Just milking the milk

Excuse me please

After settling down at my desk, I put a teabag of my decaffeinated Earl Grey tea in my mug and made it for the kitchen with half a litre of whole milk that I bought from Sainsbury’s on my way to the office.

People sometimes gather in the kitchen around the instant hot water faucet and the coffee machine, chatting and totally oblivious to others.

At times you must make your presence known, intrude in their space to make them aware that once they have had their drinks or beverages dispensed, they really should move on.

Swift of hand

I placed my bottle of milk on the counter and went to fill my mug with hot water, between doing that and adding sugar to my tea, one of the interlopers, instead of opening the fridge to use the public access semi-skimmed milk, had opened my bottle of milk and poured it in his tea.

When I reach for the bottle, I was surprised it was already open, the seal had been removed, and I do remember seeing the seal intact before I left my desk. What to do? Just ignore the situation and finish making your tea. But what an Artful Dodger he was.

The milks of taste

One of my colleagues later came to get some tea and waited for it to brew before pouring in some milk. I offered the whole milk, and we began the discussion about the difference in taste between fully skimmed, semi-skimmed, and whole milk. Then, we discussed the new range of designer milk substitutes made from oats, almonds, coconuts, or other sources. I have never liked goat’s milk, and I might just fall ill on camel’s milk.

As we talked about tastes, I recalled the explosion of taste I experienced on a visit to Prague, and I wondered if I had already written about it. Well, I had, and I did not want to repeat myself, so I excerpted the section and offered a link to the corresponding blog.

“For years, I had semi-skimmed milk with my cornflakes till I had breakfast in Prague with whole milk - the bouquet, the taste, the wonder of things unadulterated - I never went back to that tasteless half-milk stuff, it only contains 2% less fat than the real deal.” [Ich bin ein Berliner – March 2006] I cannot believe my proofreading skills were that bad in 2006. Anyway, the source blog is fixed.

Meanwhile, the thought alone of when they ran out of milk last week, and it was the milk I bought that kept things going until there was barely enough for my last cup of tea. It literally is a case of my sharing the milk of human kindness. I get what I need, others just take what they see.

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.

Ikoyi London - Bring a full wallet to an amazing experience

Decisions in flux

We had planned to meet on Monday evening without any clear plans as I decided to spend stay over in London. We have been friends on Twitter for years and she was coming to Europe for a number of necessary #MeToo events.

I was unsure of what we would do, but when she said we should meet to have more than a drink but to get to know each other, this, I thought, could only be done over a meal. As I do not live in London, I could not suggest a favourite place, but Pitanga was on my mind, however, they open at inconvenient hours closing at 5:00 PM every day except for Friday and Saturday when they are open until 11:00 PM. They are closed on Mondays.

I floated a few other alternatives whilst seeking ideas, Ikoyi London, by interest and by reputation came to the fore and we decided on that.

Impressing impressions

I was greeted at Ikoyi London by a waiter ready to take my coat and my hat, I was then given a check-in ticket, a card, the 8 of clubs. Any restaurant that without prompting defrocks you and knows what to do with your hat has had staff see the four walls of a finishing school.

Making my way to our table by the window where my friend was already seated, embraced with kisses on the cheeks before contemplating what was to come before us. Starting with drinks, we took the non-alcoholic cocktail of Ikoyi Chapman – a concoction of hibiscus, guava and sour passionfruit, it was a tasty shade of pink that lasted through the seating.

Ikoyi London only serves a fixed tasting menu of 7 courses for dinner, which made it difficult to decide on the wine, so, we took on the wine pairing that came in from the third course. Ikoyi London does not follow the good rule of the skirt that any seamstress has learnt from the very first day, that it should be long enough to cover the detail and short enough to keep the interest. The courses were small enough to keep the interest but hardly big enough to sate the hunger – that is for another conversation.

You don’t say

The first course arrived which in terms was a new look on plantain and stew, my two Nigerian grandmothers of blessed memory would have been spinning in their states of repose, but this is an exercise in open-mindedness, where familiarity is dispensed for the whimsical. Authenticity gives way to the uniquely original and surprise. It went down a treat.

[Plantain and a scotch bonnet dip]

Little did I know that I had entered a West African version of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, I was living the lines of Ikoyi London saying to me, “Come with me and you'll be in a world of pure imagination.” The course had more plate like a tree trying to be a forest, a burnt pepper and a sprinkling of dust with something related to cassava in the narrative. This was a long way from Eba and stew, the ship of our common reality had sailed.

Within 4 visits from crockery to buccal cavity, we were done.

[Burnt pepper and cassava]

Exciting the taste buds

Mackerel is not necessarily fish you will find on the plate of the bourgeoisie, but we were told the next serving was caught today, strips of seemingly poached mackerel on a bed of banga fish paste with vegetables. It was savoury and comfortingly feeling like home cooking. The paired wine only seemed to assume any character in taste after we had tasted the dish. Though I would be honest, all the pairings were lifeless at first taste and not entirely exciting afterwards.

[Mackerel and a banga sauce]

By the fourth course, we had pumpkin and that was a revelation. I had to ask, could you really do this to pumpkin? By now, we were sold on this visit, it was one to write home about.

[Pumpkin]

Jollof the duck

The fifth course was, in fact, two courses, the duck arrived first and then a steaming bowl of smoked jollof rice, both of which were a titillation of a different kind, filling with excitement and a screaming desire for more. Oliver Twist would have died for the lust of the more that cried for.

[Duck and malt bread]

[Smoked Jollof Rice]

You can wish for death

By then, we have the table next to us occupied, in that group of four of probably Europeans or North Africans, the light or my eyes were dim was one Nigerian who was unaware he was being brought to Ikoyi London. The look of amazement, despair and incredulity at what was presented to him could easily have had someone of a different disposition toss the tables and walk out in disgust.

As soon as I ascertained he was Yoruba, I began in a language that would communicate the experience was to be cherished as the difference for which there would be stories to tell about a place called Ikoyi London. It was not about pretensions but innovation, the challenge to open one’s mind and consider that what we once knew does not have to be sacred and impervious to design, artistry and review. That is what Ikoyi London is about.

It’s a lot more wonderful

He asked if the restaurant was one to visit regularly, I could not say that would be wise, but for the whimsy and the occasion, a conversation and gastronomic banter, Ikoyi London would come ahead of many a restaurant. It is the deconstruction of the mundane and typical to create a new essence. This is bold and hardly experimental, it works.

The dessert was a rice ice cream with a biscuit I cannot remember the name of, paired with a cider. One sip had me reaching for my old cocktail. I do not have a palate for lager, beer, ale or cider. It was a miss for me.

[Rice Ice Cream]

It is easy to forget that dinner is a tasting menu and not a meal, which suggests the portions are for tasting as opposed to filling. We had a wonderful time before walking down Jermyn Street and taking a picture with the statue of Beau Brummell.

Ikoyi London is a variation, an exploration, an interpretation and an experience, you will lose more weight in your wallet than you’ll probably gain in ingested food, that is the nature of the location, the standard of service and daring proposition the proprietors have decided to unleash on its adventurous clientele.

There is a discretionary charge and I suppose we rarely exercise the discretion to refuse the charge. The service was top class, the waiters gorgeous and interesting. The restaurant was full by the time we left. Ikoyi London is what is possible if we decide that excellence matters above all else.

Like the holiest Soy Sauce

Tastes from many places

I have never had a Chinese partner, maybe I should have one or even one from Thailand or I could dare with Korea – I know a few acquaintances have expressed a fleeting interest in a relationship but it never really came to anything.

In another place, it is said that the way to a man’s heart is his stomach and I know the many cuisines that excite my taste buds from the Mediterranean coasts, through to Anatolia and yes, I have had Iranian and Afghan, I could not survive on Indian, then the carnivore-leaning omnivore in me desires meat especially if it slightly bleeds but these are not where I have the skill in the Kitchen.

I was schooled in Nigerian cuisine and when opportunity presents itself, you can bet I’ll be cooking up something for nostalgia and much else.

My Chinese palate

Back to China, I like a good Chinese meal, it could be filling but the multiplicity of taste is wonderful Peking Duck retains a name that has changed to Beijing but my starters where available is also wonton soup, shrimp dumplings in a clear soup with green vegetables.

Then I season the soup with Soy Sauce, lots of it that the colour of the soup is completely changed, that is just how I like it. Back in Nigeria we listened to the radio jingle about Maggi Sauce making a good meal taste even better. It probably did but tongues from my part of the world need serious stimulation with all sorts if strong flavours from sweet, sour, hot, salty, and spicy as well as whatever else will have many on palpitations bringing them close to the edge of their lives.

Standards of excellence

Now, I thought Soy Sauce was ordinary enough until I visited a friend who when cooking a stir-fry brought out a bottle of Pearl River Bridge Superior Light Soy Sauce [Amazon], however, what really caught my interest was the other label that suggested this leading soy sauce brand was brewed and fermented according to 7 exacting standards.

• HACCP - Hazard analysis and critical control points addresses physical, chemical, and biological hazards as a means of prevention, this appears to pertain to the American market. One would expect that as a matter of cause.
• BRC Global Standard Food – This is the British Retail Consortium set of global standards and this in particular is about Food Safety. The big supermarket chains are also represented in the BRC as much as the small shops.
• IP Control Program (GMO-Free) – This is a standard that defines IP as Identity Preservation, foods that are natural and have not been genetically modified for all sorts of plausible reasons that make scientists what to push these products. This will appeal to Europeans a lot; we are so against the spread of Frankenstein foods on the mainland.
• ISO 9001 – This pertains to quality management. To be honest, I never expected this to be on a food label much as it is a useful standard for the organisation behind the product.
• ISO 14001 – As the organisation is trying to publicise that its products do not adversely affect the environment.
• Halal – Suggesting this is permissible for use by Islamic law.
• Kosher – Meaning this conforms to the regulations of the Jewish Halakhic law, fit to be eaten by those of the Jewish faith.

I would suppose, all these standards suggest this might well be the holiest Soy Sauce on the market catering for all persuasions and ideologies, I can only wonder where else I’ll find a food label like this.

Meanwhile, time to find me a partner from the East.

Where has my taste gone?

Where is my taste?

Encoded in my memory somewhere is the remembrance of tastes of things I have enjoyed eating giving the pleasure you get from good food.

To be honest, something has happened to my taste, things do not taste like I once knew they did, it makes me wonder if I would ever get that taste back again.

One month after my last chemotherapy treatment I went over the notes the hospital gave me about undergoing the therapy and what I should expect – it would appear after 5 months of therapy I probably need just about 5 months for my body to fully recover and with that, I hope the other cognitive things that have confusing indicators.

Not like I knew then

Before I went to hospital, I used to have natural Greek yoghurt and honey, nowadays, I cannot seem to stand the taste of honey and that of yoghurt is just so strange as to be unpalatable.

Fish tastes funny and certain high-protein meals have become completely off meals, in their place, I have taken to beef casseroles and Nigerian dishes like yam porridge called asaro in Yoruba.

The other day, I bought some spiced chicken, either roasted or fried, the taste just does not go down well with me considering I used to gulp that down and that took me to my highest weight of 83kg well over a year ago.

Lemons and limes

Drinks too have suffered, in hospital long before chemotherapy I went off the high-energy drinks, whilst I seem to handle milk quite well, all other milk based drinks taste horrible.

I also found that most of the tropical mix drinks that contain mangoes, oranges, guava and so on are a complete put off, I take to lemon and lime based drinks, however, I have also found strawberry and raspberry based drinks are quite tasty.

Needing some normalcy

With the reintroduced of pain management though on half dosage, the salivation is considerably reduced and the stomach ache is a lot less frequent, my sleep is getting regulated though I have not exerted myself enough to discover how much strength I have to expend.

In general, I have to control my anxiety which gets agitated by letters, bills, emails and threats, I can only do what I am able to do, though the welfare service is comfortably dragging their feet without a care in the world.

I need to get busy, busy with productive work doing something useful and rewarding – where is that sterling opportunity?

I'm alive after my autopsy

The viral touch of an autopsy

The confusion of languages or is it the absence in near-term memory of the right word for describing something came up again. Hardly two months ago, my dad confused venereal with viral, what I had was viral but in conversation with a doctor he thought he heard venereal and here I was left to ponder what a father might think of the proclivities of his son.

Today, my ex-boss visited with a trusted ex-colleague. He had been in conversation with someone else about me and once suggested I had an autopsy rather than a biopsy.

Fine by me, because my feeling about the biopsy was like I had died and gone to heaven, so with him visiting me today, you can clearly suggest this Lazarus has come forth and is alive again ready to face new challenges with a radically new meaning to life.

Stirring the pool of the toilet

Continuing on the slightly Scriptural line, I finally decided I should go to the toilet after a few days of no bowel movement, in fact, I have to take drugs to force the activity and they done half work in my opinion, my body has conditioned itself to balance the need for that and the pain I suffer that this has levelled out to just about every 3 days.

But as I prepared I got the shoe on the right foot and balanced on my crutches just someone with their intravenous drip moveable stand got to the door, so I had to wait as I pined in pain from having my feet close to the ground and lower than my body.

When she finished, I scuttled towards the toilet only to find my ex-ward mate the 91-year old with his mobile Zimmer frame at the door, so I gave way again and pined.

The Scriptural theme relates to the cripple at the Pool of Bethesda where he had been for 38 years could not get in the pool first after the water was stirred by an angel. Jesus had compassion on him and healed him but he moaned about his inabilities he almost missed out on the real deal.

I in trying to get to the toilet did feel I might not get my turn so suddenly and then you realise how important it is to be able to do what you will with health, strength, wealth and a sense of entitlement of sorts.

Clinical spice in food

I have now concluded there is a spice in the hospital canteen called clinical spice and it is put in everything to make bread, butter, rice, potatoes, vegetables and drinks taste the same. How can anyone get well eating this stuff? It is probably the incentive to leave hospital, believe me; I’ll leave in an instant.

I have had enough of this fare, I called my friend in vain to help, I need help, the chemotherapy does affect your appetite but this fare is just plain bad, you might lose the will to chomp on anything after a while.

To add insult to injury, they forgot to give me the menu this morning, I chased after it to no avail that I ended up with no supper. When it finally came it was brown (minced beef and onions) Yuk! purple (red cabbage and apples, a Dutch delicacy) Yuk! and white (boiled potatoes); the minced beef was cold, the meal had been microwaved to heat the plate but not the food – I had the sick bag to my chest.

I hardly touched it; the dessert was bitter cookies in custard – who thinks up this revolting stuff on the day the Lord has made?

If for anything, I desperately needed home cooking else, I might well be fed through the nose. This is a hospital, they must know that smell and taste are critical to edibility and if they cannot achieve that basic task feed us all taste and olfactory repressive drugs and give us 3D goggles.

I will NOT abide this food any longer, no not any longer.