From Compote to Coulis

The Value of Cooking

Being able to cook, or at least understanding the processes of cooking, not only informs you about quality and taste, but it also helps you appreciate the kind of labour involved in bringing a dish to the table.

Sometimes, we allow convenience to trump the need to slave over a cooker or an oven, or, in these times, a crockpot or slow cooker, a steamer, and an air fryer. Well, a rice cooker has now joined the appliances in my cramped kitchen. Utility meets facility, and the rest is the memory of the palatable.

Convenience Versus Craft

Supermarkets tend to offer convenience at the expense of kitchen activity; the onions come ready-chopped in a pack when I could use a mandolin and store them in a Ziplock bag in the freezer. When I could not get Agege bread in Cape Town, I began to bake my own; now that it is sold here, I simply buy it in the shops.

One time, whilst mixing the dough, one of the mixing hooks broke. It should have been an easy replacement, but by then the novelty of baking had worn off.

I can make most of what I like; it is the lack of time, patience, or will that militates against the creative process, so you reach instead for the processed food shortcuts in supermarket packs or obtain takeaways from restaurants.

Experiments with Yoghurt

For a while, I stopped buying yoghurt with fruit servings. Instead, I would get Greek yoghurt and add it to a fruit salad drizzled with honey, but I wanted something different. I made a compote of blueberries and raspberries, cooking the fruits with a little water and lemon juice, though I did not have any vanilla essence.

I liked the first result with Greek yoghurt and honey, but I left the compote too long in the fridge and it was developing a culture, so I had to throw it away. I soon made another portion, which I never used. I warmed it up in the microwave and it bubbled out of the container, filling the microwave plate with red juice. That was annoying to clean up.

From Compote to Coulis

When I went out shopping yesterday, I bought a pack of wonky raspberries and one of blueberries. Something about the chunky feel of the compote did not appeal to me, so this time, after cooking the fruits and mashing them in the pot, I decided to try something else. What about blending the compote, I thought?

Well, that changes a compote into a coulis. I did not pass the blended compote through a sieve, but I think the NutriBullet blender did a good enough job, and this time I added some Madagascan vanilla essence. I might also add a splash of brandy to give it longevity, which is what you would expect in a compote rather than a coulis.

The knowledge of cookery does not just give you the ability to follow a recipe, even though much of one's expertise comes from learning, experience, practice, and memory. The recipe, like rules, can be broken to suit your own requirements and taste, and you would be neither persecuted nor prosecuted for it. That, my friends, is the joy of knowing how to cook.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

A fair friar

Hark the hack

It amused me when a notice went out with one of those words that confused homophones with synonyms, ending up in a malapropism. Workmen had sown material that a seamstress might have sewn into fabric, causing safety issues.

That such mistakes seem to jump out of the seam of the misuse of words is something I cannot help; I see words in patterns, and if something does not fit, it is at once obvious. The workmen were not farmers; I should not be looking for seeds, whether they would have heeded this issue clearly enough not to mistake their screwdrivers for needles, is another matter.

However, this thought was sown in mock criticism of my kitchen acumen, where traditional cooking methods honed through observation and application found the ridicule of trendy experiences.

Cooked in preserve

The stove, with its reliability, an old steamer abandoned after it stopped working, a whisking hook lost in the exhaustion of kneading dough, or slow cookers aplenty abroad, the expansion of one's culinary repertoire had barely suffered the onslaught of modernity, and the food was still good to taste after all the striving.

Having pooh-poohed the advent of the air fryer, the needling that followed, compounded over days, led to relent. There was no compliment on offer without having gained another to complement the electrical goods.

Chopped in searing

We trundled round the front of the building, maybe quite a stretch for peace to reign and a box too large to bear even evoked visions of Africa; women with babies on their backs and basins on their heads, bare feet making steps on concrete or macadamised pavements, we found a convenience that could be out of place in Manchester, if you cared that much.

The operator took the flesh and bone and placed them in the apparatus. A few touches on the top, chops, time, and start, were for 15 minutes what sent the trusty oven to Coventry. Though, for roughage, it was the steamer in full regalia, a role no other could play better, we were once damned with praise, an acquisition that might be exercised in culinary achievement yet unrealised.

The fair friar indeed had successfully proselytised and won a convert, that her sacrifice, which felt like a punishment, was soon redeemed in the serving of a meal.

A mandolin, I traverse

My kitchen lessons

While we are estranged for reasons, she quite easily forgets in impactfully unguarded expression that cannot be misconstrued by the listener, there are benefits to that unsteady relationship that have served me well. I guess the biological relationship has met too many issues of ego and standing to develop into a friendship of any significance, and I am fine with that.

From an early age, I was invited into the kitchen, whether by my personal interest or her coercion, what I have learnt therein has meant when I am as inclined and disposed, I can fend for myself and attend to the cravings I need to satisfy, if alternatives would not suffice.

Doing it myself

A case in point was when at one time in Cape Town, I could not find anything like Agege bread, even in the shops purveying Nigerian fare. I was soon out looking for a baking tin with a lid, that I could not find anywhere in the shops, that I ordered one for delivery to home in the UK.

I made do with what I could find and started baking, it was when I returned home that I got the Agege bread recipe to a level of satisfactory achievement and was later able to give Brian the true experience of what that kind of loaf was all about.

It is probably laziness and lethargy that gets the better of me when there are things I could do at home that I end up spending money on at the local supermarket. For instance, I hate chopping onions, I can do that with a mandolin, and I have had one about the house for about three decades.

The mandolin in this context is not the musical instrument, but a kitchen utensil used for slicing, there is a difference in spelling between English and American English which takes an ‘e’ on the end.

Cost-saving benefit

On one supermarket shelf, I saw a bag of chopped onions going for a song and I bought them, the price looked reasonable enough until it went up by 50%, how I can tell prices have changed, I cannot explain, but in my subconscious, I notice how prices fluctuate on the everyday goods that I get. There is a threshold beyond which I would whisper to myself, almost spitting out in disgust and disdain, that I am not paying that much for that.

I returned home to my red onions, prepared them for the mandolin and apportioned quantities to zip lock freezer bags, then wondered why I had never done that in the first place. That is the case with a few other things that I have learnt from domestication encouraged by my mother from childhood. It is one of those things to celebrate, despite the other things.

Cape Town: Is it time to lean on the fat?

How addiction hobbles our chances

Walking through a cancer hospital to the department where you are receiving treatment reveals a world of great suffering, the unerring will of humanity to survive, the purveyance of hope for which the only currency of purchase is faith that could waver depending on prognosis, pain, confidence, or despair; it is a teaching and humbling moment.

How I have wanted to walk out of that hospital and snatch a cigarette from the lips of a young smoker totally oblivious of what cancer does to the body and how the odds one faces with cancer depends of what it is, where is has been found, if it has spread and if there is a body of knowledge and expertise available to give you a chance to survive.

Then, I do not have to walk far to realise how much of a hold tobacco and nicotine has over people. As at a designated area near the entrance of the same cancer hospital, you will find patients undergoing cancer treatment huddling in corners for another drag of the poison already killing them. They give themselves no chances at all, and if they come through, good for them.

This is obese in plain sight

In Cape Town, there was something we could not unsee, when we stay in Cape Town, we try as much as possible to walk everywhere and everything is within walking distance. Even on days I did not seem to have the strength or the capacity, I made my daily 10,000 steps.

Walking alongside us or coming into view from our vantage point of observation was someone carrying just that extra extra bit of weight on their hips, their bellies, and usually both, then arms and thighs; sights to make you catch your breath.

What you cannot deny is there is an obesity problem which should be registering somewhere in the South African healthcare system. There cannot be any aesthetic value to wanting to tip the scales until the springs broke.

How you address this obvious health crisis will no doubt require tact, wisdom, and some innovative policy initiatives, it should not be ignored. You could see people who could barely move, some were panting every few steps and I cannot put a statistical value on those who might have already acquired diseases of the heart, the kidneys, the pancreas, the liver, and other related serious health problems because of this excess weight.

The fast in fast-food is weight

One other observation we made when we were in Muizenberg, some 25 kilometres from Cape Town, with long stretches of beautiful beaches that more deserted than walked, was the number of delivery bikes that attended our estate at all hours, as if most did no home cooking, but relied on fast food. We do most of our cooking, from quick preparations like stir fries to slow cooking activities, it is about the willingness and timing.

In town, the fast-food outlets are full, taking orders for tables and takeaways for patrons and the ubiquitous delivery bikers, God forfend we dignify those places with the moniker of restaurant. They offer you something to masticate and swallow, but none of it is of value to your body and if you do not work it off, it sits somewhere in your body and accumulates in fatty tissue.

Maybe the new miracle weight-loss drugs might bring respite to the South Africans we saw and give them a fighting chance, but it also must include some desire and the will to do something about it.

While everyone is free to celebrate their bodies and love who they are, while not being shamed for what they have become, we need to square the circle between feeling good and being healthy. That will not come by lying to be nice.

Holding sway in the kitchen

Loving the kitchen stage

The kitchen is a theatre, a place of deep expression, where practice and application bring forth snacks or feasts for sustenance and even celebration.

I enjoy being in the kitchen, that work of bringing together ingredients, some never imagined co-exist to become something that excites the tastebuds and sates both appetite and hunger.

Invariably, I love cooking, usually for myself but more to share with others, not large proportions for a party, just enough for a few at a table, a full course with wine with Brian is even the greatest pleasure I indulge.

When nature calls

Recently, I found myself rocking from foot to foot and remembering the times in Cape Town when my need to find relief just seemed to coincide with when I was in the middle of getting things done. At this point, I want to rush before my bowels burst and I wet myself, just as I feel I cannot stop what I am doing.

Brian has now cottoned on this strange situation as someone being pressed who needs to suffer than be succoured. Whilst it happens almost unawares, I have sought the discipline to conceal this call of nature until after it has been answered, my returning to the kitchen grinning knowing I have escaped duress. I have to master this first at home, but I have not.

Maybe what I really must do is ensure everything to the ablutions is done before I start anything in the kitchen. Curbing my enthusiasm to start and giving myself the consideration of relief before recipe might just be the best thing to do.

Foods and fruits to the belly

Eating too much

Get those spices and aromas wafting through the apartment block, the kind of entreaty you should expect from someone who enjoys your cooking when you do it right.

However, on the subject of food and eating, I was just braising some beef cuts and expressing the fear that once done, half of it would have been eaten before it landed in the next stage of cooking for a stew or something else.

Then, I remembered how on Twitter a friend talked of his wife getting a dozen succulent meat pies this morning and he has gone through 6 of them already, no one is any wiser of the fact until she returns and I can only wonder how the conversation would go.

Mangoes on the yellow

Brian had his aunt visiting with a big basket of fruits, his fear was wondering what would be the result of eating, sorry quaffing down 5 mangoes. I was waiting on this end to find out what lessons were learnt from this sudden penchant for gluttony. Unfortunately for me, he seems to think he should have more mangoes when in fact the colour of his effluent as he described it, might be from mangoes than vitamins.

Anyway, the beef is cooked, and I have had two or three bites, the battle of resistance begins if I must count myself more disciplined than the mango-eating meat pie-quaffing men. I know I can, I’m sure I would.

Sadly Sad Sadness

Uninterested in cooking

I put a brave face on a lot of things even as I wonder at the weaknesses and vulnerability that assails me, seeking to leave me in despair. The kind of despair I strive with every sinew not to succumb to.

Recently, I have been asked about my cooking; in forms that I have had to fill out and in other conversations that come up with people dear to me. I enjoy making meals, however, much of the motivation to contemplate, to decide, to prepare, to cook, and then eat, I have lost.

The result is I probably do not eat sufficiently, and my weighing scale is showing numbers I have not seen in decades. A thing of relief that bodily exercise usually fails to achieve and of concern as bodily functions need adequate sustenance. It is just not cooking that I have lost interest in, but that is the more obvious thing.

The shrouds of therapy

I find that I want to talk about certain things in therapy that for many reasons is challenging because on assessment, I rarely present the classic indicators that put me in the critical eligibility criteria, yet my circumstances would suggest I am a prime candidate for help.

Making my case for therapy when I had cancer, I was not depressed or suicidal, yet for the kind of catastrophe of Job, I was facing when the loss of health, home, status, and much else, I had to make the hard journey back to the UK to start over again, how could I not need therapy?

It was a singularly difficult journey that from the outside looked rather stoic, but I was crushed and deconstructed, almost defeated and ruined, yet, in the midst of all that, I rose, leaving all that represented the past behind and forging ahead to write different and better stories.

The pall of sadness

We of African heritage do not suffer depression, that is the first bad lesson of understanding mental health, a denial constructed in traditional, cultural and religious tenacity that presents struggle as spunk. The shibboleth is we cannot be depressed, but could a lack of motivation to do some essential things to one's well-being, health, and happiness be signs of depression?

Brian was kinder in finding a less challenging word, he said I am sad. I can fully relate to that. There is a lot of sadness about so many things that I am demotivated and disengaged.

Indeed, and sadly, there is sadness and much of it, sad that things are the way they are, sad that things I used to do quite easily seem beyond capability, sad that there are watches instead of stashes, sad that we all seem to have similar stories, sad that it is not even too obvious what one is sad about.

Sad that I am not inclined, and I don't want to do the things that make me happy or address the things that make me unhappy. I am looking for a cave like Elijah did, that offers no shelter.

Kitchen brain over kitchen brawn

Life in the kitchen

The kitchen is a domain of the variety of life where preparations and expectations work to the satisfaction of choice and hunger to sustain now and keep for later. Be it the order of recipes that I fail to adhere to or the knowledge of experiment or experience, the ultimate result is one to enjoy and better to share.

Aroma and taste with the filling that portends the ingestion of food is without trying to be too profound, the stuff of life within which you can find happiness, laughter, and repartee at meals.

Then after all is done, there is the cleaning up to follow, avoiding unnecessary wastefulness and keeping whatever is leftover to reheating or reuse, I have a dishwasher for most of that, though not everything is suited for a machine and handwashing is required.

Pots for a gleam

A non-stick pot came out of the dishwasher with black crusts of burnt food that did not shift in the wash cycle and it probably won’t have over multiple wash cycles. Scrubbing or scouring the pot would destroy the non-stick protection. Then I remembered something I read online months ago.

I poured some white wine vinegar into the pot to cover the bottom of the pot and then sprinkled in a generous amount of bicarbonate of soda watching it fizz as I set the pot on a hot plate and left it to boil for a few minutes. Taking the pot off the heat I was able to wipe the heretofore burnt crusts off with ease and after a simple rinse, the pot was clean. A good result.

A day in concision

A day in time

What a difference a day makes, even if you cannot remember what happened in the last 24 hours. The clock ticks away as time grows old each moment reached and left to travel into the eternity past and the present which was a moment ago the future creeps upon you.

Sometimes, we give no thought to the passing of time, I attend work at home with expectation and patience, the things we need to do are limited by the things we are yet to acquire. Our presence tested by enquiry and hesitancy, for we must amend not to offend.

The time is true

In this, we tackle the affairs of the heart, a missive on a mission for which we have agreed to accomplish a union at the next rendezvous. Putting doubts aside and stepping out in faith, there is a lot in this for us. Birthdays wishes and thankful greetings, mining the gems of relationships that matter even more.

Not much a cauldron nor a pot, the black-eyed beans boil away in the gentility of slow cooking, no concern for the hours and no fear for the burning. Eventually, when it is ready, a tasty meal is had. Crying from the hamlet far away is the patriarch, needy and needful, we cannot needless heed even as we find ourselves needing.

Doing the timely stuff

The return of the leader is suffused attending to urgencies of proximity, nothing of our questions will for now be satisfactorily answered, we have become the waiters at the tables of time. Tapping away again, the words are a jumble of nonsense and insensibility, yet, in a few hours the day’s work would have been done.

Just to remember something I heard Trevor Noah say, “If he wasn’t black, he won’t be dead.” The shooting dead of Rayshard Brooks speaks to the fact that police reform critically needs a curriculum that majors in de-escalation because there are too many trigger-happy hotheads in police uniform devoid of common sense charged with protecting us. [BBC News: Rayshard Brooks shooting: Use of deadly force by Atlanta police condemned]

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A willing rapscallion averse to chopping onions

Chop! Chop!

The onion is a versatile vegetable that always makes an appearance in my cooking. The processing of the onion is, however, a fraught process of looking for convenience over tearing eyes when chopping them.

By the time I got the chopping of onions down to an art, I was walking down Oxford Street in London and at one of the entrances to Selfridge’s a man was demonstrating the use of a mandolin. This was long before we had a QVC television channel where someone told you everything you could do with a saucer, absent of the teacup. I watched it happen.

Perfecting the chops

We exchanged £15 for a mandolin and that was probably that last time I chopped onions with a knife for a very long time. I just never found any more fun in manually chopping onions, whilst using a mandolin allowed me to prepare onions I could use for days, by chopping large quantities and keeping the rest in the fridge.

That also presented a few other issues, the onions that were not chopped, kept in the larder for weeks either shrivelled or began to bud, if I had a garden, I should have planted the budding onions. Along with the ones that took on the rot, they all ended up in the bin. I was wasting onions.

Yet, I do like fresh scallions or spring onions, I would readily chop them, but they are never good after a day of storage.

Outsourcing the chopping

Then, the other day, I was in my local and saw a pack of prepared vegetables Diced Onion going for a song. To that point, my life of chopping onions became a closed chapter. Where I could not find prepared vegetables, I was the very last resort if I could find no one to help me out. In Cape Town, Brian readily offered that service. I remember when I asked Kola, he came to some harm whilst using the mandolin or the knife, I think.

My quest for conveniently pre-prepared onions have not ended though, as in the ethnic shop, a few weeks ago, I found large bags of Crispy Fried Onions, I bought two, though what I would want flour, salt and oil in my onions before use in cooking somewhat escapes me. The only advantage is I do not have to freeze it like I do the Diced Onion or see the budding of fresh bulbs.

Now, some might dismiss this all as being lazy, I guess there are times you do not want to be bothered with certain things. Chopping onions is, for now, something I can do without.

Perfecting my lessons in kitchen banditry

Ila Alasepo

A mouthful of chicken

Imitation they say is the best form of flattering and there is one act I have learnt too well from my dad and uncle. When I was out at the ethnic shop last Tuesday, I bought a kilo of chicken gizzards and another kilo of chicken drumsticks, this apart from the whole leg of lamb that I asked to be cut with the meat chainsaw.

I cooked the chicken first and then grilled it in the hope that it would be used in a simple tomato stew. The gizzard was supposed to be destined for a mix of gizzard and diced plantains in a chilli sauce. The grilling had considerably dried the chicken that it could keep for a while before use.

As I took the chicken out of the oven to make way for the grilling of the cooked lamb pieces, I left the drumsticks and gizzards in a bowl by the stove taking a bite or two of the gizzards, then the drumsticks and watched the contents depleting at the inspiration of my dad and uncle who usually stole into the kitchen at home as if to offer some help and escape with a piece of meat as a basic snack.

Cravings for something spicy

Obviously, one should not be surprised that a few rodent visits to the kitchen can change the quantity of ingredients laid aside for another purpose. Then yesterday, I decided I wanted to make Ila Alasepo, a variation on stewed okra, but not as fancifully decadent as the recipes. I had bought the okra as frozen, cut rings of fresh okra, bagged and frozen, it was the first time I would use it. Then out of the freezer, I took out 4 distinct kinds of chilli to be defrosted along with spicily hot scotch bonnets, all of which I blended this morning.

I had a bag of dried catfish cuts that I steamed for an hour, then prepared the pepper stew separately from the okra, before pouring everything in one pot and simmering until ready. By the time I knew things were done, all the chicken drumsticks and gizzards had undergone no further transformation apart from the mastication of my mandibles.

Then I wondered how this could be, the only excuse I had was I learnt to do this from my mentoring dad and uncle. I guess next time, I will just buy 2 kilos each just to forestall a mishap like this again.

Ingredients

Frozen okra fingers as chopped rings

Palm oil

Green bell pepper

Scotch bonnet chillies (use according to preference)

Jalapeños

Long green chilli peppers

Diced onions

Salt to taste

Lamb stock from previously cooked lamb

Lamb pieces

Dried catfish cutlets steamed before use

Kaun – potash for the initial preparation of the okra

Seasoning with herbs, I don’t use seasoning cubes in my cooking.

You can follow the recipe with these limited ingredients or extend them as needed.

The joy of cooking

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The principles of cooking

I guess one of the things I learnt from my mother is not so much how to cook, but the courage to decide when presented with an assortment of ingredients, I can make a good meal, not just for myself, but to share with others too. I do love cooking.

Besides, it is the joy in cooking food from its components, the selection, the preparation and the making of it. No time is too long for making a delicious meal, with practice, you find innovative ways to convert the process from a chore to an art. I choose from a variety of cuisines, sometimes following a recipe, but mostly not.

Then again, I remember when years ago I decided to remove taste enhancers like Maggi Seasoning Cubes from my cooking and I remember there was a time we were cajoled into using the nasty Monosodium Glutamate (MSG) back in Nigeria, now I rely on spices and herbs to bring out the taste and the flavour.

Confidence through practice

I have found I cannot taste my food whilst cooking it and when cooking for others, they would probably taste it first. I cannot suggest it is sheer confidence and skill that informs this, but I have rarely had to seek an emergency recovery of a cooking expedition awry. Yet, I desire exciting the taste buds enough for others to compliment your cooking

Knowing how to cook means that my tolerance for fast food is incredibly low, I would generally not consider it food, simply basic sustenance. You masticate, swallow and it keeps you going until you are hungry again. It informs my choosing a high-quality restaurant when eating out, where I hope the chef has a promising idea of what they are doing. It does give me some insight into being able to assess, review and critique, presentation, taste and quality. You never get a second chance to give a first good impression.

My Easter meal

For today, I decided on Asaro, I stick to the traditional names rather than find an English equivalent for it. Asaro is from southwestern Nigeria, Yoruba cuisine, made from diced pieces of peeled puna yam tuber, garnished with herbs and spices, cutlets of barracuda and catfish that were steamed for an hour, onions, garlic, chopped tomatoes, chillies, olive oil and palm oil. I have seen many recipes and I seem to prepare mine quite differently without any superfluous elements. I should work on writing out recipes.

It's a big pot and as with our West African foods, ensure the pot gets a good heating at least once a day. So, I will have a couple of days eating this. Like the old nursery rhyme, the porridge tastes better 3 days old. Maybe, it is an unintended ferment or some other natural activity, enough of the science, time to assuage the salivating.

Happy Easter! Everyone.

Edinburgh: MaDeb African Shop

Out on a discovery

I stepped out of my hotel this evening to go for a meal and thought I’ll walk to a group of restaurants around London Road and Leith Walk in Edinburgh. However, instead of walking up London Road, I had a sense of adventure to go down Easter Road where I had noted from Google Maps that an Italian Restaurant might be open.

Half a mile down Easter Road, the restaurant was closed and I am beginning to realise that some restaurants and takeaways are closed on Mondays.

Unsure of what else to do, I decided to take a side road that I thought would get me to Leith Walk even if my bearings thought I was on the wrong path, I did end up on Leith Walk, one of the longest stretches of road in Edinburgh that seems to have so many names, you better not look at the road signs.

A homely wonderland

I crossed the road and walked upwards into town as my eyes caught the sign of an African goods shop, my curiosity got the better of me as the two ladies in the shop beckoned to me, and so I yielded and walked into the shop. All indications were they thought I was from Eastern Nigeria, but I introduced myself differently as my eyes darted around the stocked shelves to see familiar goods and wares that excite the West African palate.

I could not decide what I wanted when I was informed they had frozen jollof rice and stew, and if I had access to a microwave oven, that would do just fine.

MaDeb African Shop had only been open two months and whilst for me it was a chance discovery, it might well be the only purveyor of goods and wares the West Africans would only be too familiar with. The African Flavour Restaurant that I wrote about over a month ago had closed, it was a bad business that failed to take advantage of the monopoly it had to serve a particular clientele and that is just a shame.

More and more

The list of things to get from Madeb African Shop is almost inexhaustible, the shop uses three areas, the main shop, the back where perishable goods are kept and refrigerated and the basement with cosmetics and hair products.

In the main shop, there are spices, flours, canned foods, dried and smoked fish, Agege bread, ingredients to various stews as Egusi, Ogbono, bitter leaf, fermented peas (iru), mint leaves (efinrin), palm oil, kola nuts, plantain bananas, tubers like yams, sweet potatoes, suya packs, Nigerian drinks and beverages. Ointments like Robb and Aboniki, this is your perfect nostalgic corner shop.

For those who prefer their West African dishes ready-made, the shop provides a cooking service as well as preparing meals for events. I have the feeling this outfit would be a better replacement for that lackadaisically useless restaurant.

Get there and shop

The ladies were humorous, pleasant and nice, on getting back to my hotel, I defrosted my jollof rice, added some stew and downed it with a can of Afrimalt, I must be tipping the scales on the wrong side of zero.

MaDeb African Shop,
5 Croall Place,
EH7 4LT
Edinburgh

Photos

Prezzo should take lessons from Da Mario

Posso avere italiane?

Now, I know I could be quite facetious to a fault, Indeed, in certain situations I am quite particular and unyielding, I expect and will not settle for anything less.

I was in Leeds for the night and I decided to go out for a meal, of all the possible cuisines I could choose from I suddenly had a craving palate for Italian fare and so I went on adventure seeking one such place.

The first restaurant I called at, the maitre d’ could not make up his mind about whether he had a table or not and I was not ready to stand there looking forlorn, so I made my excuses and left.

Deceptive appearances

A long walk through the shopping precinct that was closing for the day, I came up to a major street known as the Headway, out of the corner of my eye I saw an Italian restaurant that had a sign that it was family-run, I should have followed my instinct then and crossed the road, but I thought I would explorer further.

Into a shopping mall I went and up the escalator to what I now know is a restaurant chain - Prezzo, I stepped in got a table for one, ordered drinks, an entree and the plat principal. The drinks and the king prawns in a spicy tomato sauce with a garnishing of rocket leaves went down well and then my spaghetti carbonara arrived.

This is not spaghetti

At first glimpse, it did not look right, the spaghetti looked bloated and swollen and as I stuck my fork in it, there was no telling that it had been overcooked. I always have my spaghetti al dente, this looked like it could be used to hang wallpaper, it was slightly more consistent than starch. I remembered that I did not allow such a culinary faux pas to go unchallenged in a South African hotel restaurant, I certainly was not going to let this pass for food in a restaurant with pretentions to Italian fare.

Blog - South Africa: This humble customer is not a diva

So I asked that they make amends and so the plate was taken away and some five minutes later a fresh plate of spaghetti carbonara arrived, but it was only marginally better, I was done with this nonsense.

A concerned waitress came by to ask if I will try something else, but I was of the opinion that if they could not cut the muster with the fundamentals of Italian cooking making allowances for more complex fare will just be more foolish of me.

I was done

I called for the bill and when the card machine suggested I offer a gratuity, I had to apologise to the waitress that whilst the service was good enough, my experience had been a complete let-down and it was that they failed woefully at the rudiments of pasta cooking.

She then suggested that the English do not like their pasta al dente, though earlier I was told that the pasta is first cooked in the morning and then recooked for meals, either which way the mass production ethos of delivering pasta before a demand is made for it and made a mockery of Prezzo's Italian cuisine credentials.

The challenge at Da Mario

I paid up for a rotten meal and walked up the road back to this family-run outfit called Da Mario where I told the maitre d’ that I had just come from an Italian restaurant that did not know how to make spaghetti. He took it as a dare and found me a table promising they will do a better job. I guess it was cheeky of me to ask if the restaurant was indeed a real Italian restaurant.

They found out they had run out of the pate I ordered for my starter and rather than opt for another choice, I asked that the main course be served. The maitre d’ then came to me and asked if they should start making my pasta and I gave the go-ahead.

When it arrived, it was al dente alright, probably almost too crunchy, but it was a lot better than that soaked pasty stuff I was offered at Prezzo. Served in a deep dish, I rolled the spaghetti along the side of the dish, because Italians never use a spoon to hold the pasta to the fork - sacrilege!

I savoured and finished my meal, happy that I had had something really nice, paid up and left. I am just not going to stand for soggy overcooked pasta and definitely not in a restaurant that suggests it knows something about Italian food. On this occasion, Prezzo failed to impress twice and it is unlikely my idle legs will beat a path to that establishment ever again.

Thought Picnic: Night cooking to self-exorcism

A person of the night

Being more of a nocturnal person, stranger things have happened in the night than should be the case in the lives of many others.

In fact, I have the inkling that if people had dreamt these things and shared those dreams with people of a certain persuasion and not a few, an exorcism would be ordered; based on contrived and tenuous links with some ethereal interactions with the spirit and God help them help themselves.

My nights start early and are somewhat regimented around the 11^th hour, the hour of pills; it behoves me to have abstained from foods two hours either side of taking my pills else I end up with a rather stoned feeling through the night.

Slight thrills of night pills

I have a physiology that can never like drugs, the eerie feeling, the light-headedness and that state of suspended animation of being between consciousness and the subconscious pushing my mind into a dreamy phase of lacking control over my imagination that takes flight to places angels fear to tread; it is a world I dread.

Taking food in that 4-hour window especially those that have the taste-enhancing ingredient of fat take me to that dreadful land and it has meant that the pill-time switch to the witching hour if I have succumbed to hunger pangs and ingested something later than 9:00 PM – I apparently do not have a set time for meals and that creates a bit of chaos in itself.

Ingestion is the easy part, incubation is worse, the incubation of thoughts, thoughts of what I would like to have for a meal and what it takes to make it.

A night of long beans

The other day it was moin-moin (bean pudding cakes – recipe provided courtesy of Adefunke’s defunct blog), I had to soak a bag of split black eyed beans in water for hours, the optimum being 8, I think they were soaked for close to 11.

The dried fish came out of the freezer and that was soaked in hot water, bell peppers, tomatoes, onions, boiled eggs, palm oil and species all came together in the journey to satisfy a yearning.

After blending in the peppers, tomatoes and onions into the beans, the other condiments were stirred into the mix and the first part poured into a baking dish, covered with foil and left to bake for an hour.

Then I found three small ramekins and poured the rest of the mix into them, placed the ramekins in a steaming pot and steamed the mix for about an hour.

After which I had the opportunity to savour my moin-moin in large cubic portions cut out of the baking dish or from one of the ramekins.

Stewing in the night

Then again, as I rummaged through the freezer, I found some frozen cooked meats and put the bag in the fridge for defrosting, it was well after 1:00AM when I put chopped tomatoes, peppers, onions and stock cubes in the blender – I was about to make some stew.

In 90 minutes, it was all ready and I was just having the stew as if I was having soup, satisfying a craving for tastes and food that just overwhelm you at unusual times of the day.

For those who know, imagine if you told your African-initiated church priest that you dreamt of cooking and eating at night or in my somnambulist wake doing the same – it would be Psalm 119; read 119 times into a cup of water that you have to throw away thrice – talk about hard-labour self-exorcism.

[Psalm 119 is the longest chapter in the Bible with 176 verses.]

Of food, class, greasy kebabs and Eton

Eating burgers on POSH advice

Sometimes when watching the BBC, some trailers of future programmes leave you wondering if you should be expectant or dismissive of the highlights.

One of such was Eating With… a series featuring Tom Parker-Bowles, the son of the Duchess of Cornwall, the wife of Prince Charles.

The additional introduction is not so much for emphasis than for setting the context and detail.

First we were taken on a documentary of life with the upper classes, going to Eton and the wanton abuse of mind and body through food and other vices as enjoyed by the wealthy and well appointed.

Then we did get down to food, with its Genesis including learning from mum and from Mrs Noose the cookery teacher who attracted the pre-pubescent boys for the love of cooking as well as the fact that they fancied her.

Apparently, there are a good few Etonians who have taken to food writing and other matters concerning food.

Prince William preparing food as part of a cookery course at Eton in June 2000.

It is nice to know that there are things we learn in a particular way from our parents, teachers or mentors that stay with us through life. Sometimes, we never improve on those techniques, just master the routine till it becomes second nature.

Table manners and all that discipline

Then cut away to a lesson; teaching daddy how to make shepherd’s pie, and I start to salivate as one realises being out in the Netherlands is a long way from home.

Indeed, we are informed of the airs and graces on Brigadier Andrew Parker-Bowles’ table, no eating with your mouth open, no talking with your mouth full, no elbows on the table, sit up right, no eating with hands – well, it could as well be bringing your work home – turning the kids into a mini-platoon of disciple. Good, I think.

So, the brigadier surmises that he does not know how to cook, neither does his friends, however, it would be fun to do something like grilling a steak on the agar. Sometimes!

Whose organic mess?

Then we having other tips about sealing dates with good cooking, how he met his wife and inviting friends for dinner where Tom is boss in the kitchen.

None of those dos and don’ts, in Tom’s parlour shared with his fashion writer wife in leafy green Notting Hill.

Then obviously we get down to the rip-off called organic foods offered by big supermarkets for double the price but maintain the same taste.

One should ask if organic foods mean food grown at great expense in natural organic farms around the country or food grown in Africa regardless of if it has been fertilised or genetically modified.

Besides that, one should be quite concerned about the quality and provenance of the food we eat as farmers, supermarkets and scientists taint our foods with funny ideas based on the survey of people who think apples are harvested from anything but trees.

Where is our food?

Yellowed egg yolks, treated beef to keep it red well after reasonable use, purple carrots - you must be kidding.

After the show, I am not too sure I learnt much about cooking, but that cooking can be an enjoyable and rewarding pastime.

The sacrifice to country

As one also saw the retired Brigadier chat to his son, one can only commend the fact that there is no greater love for fatherland than for a man to give life and wife for king and country.

References

The Observer | Food monthly | You can take the man out of the country...

Eton Mess from Delia Online