with a miniature wire haired Dachshund in your arms however, and the babes will come-a-flocking. Then you can take them home and show them your G-Wiz.

Ingredients: (Serves 4)

For the dressing –

1 garlic clove

1 handful fresh basil

Zest of ½ lemon

2 tablespoons pine nuts

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

1 tablespoon freshly grated parmesan

1 bird eye chilli, deseeded and finely chopped

Salad –

1 bag of fresh water cress

1 bag of mixed leaf salad

1 handful French beans

1 packet stem broccoli

100g Greek feta, cubed

1 pot of olives, mine were stuffed with peppers

12 cherry tomatoes, halved

Method:

1. In a pestle and mortar or blender mash up all the ingredients for the dressing and set aside.

2. Boil the broccoli and beans until tender but with a little bite, strain and set aside.

3. Chuck all the ingredients in a salad bowl and pour the dressing over, toss to coat. This salad has some quite strong flavours in it so I would have it as a starter or light lunch. 

Augustus' 30 Second Meals - "The Egg"

If you haven't got the apparent 30 minutes it takes for Jamie's Dauphinoise, then I am here to save you. Over the next few months I will be taking it upon myself to single handedly take care of meal times for single parents juggling their careers with their home life.

So without further ado, I give to you: "The Egg".

Ingredients (Serves 1):

1 Egg

Method:

1. Pick up egg.

2. Crack egg.

3. Fry egg.

4. Eat egg.

Salmon Glazed in Whiskey and Soy with Buckwheat Soba Noodles

It was inevitable that when the World Wide Web was invented by Tim Berners-Lee and the first bite of information was sent on Christmas day 1990; that before long the internet would become home to millions of web sites that went far beyond the confines of necessity and functionality, into the realms of the ludicrous, surreal, and downright bizarre – ‘Get Ahead of the Games’ is one such web site. For months now we have been warned off entering the city to avoid the promised apocalyptic grid lock of confused locals swimming against a tide of wild eyed foreigners; ‘Olympic Lanes’ were to provide safe passage for terrified athletes barricaded behind bullet proof glass, as the contaminated public ran around feasting upon each other in the barren zombified wasteland of the middle and outside lanes.

I went to the Olympics on Monday, and I left plenty of time to catch my train and tube in anticipation of a rather uncomfortable game of sardines to make it to Westminster Pier and our boat to Greenwich. As it turns out, the campaign to warn off us Brits from the city unless it’s absolutely imperative to enter, at our peril, has been by far the governments most successful to date. There were barely any people on the train from Ealing (queen of the suburbs and home to my girlfriend), the tube was bordering comfortable, we didn’t have to jostle through a group of Spanish students at the exit of Embankment, and there was an alarming lack of tourists from the Orient along the South Bank. As you can imagine experiencing England without the cueing was most disconcerting.

Fortunately Karma was restored with a lengthy line as we entered the equestrian park through the Royal Maritime Museum, and there were a great deal of people inside enjoying a brief spell of sunlight in an otherwise dreary July. The cross country went well, or at least the two jumps I could see from my seat in the main stand didn’t challenge anyone particularly; the presence of Wills, Harry, Kate and a handful of lesser Royals rendered my little sister into her usual gushing mess, the beer was expensive, the food more so, but it was a fantastic day out and I feel like I did my bit to egg on Team GB to the silver medal they were awarded today on the podium in Greenwich.

I think it’s hard not feel a little patriotic when thrust into the breach of such a spectacle, however cynical you may have been about it before hand, and there was a lot of that going around. There are those who think the money should have been put to better use, re-building our flailing economy for example; there were certainly parts of the opening ceremony that I thought could have been omitted, It was a little peculiar that the NHS, already understaffed, were able to spare several hundred active nurses to dance around some children whilst their patients back at Holby were forced to call the Police for a glass of water. Although on the whole, I thought it was highly entertaining.

We need entertaining at the moment; it gets the endorphins going inside of us and heightens the serotonin in our bodies. It does exactly what exercise does for the athletes, stimulates our body and invigorates the mind. So if you think about there has never been a better time to have a party as right now – don’t mope around resigning to the national negativity and cynicism that’s been seeping into us; call up Bassline Productions and hire a massive sound system, play Chariots of Fire, run around in slow motion and award yourselves a medal. www.basslineproductions.co.uk



Ingredients: (Serves 4)

For the salmon marinade -
4 salmon filets
150ml whiskey
3 tablespoons light soy sauce
2 tablespoons dark soy sauce
Freshly ground black pepper
1 red chilli, finely chopped

For the noodles -
3 bunches of soba noodles
4 florets of brocolli, roughly chopped
1 romano pepper, finely chopped
8 baby corns, halved lengthways
2cm fresh root ginger, crushed
1 clove garlic, crushed

For the cooking sauce -
5 tablespoons whiskey
4 tablespoons dark soy
1 tablespoon mirin
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil
1 red chilli, finely chopped
3 tablespoons runny honey
2 tablespoons hot water
6 spring onions, white ends finely chopped, save green ends for cooking
1 clove garlic, crushed
1cm fresh ginger, crushed
Small handful of fresh coriander, roughly chopped

Chives, finely chopped

Vegetable oil for frying

Plain flour for dusting



Method:

1. Mix the ingredients for the salmon marinade together and submerge the salmon in it for a minimum of 2 hours.

2. In a bowl thoroughly mix all the ingredients for the cooking sauce together and set aside.

3. Boils the Soba noodles for between 5 and 7 minutes, strain and set aside. In a wok heat some oil and fry up the brocolli, baby corn, pepper, ginger and garlic and stir fry for a few minutes till half cooked. Take off the heat and keep warm.

4. When the salmon has marinaded take it out, pat it in the flour, and chuck it - skin side down - into a frying pan. Cook the filets for a few minutes then pour in the cooking sauce, it will sizzle quickly and the honey will caramelise and bubble. Turn the filets over and cook for 2 minutes, before flipping them back skin side down. Make sure to toss them in the reduced sauce, the whiskey will be burning off and the sauce will reduce by over 3/4.

5. Whilst the salmon is cooking add the noodles to the wok and toss the vegetables through it, add a little soy and some sesame oil if needs be to add extra flavour.

6. Plate up the noodles with the salmon on top, chuck some chives and coriander around and about. Serve up.

Haddock Wrapped in Smoked Streaky Bacon on a Bubble and Swede Rosti with Sugar Glazed Carrots, Sweet Stem Broccoli and a Bearnaise Sauce

Tastes vary from person to person in every aspect of our lives; whilst some things are universally enjoyed, like Calippos on a hot day, Adele (somewhat guiltily), and puppies - the Vietnamese are especially partial to a Pho Spaniel, so I’ve been told – there are other tastes that have to be acquired. A perfect example is Unilever’s Marmite, a product that has divided public opinion since its introduction to the shores of Britannia in 1902.

In fashion tastes become styles; some people for instance find it acceptable to wear spectacles that have regular glass in, serving no evident purpose other than to perhaps make them look more intelligent, oxymoronically bearing an inner stupidity which they’d been masking with eight inches of denim, a faux gold neck chain with potential to moor the Titanic, and some inhumanely tight trousers sat atop a pair of shoes so long they could be used to ski in. Don’t get me wrong I’m all for a bit of fancy dress, I’m not adverse to donning the glads and giving the tiles a lick of rouge every other weekend, I just think there are more important things to be worrying about than which pair of budgey smugglers you’re going to aimlessly walk up the Kingsland Road in . . . perhaps I’m just not edgy enough, or maybe my budgey is actually a macaw.

In music there are those who create the flavours and those who try them out, the pop charts are full to the brim with catchy songs that when stripped down are all essentially the same, but it’s because of this very reason that they appeal to the masses; like puppies and Calippos. The underground dance scenes are spear headed by a small collective of pioneers, some of them in non-prescription specs I might add, who through the medium of ‘trend’ and a healthy following of sexy scene-sters continue to carve out genre niches in the ever expanding list of sub-categorised Electronica – the recent influx of ‘Deep House’ being a prime example. Some people genuinely love the music, and although they may not have a grasp of the intrinsic musical qualities that form its make up, they enjoy it because it’s well made, and they have good taste. Others don’t, and they listen to Gabba.

I am a firm believer in not knocking something till you’ve tried it, within reason of course; I wouldn’t urge you to start shooting up, and both kidnap and murder are also ill advised. However, if you haven’t had a mushroom before I would suggest giving it a whirl; cherry tomatoes roasted in soy sauce and sugar are also rather splendid; and if for some reason it’s never occurred to you to slip a filet of haddock between some smoked streaky bacon, glaze a few carrots, toss some sweet stem broccoli in butter, lay it all out on a bubble and swede rosti before adding a dollop of béarnaise sauce; I would whole heartedly recommend you to do so. 

Ingredients (Serves 4):

2 large haddock filets

2 packs of smoked streaky bacon

For the Rosti:

1 large swede, peeled and chopped

1 large potato, peeled and chopped

1 egg

¼ white cabbage, finely shredded

70g mature cheddar, grated

50g salted butter

For the Béarnaise:

2 tablespoons of white wine vinegar

2 tablespoons of water

1 shallot, finely chopped

1 tablespoon of tarragon leaves, chopped

2 egg yolks

150g salted butter, melted

12 small carrots

1 pack of sweet stem broccoli

1 tablespoon granulated sugar

Salt and Pepper

Method:

1. Make the Béarnaise sauce first as you will probably balls it up first time around like I did, it takes some real elbow grease as doing it with a blender as almost every recipe will suggest just didn’t work. In a small saucepan boil the white wine vinegar, water, shallot and chopped tarragon – make sure you save a couple of tspns of freshly chopped tarragon for later on. Once it has reduced by half its size strain the liquid through a sieve into a jug and discard the soggy shallots / tarragon mixture.

2. Beat the two egg yolks together and mix in the strained tarragon / vinegar reduction until it’s light and frothy. Pour the mixture into a pyrex bowl and in turn heat this bowl over a smaller saucepan filled with an inch or two of water, a rudimentary Bain-marie. Make sure the heat is on medium low and constantly whisk the mixture, whilst adding the melted butter very, very slowly. This is the difficult bit and it will seem like nothing is happening for a good few minutes, however persevere. The yolks of the egg will catch the butter and suddenly the mixture will thicken and change, creating a lovely mayonnaise like sauce that reeks of wonderful tarragon. Finally take the sauce of the heat, stir in the remaining chopped tarragon, season, transfer to a new container and cover with tin foil. This can be reheated when the rest of the meal is ready.

3. Boil a saucepan of water and cook the potatoes and swede, strain and mash using the 50g of butter and the egg.

4. Whilst the potatoes and swede are boiling lay a sheet of tin foil on a baking tray and drizzle with a little oil; wrap the haddock in the bacon and place on the foil, season, then cook in the oven at 200°C for 10 minutes.

5. Whilst the fish is cooking fry up the cabbage in some olive oil and add to the mashed potato and swede, along with the grated cheddar.

6. Boil up the carrots and broccoli, when cooked toss the carrots in sugar over a medium heat, and chuck a small knob of butter in with the broccoli.

7. Make the swede, cabbage, potato and cheese mix into patties around 5” across and 2cm deep, fry for a couple of minutes on each side before plating up. Put the rosti on first, followed by the fish, chuck on some carrots and broccoli and a healthy dollop of Béarnaise and you’re ready to go.   

Parsnip Kadhi

Whether you know it or not almost every single one of you has been to a Buddhist restaurant at some point in your life, in fact I imagine most of you eat from Siddhartha’s kitchen at least once a month, and potentially on a Sunday like my family does, somewhat religiously.

 Almost exactly a year ago today my girlfriend and I were standing underneath the very same Bodhi tree that Prince Siddharta Gautama plonked himself under and became enlightened many, many moons ago. At the time food wasn’t the first thing on my mind, it wasn’t the last either, it never is; however when I was learning about the struggles and epiphanies of this Jesus of the eastern world, it wasn’t his influence upon my weekly Sabbath staple that came to mind.

The realm of Buddhist food encompasses more than half of humanity. From its birth in India, the gospel spread to Sri Lanka with Mahendra and Sangmitra, the children of Emperor Ashoka. In the centuries that followed as the new faith spread to South East Asia, so did the concepts and ideas behind the Buddhist kitchen. Through Burma, Thailand and Cambodia, intrepid monks and scholars conveyed the message of The Enlightened One to China via Tibet, to the vast expanses of Mongolia, and as far as Korea and Japan in the east.

In one of his sermons Buddha compares the human body to the string of a musical instrument – if it is stretched too tightly imposing on it a hard aesthetic discipline of self-denial, it may break. On the other hand if it is allowed to hang loose, following the path of least resistance, it cannot create any music. An individual aspiring to achieve nirvana – blissful liberation – cannot afford to forget this.

The essence of Buddha’s teachings is encapsulated in majjhima patipada – ‘The Middle Path’. If desire, the root of all distress and misery is to be conquered, we must lead perfectly balanced lives, avoiding all excess and ensuring that nothing disturbs the tranquillity of our mind. The body, according to the Buddhists, must be properly nourished and kept free from painful diseases that can only distract the mind from sadhana – practice. So basically if you go out and nail a meat feast pizza, make sure you chase it with a Caesar salad, and hold the dressing. 

I have to say that with the above in mind I wouldn’t make a very good Buddhist, which isn’t to say I’m not partial to a veggy stir fry from time to time, however I do draw the line at the waste of stomach space that is Tofu, and the idea of boycotting beans and denying my frequent cravings for pate and McCain smiley faces (although never together), I find utterly depressing. So the interpretation I have made of the Buddhist legacy is not to eat on ‘The Middle Path’ as recommended, but rather veer violently off it in either direction with the hope of establishing some sort of inner karma somewhere in my lower intestine. Which on a Monday morning after the Sunday spice, is a far cry from reality.

The Buddhist mantra doesn’t only apply to food but rather to all aspects of your life, so whilst you fill your belly with goodness you should fill your head with happiness and your heart with love. With that in belly, mind and chest, I decided to adapt a classic Indian ‘peace recipe’ made with lotus stems, and make it with parsnips instead, because they’re my favourite vegetable and make me happy; and whilst I eat it I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of my family and latest entrant to my heart – the coolest dude that you ever did see, so sweet he’d have Hitler swooning. The awesome: BOOM.

Ingredients: (Serves 4)

For the Dumplings:

3 large parsnips, peeled and chopped

2 carrots, peeled and chopped

1 small red pepper, finely chopped

1 tablespoon of corn flour

2 tspns garlic, crushed

1 tspn ginger, finely chopped

Vegetable oil for deep frying

Salt and Pepper

For the Sauce:

15g salted butter

1 tspn cumin seeds

1 tspn garlic, crushed

1 tspn tumeric powder

1 tspn medium chilli powder

2 cups yoghurt, beaten

60ml double cream

Fresh coriander for garnishing

Method:

1. Boil the parsnips and carrots in water for 10 – 12 minutes or until soft enough to mash, remove from the heat, strain and mash with a little butter, season to taste.

2. Heat enough oil in a sauce pan to submerge a ping pong ball sized dumpling over a medium high heat.

3. Sautée the red pepper, ginger and garlic over a medium heat for a couple of minutes until softened. Pour into the mashed parsnip / carrot mix and stir through. Add a tablespoon of corn flour to the mix and stir thoroughly. Season again if necessary. Set aside.

4. Roll the mash mix into dumplings and carefully lower into the oil, deep fry until golden and drain on kitchen roll.

5. Whilst the balls are frying heat the butter in frying pan over a medium heat; add the cumin seeds and brown, then add the garlic and sautée for a couple of minutes before adding the tumeric and chilli powder, mix well. Add the yoghurt immediately and lower the heat, cook until the yoghurt smell disappears and the sauce thickens. Remove from the heat and stir in the double cream. 

Chola Masala with Aloo Palak Methi Ka Tuk and Chapati

Recently I was sitting on the tube peregrinating through a paper, which one exactly escapes me, when I perused across an article about international tourism, and specifically a list of the 10 cities from around the world that are at the top of the tourist destination hit list. Sitting proudly at the top, and rightly so, was the city in who’s underbelly I found myself rattling around in a hot, overcrowded and smelly carriage, faced by the gloomy visage of ‘Joe Commuter’ and his copy of the Evening’s Standard. 

Up from 7^th place last annum it’s no surprise that Londinium (est. AD 43 by the Roman’s as a major imperial commercial centre) has climbed the echelons and arrived at its rightful position as the number one tourist spot on earth. The leg up was last years Royal Wedding wherein the world fell head over heels for former ‘girl next door’ Kate Middleton, now Katherine, and Duchess of Cambridge. Whilst the fashion industry took an estimated BILLION pound boost with any of the many houses designing McQueen-esque garms to sell to the gushing Middle-ton-class; it was a moment of national pride that was sorely needed during a pretty miserable period. The day before the wedding I had completed a 4-day hike to the lost city of the Inca’s in Peru’s ‘Sacred Valley’; the only thing I wanted to do after reaching Machu Picchu was sleep off the altitude for a few days, however when I turned on the TV in our hotel in Cusco and found out the wedding was due to kick off at 4:45am Peru time, I duly set my alarm and thought of England.

The second major event to rouse the popularity of London further still has only come to a close today, with a service of thanksgiving at Sir Christopher Wren’s Saint Paul’s Cathedral, to mark the end of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. This time I found myself a little closer to the action as I peered with great expectations through a pair of binoculars from my vantage point 11 floors above the South Bank; the usual drove of feckless and slow moving tourists below replaced by hoards of soaking patriots, but a pebbles flick from Blackfriars bridge. My grandmother’s flat had been decked out in a few hundred feet of the several thousand miles of overpriced bunting, which has been peddled to the masses over the past few weeks, whilst the smell of coleslaw and salubrious Coronation chicken wafted betwixt the guests as a regal reminder of why we were there, and what it is to be British. As Her Majesty bobbed past we all waved and cheered in a fit of proud Jubilee jubilation.

Each of the thousand boats involved in Sunday’s flotilla could boast a thousand stories; from the beaches of Dunkirk to the canals of Cornwall, canoes from remote archipelagos rowed alongside royal barges, and Italian gondolas punted beside Maori warriors. It was truly a sight to behold, in spite of the weather, and us Brits do a lot in spite of the weather. Beyond the marking of Queen Elizabeth’s 60 years at the helm and a lifetime of dedication and personal achievement, it was a celebration of a history long predating 1952 and her ascension to the throne. Clear of the shores of our island over nautical horizons to colonies turned common wealth, from subjects to citizens and the millions of people the world over who had chosen to come together to show their respect for a great woman, at the head of a great country. 

With the Olympics drawing in London is preparing for the biggest event in its history, people will be flocking in from around the world; groups of Spanish school children will be blocking the exits to tube stations, the South Bank will be crammed with tourists from the Orient viewing London through a three and a half inch screen, commuters will be inundated with requests by flustered foreigners trying to get to grips with Underground map, and woe betide the inevitable soul who stands on the left hand side of an escalator. However if you do get caught up in this madness, which I’m sure a great deal of you will, you must look past your frustration and focus on the pride that lies beyond. They are here not because they want to piss you off, but because they’ve come to see what all the fuss is about.

“He who is tired of London is tired of life” – Dr Samuel Johnson

Before the Jubilee weekend I had intended to cook Coronation chicken, now the weekend is over I never want to see a plate of it again. So in its place I’ve decided to make the most British of dishes: curry.

Ingredients: (Serves 4)

For the Chola

2 tins chickpeas, salted

1 large red onion, roughly chopped

2 green chillies, finely chopped

Small handful of tamarind

4 large dry bay leaves

3cm piece of cinnamon

5 cloves

3 green cardamoms

4 black cardamoms

1 tspn whole black peppercorns

1 tspn ground tumeric

2 dried red chillies

Vegetable oil

Handful of freshly chopped coriander

Natural Yoghurt

For the Aloo Palak Methi Ka Tuk

1 large potato, cut into 2cm cubes

1 medium bag of spinach

1 tspn mustard seeds

20 curry leaves

1 tablespoon ginger paste

1½ tspns garlic paste

1 tspn of chilli powder

1 tspn amchoor powder (mango powder)

½ tspn cumin powder

½ tspn ground black pepper

Small handful of dried fenugreek leaves

Vegetable oil

For the Chapati

300g Chapati flour

Water

Salt

Vegetable oil

Method:

1. Start with the Chola: in a frying pan dry roast the bay leaves, cinnamon, black peppercorns, cloves and cardamoms – make sure the cardamoms are open to release the oils. Roast over a low heat for 10 minutes or until ready for grinding. Pour out into a pestle and mortar / small blender.

2. Rub a little oil over the 2 dried red chillies and roast in the frying pan to release the flavours, the air inside them should expand a pump them up from their flat dried state. Throw them into the pestle and mortar with the other roasted ingredients and grind everything into a fine masala powder. This is you Chola mix. Noice.

3. Meanwhile soak the tamarind (you can get this from any Indian food shop) in a bowl with enough boiling water to cover it, once the water is at a temperature where it is comfortable to put your hands in, squeeze the pulp out of the tamarind (it looks a bit like dog shit but tastes delicious, so don’t be put off) until the water is murky and thickened. Take out the lumps of tamarind so you’re just left with the pulp.

4. Blend the red onion and green chillies into a watery pulp.

5. In a wok/kadai heat 3 tablespoons of oil and chuck in the onion/chilli mix, fry over a high heat until the oil begins to separate. When the onion/chilli mix begins to dry out make a well in the middle, add another tspn or 2 of oil then pour in the whole of the crushed masala mix along with 1 tspn of ground tumeric, stir it thoroughly and lower the heat down to medium.

6. Now pour in the chickpeas and tamarind pulp and stir through. Continue to cook, and add ½ a cup of water, maybe more, as the liquids will be absorbed and evaporate. After 10 minutes the sauce will have thickened and the chickpeas will have sucked up all the flavours. Keep the pan on one side over a very low heat, stir occasionally.

7. While the chickpea curry is cooking boil the potato chunks until half cooked, this will take between 7-10 minutes depending on the size of your chunks.

8. Heat some vegetable oil in a frying pan and throw in the mustard seeds, after a minute they’ll start to splutter, now sling in the curry leaves and stir fry for a few seconds before adding the garlic and ginger pastes – in turn fry them for 1-2 minutes until they have dried out a little, then add the chilli powder and stir through. Add the potatoes to the pan and toss them in the mix, and a minute or so later add the spinach. Cook until completely wilted making sure to stir constantly.

9. Add the amchoor, cumin, pepper and dried fenugreek leaves and toss to coat.

10. To make the Chapati pour the Chapati flour into a bowl with a pinch of salt, make a well, pour in enough water to make it into firm dry dough and knead away. Once you’ve got it to the desired consistency add a tspn of oil and knead it through. Make the dough into flat 8” discs a few mm thick and cook them like pancakes in a dry frying pan over a high heat.

11. Serve up the curry with a dollop of natural yoghurt and a sprinkling of chopped coriander leaves. Bloody brilliant!