Silverbrow on Food

Roladin sfuganiyot, or doughnuts to you and me

Poor web connection has resulted in me posting this after the end of Chanukah, but there is still merit in posting it, just for the food-porn aspect.

Sfuganiyot are basically doughnuts, but these ones from Roladin are at best, distant third cousins, several times removed, of the stodge available at Krispy Kreme.

Mine was stuffed with dulce de leche, Silverbrowess' had strawberry jam. Both were very good, oddly, mine was lighter and fluffier, perhaps its was fresher. Also - and this might be sacrilege - I preferred this dulce de leche to some of the over-sweetened stuff we had in South America.

Ratatouille

Ratatouille is a great film, I loved it, but I am surprised it has been such a critical and box-office success. This film is about an environment that is not easily accessible or appreciated by a wide swathe of society. Yes, almost everyone loves nice food, but very few eat at the world's greatest restaurants. This is not about super-heroes, fast cars, the toy-box or monsters under the bed. This is about the very hautiest of haute cuisine. This is a film that gets its title from a dish that is widely known and usually pretty dull. But, the in-joke is that although ratatouille is a peasants dish, Remy, the film's protagonist, is following Thomas Keller's recipe for byaldi. In his cookbook The French Laundry, Keller describes byaldi as "a refined interpretation of ratatouille." But, being one of the world's most innovative chefs, Keller's interpretation of ratatouille is a loooong way from the dish's humble origins. As such, it mirrors the underlying message of the film, don't judge something by the way it looks or what it's called - a rat can cook and a few vegetables in tomato sauce can be the greatest dish ever made.

Like all Pixar's output, Ratatouille is visually stunning, repeatedly I would have sworn I wasn't watching an animation. In some of the bumpf I was given about the film, it said that rendering the various liquids, from wine to water to stock, was one of the toughest animation tasks ever undertaken. In my view, the hard work paid off. I loved the visual beauty and culinary detail, I was completely enthralled. Although, not the entire way through. I felt the film sagged a bit towards the end, especially all the stuff about friendship and family - unless the shmaltz is being used as a replacement for duck fat, it has no place in this film - although it will help to add to its family appeal. And from the repeated and very sweet giggles of the youngest viewer, about five I'd say, this is a film that will definitely appeal to all the family.

I didn't have one favourite moment but I did have a favourite theme: the sheer joy one can experience from food. In three separate instances the pleasure of food is beautifully portrayed with a great use of animation, music and humour. The first was when Remy expresses his delight in the simple pleasures of cheese and a strawberry, the second was when Remy's tasteless brother Emile almost sees the light and the third where my namesake and favourite character, Anton Ego, regresses to his paisan childhood.

This isn't the Oscars but I would like to thank Anna at Digital Outlook who helped me sort out the screening tonight. I know my fellow food bloggers and food aficionados enjoyed themselves immensely as well.

The one question this film left me asking is which UK chef has only just finished doing a voice-over for the UK release of the film? We saw the US release tonight, so had the pleasure of Thomas Keller's mellifluous tones as one of the diners in the restaurant. I'm assuming the secret UK chef will play the same role. Safe money would be Gordon, but I'd love to see Marco do it. Then again, I have no idea which diner it was that Keller voiced, he could not have said more than a couple of lines. Whoever it is won't add or subtract to the story line, but no doubt the hope is that it will boost the profile of film in the UK. In some ways that's a shame because the film doesn't need any gimmicks, it is fantastic with or without a celeb chef.

The film goes on general release in the UK from 12 October and will be previewing in some places from 5 October.

The New Yorker & White Heat

A word to the wise: go out and get hold of this week's issue of the New Yorker and whilst you're in the literary mood, pre-order White Heat.

Every year the New Yorker publishes its food issue and the September 3 issue, is that issue this year. Some of the editorial is available online for free, such as the gripping story about wine forgeries and one man's tenacious pursuit of justice. Unfortunately, you will have to buy the mag if you want to read the equally excellent interview of Claudia Roden. I have to say, I am secretly flattered that my podcast with her - which you can listen to here - covered much of the same ground as the article. Despite that, try and read the article, especially if you are as interested with cookbooks as I am. It gives a fascinating insight into their gestation and purpose, which is not simply telling you how to cook a given dish.

Speaking of cookbooks go and buy yourself White Heat. This all time classic is about to be reprinted.

Stupidly I missed out on the opportunity to buy it the first time round, assuming the luxurious writing and sexy recipes would ensure the book would always be in print. I have to be very thankful that Marco has decided to sell his soul and do some TV work, thus ensuring a reprint to coincide with Hell's Kitchen, his new TV series.

If you are into photos more than food, it is worth buying the book just for Bob Carlos Clarke's beautiful shots. You can even see a young and not so shouty Gordon Ramsay, in the early days, before he fell out with MPW, getting a good shooing from the broody one.

Ratatouille screening

I have an offer for my long suffering readership: some tickets to a special screening of Ratatouille, Pixar's latest offering.

As a grown man I shouldn't be so taken in by an animated American rat wowing a Parisian kitchen, but I am. So, taking the initiative I spoke to a couple of nice people at Disney UK and their PR agency and they agreed to sort me out with some tickets for you dear reader. I appreciate this is all a bit self-serving, but as I see it, it's a win-win situation, everyone benefits: we get to see the film and assuming it lives up to the hype, Pixar will get even more decent PR out of it (even if they do insist on the phonetic sub-title, Rat-a-too-ee.)

I have yet to confirm the date of the screening but it will be sometime in the next couple of weeks and will take place in central London. At the moment I have twelve tickets I can offer up, so I'll do it on a first come, first served basis. If there is a lot of interest, I'll see if I can get hold of any more tickets. If you want to come along, leave a comment below or email me and to spread the love as widely as possible, there are no more than two tickets per person.

If you want a taster of the film, see below.

Silverbrow - redrawn

One of my oldest friends, who made his millions in the dot-com boom, bought me a couple of fantastic presents for my recent birthday. He was also responsible for the one present that brought the biggest laughs. Thanks Nic.

Thank you

I am a very lucky man because I have an exceptionally loving family and set of friends. I also have Silverbrowess who is astounding. In the only way that is appropriate for a blogger I want to say a big thank you to her for a fantastic birthday and in particular an amazing surprise bbq - fear not I'll thank her in more traditional ways as well. I also need to say thank you to Ma and Sis Silverbrow who I believe have spent the past week prepping and cooking for today's lunch. I'm not often taken by surprise, but I was today. So thank you to all of you and everyone else complicit in keeping me in the dark, Bro Silverbrow gets a special mention for distracting me whilst the madness was unfolding at home.

Being a significant birthday, people have shown exceptional generosity, as you would no doubt expect much of that is connected to food. There have been dinners at The Golden Hind and Restaurante Semplice that I have yet to write up. There is the stage I have yet to organise and there is my first edition of my subscription to Restuarant that I have yet to read. So I start a new decade with a lot to do. Must fly.

Silverbrow's summer safety tips #1

As the temperature in London rises, so does the dread of those of us who have to use the tube on a regular basis. It is not uncommon to see people pass out with the heat. London Underground advises you carry bottles of water, wear loose clothing etc etc. However, after much experimentation I can bring you a failsafe method of staying safe, cool and even having a seat.

Step 1. Buy yourself some ripe Stinking Bishop
Step 2. Let it rest in a plastic bag
Step 3. Wait for the bag to start sweating
Step 4. Board the tube

You will be amazed how quickly you have the carriage to yourself. It has worked a treat for me.

WARNING: This safety tip is not meant for those of you attempting a James Blunt and planning to fall head over heals in love with some semi-clad temptress. You and anything within a 20 metre radius of you will smell like an overflowing, carrion filled cesspit beneath a particularly dodgy curry house. It's not a good smell, but you will be cool.

You pays your money, you takes your choice.

We're back

After a slog of a flight we're now home, so normal service will resume shortly. We had a fantastic time and saw some truly beautiful parts of the world. We were unusually privileged to be able to take such a long time off work and are immensely grateful for it. All we need to do now is figure out how we're going to do it again, soon.

The things I love about Argentina, by Silverbrow

Not that I'm obsessed about food or anything:

1. Persicco ice-cream, very possibly the best mass produced ice-cream in the world. Silverbrowess did particularly well today with her "orgasmic" Banana Split flavour. I wasn't too disappointed with my mint choc chip and tiramisu combo.

2. Parilla. Unfortunately, I have so far failed to take any photos of this ode to meat. Last night's was particularly good, with some well grilled bife de chorizo, a moist choripan and some sweetbreads, that might have been a tad overcooked, but tasted silky and unctious nonetheless.

The things I love about Brazil, by Silverbrowess

Not that I wish to sound shallow or anything, but:

1. Guarana, not only an aphrodisiac but tastes like Tizer, yum, yum.

2. Havaianas, cool in London, cheap as chips in Brazil and look even better when your feet are tanned.  Which mine currently are, at long last.

Working hard

The recent hiatus in posting is because we firmly believe we can't return still looking pasty white. As you can see, we have work to do.

Sylvinha's

It is not unusual that a schlep is required to get a decent meal. An hour and a half down a rutted track, in a Volkswagen Gol (not Golf), followed by a walk down a steep hillside and finally, wading across a river. Prior to setting out, I knew about the track and the steep hill, but was totally unaware of the river. The first I learned of it was when we arrived at Espelho beach and having asked a couple of locals, we were pointed in the direction of a little blue building, sitting the other side of a river. We wandered up to the riverbank, opposite the restaurant assuming there had to be a dry way across. Much grinning and sign-language by the waiter standing on the far-side, made clear there was no dry way. So we waded. Silverbrowess was not impressed. Especially when the eponymous Sylvi informed us later that there was a dry way across through her car park - no need for that steep hillside either then.

Given how mediocre the rest of the food we have eaten has been out here, Sylvinha's was a revelation. The restaurant is run and owned by the lady herself with just one helper. There are only two tables in the restaurant and if you don't have a booking, you're not getting in. If you do have a booking, you'll get in, but there's no menu. You eat what Sylvinha serves. Her food is resolutely not local, not Bahian, her influences appear to be everywhere bar her front door, as demonstrated by the crisp-bread and za'atar we were served when we sat down. Silverbrowess wolfed it down - I was slightly less taken by it, finding the za'atar a bit tasteless, although the crisp-breads were a darned sight tastier than their close cousins, matzo (which dear reader, are one of only two foods I detest, the other is baked beans.) As with everywhere else in Brazil, the food took an age to arrive, but this gave us opportunity to appreciate the stunning view out to sea and conclude that Sylvinha's interior design tastes are similar I imagine to a stoned (allegedly) Cath Kidston. Very Trancoso.

We were served a large dish of seabass in a ginger, coconut and lightly curried sauce. It was very Southern Indian, probably cooked with ghee, rather than the olive oil, or marg - blah, they seem to favour elsewhere down here. Although Sylvinha took great offence to the notion that any of the food might be too closely associated with Bahian tradition, the dish was pretty similar to the one we so enjoyed at Cantinho Doce. However, it should be said that Sylvi's had far more flavour to it. To mop up the juices was some perfectly steamed rice with lentils, a decently flavoured vegetable stir-fry, an unremarkable coconut and vegetable dish and a mango chutney with a bit of a kick. I particularly enjoyed the dessert of creme brulee sans brulee, but avec a dash of cinammon. Silverbrowess couldn't stand it, but then again she doesn't like creme brulee at the best of times - strange girl. The meal was very good mainly due to the strong flavours. It was not technically astounding, her cooking was probably no better than a very good home-cook. But it was delicious and with the view out to sea, made for a lovely afternoon. I do find it interesting how this place is the talk of Trancoso. Clearly given the small numbers she serves there is an element of exclusivity to it, but on a purely objective basis, the cooking is not technically great. Clearly, context, plays a large part in your enjoyment of a meal, and there is a lot going for this place. But I do think that one reason Sylvi's is so loved is simply because lots of other places are so bad.

If you were wondering, we did have to wade back through the water and climb up the hill, but the drive back to the hotel was not as much of an ordeal.

Sylvinha's - Praia do Espelho, Trancoso, Bahia, Brazil
Tel: +54 (73) 9985 4157

Trancoso

Rio was fantastic but hectic, so we needed an antidote, after two and a half weeks on holiday, you need time to switch off and relax.  Trancoso was the place.  It is a very pretty little village with 3,000 residents.

We needed a bit of luxury so we decided to stay at a gorgeous hotel called Pousada Etnia. I say hotel, but it's a collection of bungalows (which is all the rage in this part of the world) with a bar, breakfast area and pool set in what can only be described as a rainforest. Etnia is owned and run by Andre Zanonato (Brazilian, but of Italian descent) and his partner Corrado Tini (Italian) & their 3 gorgeous labradors, Lola (who was only into me because I kept feeding her), Ginny (who smelled a bit) and Rocco, their boisterous son.

Each bungalow is designed along a different theme.  We stayed in Mediteraneo, a large white and blue room - it was amazing, very classy.  Andre let us take a peek into the other bungalows.  He was excited for us to see how amazing and varied each of the bungalows were and I was eager to check we had the best bungalow.  As it turns out, ours was the best one but another bungalow, Gipsy caught my eye.  It was a clash of pink, orange and blue - I would have been equally happy staying in this room but it was too camp for Silverbrow.

Breakfast provided a lazy start to the day, beginning at 9am and finishing at 11am.  We ate lunch on a few occasions at the hotel.  Silverbrow loved the gnocchi, which, as he guessed correctly, was made using Andre's mum's secret recipe, which she had personally taught the kitchen staff to cook.  We were also well looked after by Paulo, the barman who kept us plied with amazing kiwi and passion fruit caiprinhas.

By night we hung out at the Quadrado - the village square.  It is a cute array of little, brightly coloured shops selling all sorts of glittery tat, to rich Europeans and tax evading Brazilians.  The shops were all perfect - the outside of each one was painted in a different colour (this is a local, Bahaian tradition) and there were many lit candles scattered around to add to the atmosphere.  In fact if Disney was trying to create an open air chi-chi shopping mall.  This place was seventh heaven for me, a Starbucks would have made it perfect - it's the only thing I've missed from home.  I dragged Silverbrow around all of the shops (several times as we were there for a week) but in the end we didn't buy anything other than a paperweight and a pair of Havaianas (the coolest thing in Brazil.)

Interspersed amongst the shops were several equally ritzy restaurants.  Unfortunately their flash decor was no sign of quality of the food.  We sampled many of the dishes over the week we were there.  We loved the seabass cooked in ginger and cashew sauce at Cantinho Doce and went back twice because it was so good.  The other meals were not overly memorable, apart from the sushi we had one night.  Despite being by the sea, the chef was using frozen salmon.  Silverbrow went off on some rant about why serve salmon when you're by the sea.  I reckon, they would have been better off as a simple fish restaurant, serving locally sourced fish, rather than doing sushi badly. (She's learning dammit - Ed.)

However, the mediocrity of the food did not detract from us having the most wonderful, tranquilo week in Trancoso.  We topped up our tans, swam a bit, read and chilled and even made a few friends along the way.

Should we ever find ourselves back in this neck of the rainforest, we will definitely be going back to stay (this time in Gipsy.)

Rio de Janeiro

I hope all my readers are well. I particularly hope that in the last week none of you have had any kidney problems, because if you did, your would have been up Corcovado without a nephrologist. I should know, because we have spent the last few days with thousands of them in Rio. It turns out that Rio has been the proud host of the 2007 World Congress of Nephrology. I'm sure nephrologists are nice people but they have been a pain in my side (geddit, side, kidney - fuggedaboutit). They have taken every room in every decent hotel in Rio. They also seemed to be at every tourist spot and every restaurant that we went to. They were easily identifiable with their polo shirts, shorts, trainers and white socks, whereas the locals favour tiny speedos, flip-flops and a six-pack. Those who have met me will appreciate just how well I fitted in.

Despite the influx of kidney specialists we had a fantastic time. We were a bit flummoxed by the whole safety thing. On the one hand we kept hearing Rio was no more dangerous than any big city, on the other, everyone told us we'd probably be mugged and not to walk by the beach late at night. I was deeply confused by the mixed messages, especially as we didn't see any trouble and didn't experience anything ourselves - although that could have been because we were cocooned in a cab for most of the time. The one bit of trouble we did have was with a shifty taxi driver trying to charge the wrong fare. With her acerbic tongue, Silverbrowess swiftly put him in his place.

The safety issue was put in stark relief when we visited a favela. This was a truly astounding tour around Vila Canoas and Rocinha, two of the city's favelas. Both of us felt far safer there than we did in the city - although as our guide pointed out that could have been because all the dodgy geezers had gone to fleece everyone on Copacabana beach. On the tour we were privileged to meet a few of the locals and in particular, visit a project for kids called Para Ti. We saw a side of Rio that people think they know thanks to fear-mongering or film. Both of us felt far safer in Rio that night, having had some of the myth of the favelas burst. Don't get me wrong, these places are exceptionally dangerous, our guide regaled us with stories of gun-fights, but they are not lawless and the people aren't all monsters.

We did the touristy stuff, went up Corcovada (home of Cristo Redentor) and Pão de Açucar (Sugarloaf Mountain) and were constantly wowed at the beauty of the city. The food was generally pretty mediocre, although we had a fun and decent lunch at Gula Gula, near the beach in Ipanema. I had a salad, Silverbrowess had some salmon teryiaki, it was fine, more enjoyable was watching the cariocas. We also had quite a pissed evening at Rio Scenarium. It reminded us of quite a hip TGI Fridays, with great music, decent cocktails and lots of deep fried food. The nephrologists in the house seemed to be enjoying themselves, which was nice.

Finally, as you might be able to tell from the photo above, we got the sun we needed and are now turning a very British shade of ruby.

It is beautiful, but we need some sun

If you go on a holiday of a lifetime there is an assumption, especially if you're from the UK, that you'll go somewhere with great weather. For the past five days we have been putting up with pouring rain or sub-zero temperatures. As a consequence we are now making a dash for the sun. We're postponing Chile, we're ignoring the Torres del Paine (Towers of Pain, need I say more) and fleeing into the open arms of Rio and all she has to offer.

Not that the bad weather hasn't had some good points. One of the highlights has been El Calafate, a town in the middle of nowhere, that reminds me a lot of Cicely, the setting for Northern Exposure. Admittedly, it does err towards the twee, but sitting on the shores of Lago Argentino it has ready access to astounding scenery. Our guide book is less than complimentary about El Calafate, describing it as unattractive, yet they raved about Bariloche - the heart of the Argentinian Lake District. In our opinion they are wrong. Bariloche is an ugly little town, not helped by pissing rain. Whereas, El Calafate has some real charm to it. Although, in both places you pay through the nose for crap food and mediocre accommodation. If we were giving points on scenery, which in the end is what it is all about, El Calafate wins hands down.

I should say, that Silverbrowess is doing very well on keeping us on budget. So well, that I am writing this from the business class lounge at El Calafate airport.

Bariloche

Getting Silverbrowess to walk up a mountain that afforded us scenes like this was not easy.

It seems we're not the only ones on tour

Before I start, my appearance on the blog comes with a disclaimer (is there a lawyer in the house? - Ed.) I am a lawyer by trade (I knew it - Ed.). Every ounce of creativity was knocked out of me at Law School, if not before. I enjoy a good read, but my creative writing leaves a lot to be desired, so bear with me. (shuddup and get on with it - Ed.)

Sitting in the back of our cab, crawling through BA's early morning rush-hour traffic, Silverbrow and I were delighted to be back in Buenos Aires. We were particularly chuffed that we had got a decent deal at Faena. It was in Conde Nast Traveller's Hot List, natch. The security men on the door (think Men in Black) were less than chuffed as we arrived, dishevelled, jet lagged, rucksacks in tow.

Veronica (beautiful, blonde) checked us in at the bar because the reception area - 4 imposing desks manned by BA's coolest - was overflowing with other newly arrived guests. "Vero" told us that Keane, Aerosmith and Velvet Revolver (Guns n Roses without Axl) were all staying at the hotel at various points over the weekend. We did our best to act nonchalant in the face of such giddyingly exciting news.

We ummed and ahhed about our room. I like a bath, Silverbrow is more of a shower-man. Our room, oddly didn't have a bath. They offered us an apartment instead, but Silverbrow was less than impressed with the incy bed. Magnanimously I gave up my bathing fetish for a decent night's sleep.

The hotel is very boudoiry - low lighting, lots of candles and little attempt to venture too far beyond dark crimson. Unlike the rest of the guests - the bands' groupies and BA's beau monde - all I had to wear were two pairs of combats, a pair of linen trousers and various fleeces. My 'traveller' friends would be very proud of me, but I was mortified.

We spent the afternoon chilling in Palermo Viejo, wandering round, having lunch at Bar Uriarte. Although we had a great meal, much better than ones we'd previously had at Sucre, it's sister restaurant, it appeared that I was the one on the menu. I counted 11 separate mosquito bites from lunch alone. Despite this, we were able to spend the rest of the afternoon enjoying the laid-back, carefree atmosphere that pervades BA.

The security guards on the door of Faena could do with getting out more in BA and soaking up some of that atmosphere. Again, on our return, they looked less than delighted to see us and were weighing up whether these two scraggie tourists getting out of the car were more screaming Keane fans or guests. We flashed our distinctive red room key and were let in.

After a long afternoon of doing not much, the hammam beckoned. The reception desk at the spa was very white (apart from the bottle of La Prairie Silver Rain), in total contrast to the dark, moody, candle lit hammam. Silverbrow was very excited at the prospect of using the steam room, sauna and jacuzzi - I just saw scary, thin Argentinean women wandering around and wasn't so sure I would be using it. Whilst we were being shown around the gym, Silverbrow thought he saw one of the members of Keane (we're not sure of his name, but he's the tall, blondish one.) Once we'd checked out the spa, we decided to have a drink by the pool, and (subtly) star spot, hoping to catch up with Keane (we are far more interesting than any Argentinean babe). A lot of other guests had the same idea, but sadly we were all disappointed when Keane did a no show.

Dinner was an interesting affair. We ate dinner in the hotel because it was Shabbat and we would rather not eat out if we don't have to. We had planned on going to the hotel's brasserie, El Mercado, but that was fully booked. So instead, we were forced into The Bistro. Where much of the rest of the hotel is dark and brooding, this room is entirely white, very ethereal, complete with white unicorn heads (with red eyes - scary) suspended from the walls. The waiters wore white, the carpet was white, the crockery was white - you get the picture. We only had a main course because we'd noshed throughout the day. I ate a lovely (but rather unexpected) sushi like shaped cooked salmon dish. Silverbrow can't recall what he ate, that good eh?, but was less than impressed. He kept mumbling something about substance over style.

After breakfast on Saturday morning, we went for a walk around Puerto Madero (the area we were staying in,) we intended to walk as far as the Casa Rosada, but who were we kidding? As it happens, it started to pour down with rain (I was in a linen skirt - forgot about that one), both of us got absolutely drenched which was excruciatingly embarrassing when we arrived back at the hotel and yet again were scrutinised by hotel security. We had lunch and then spent a couple of hours lounging round the hammam and spa. The low lighting hid a multitude of sins and it was surprisingly relaxing there. The steam room was particularly cleansing and liberating ( I was frizzy by this time anyway.) Luckily for me, I was treated to a massage as a birthday present from my in-laws. Although slightly painful at the time, I foolishly opted for deep-tissue, it was just what I needed to rid my body of all the legal knots in my shoulders and get the creative juices flowing.

Olsen

Olsen is a Scandinanvian restaurant in Buenos Aires. This seemingly incongruous setting for a restaurant with a culinary heritage steeped in snow, reindeer and blonde hair, works pretty well. The melding of the two, is not quite as odd as it might first seem because BA is such a melting pot. Additionally, smoked salmon seems to be the national food here. We have yet to find a menu where it doesn't appear.

Olsen, like many places in Buenos Aires, very-trendy. The restaurant is in a converted warehouse in the advertising and TV heartland of Palermo Hollywood. Blonde wood sweeps up the white painted walls towards the soaring roof-light, forty feet above the restaurant. It is big and airy, yet retains a cosy atmosphere. It is not as self-consciously up its own arse as Sucre.

The furnishings, cutlery and crockery all look like they've been bought from Skandium or designed by Georg Jensen. In BA, design detail is everything and they've done well here. All too often though, detail when it comes to food is not quite as important. As we found at Sucre. At Olsen, they are significantly more successful, especially with the starters.

I started with salmon rillettes, Silverbrowess with a grilled goats cheese salad, with rocket and roasted peach. My rillette was a creamy, unctious pate, with a good smoky flavour, mellowed by fresh dill and a sprinkling of soused, diced onion. On the side were what looked like thin bagel crisps. Silverbrowess' salad had similarly bold flavours. A bit like Scandinavian design: keep it simple, make sure the quality is good, and it will all work.

They forgot this simple mantra when it came to the mains. Silverbrowess had a blackened tuna. Blackened from some sort of dry rub that had it been put on it, two of the three nuggets that were served, were overcooked - turning the blackened tuna, grey. Worse, though was that at least one of the nuggets was well past it's serve-by date. It reeked of the worst kind of fishyness. My smoked trout was bland in the extreme. Taste the stuff that Foreman & Field produce and you'll know just how cooked this humble fish can be. Eat it at Olsen and you could be tasting any old steamed member of the piscine genus.

We didn't go for desserts. Partly because we were knackered, still recovering from jet-lag, partly because the rake thin waitress scared us into dieting. I'd recommend a trip here, the caiprinha's were good and they have a decent selection of vodkas, courtesy of Absolut. It's failings are the failings of a lot of the bad food we have had in Argentina - when they try too hard it goes tits-up. When they stick to simple stuff: steak, wine, ice-cream, it's the best in the world. I imagine Olsen Madrid will have to raise it's game if it is to survive in Spain. However. when compared to our meals in Sucre at the end of last year, Olsen was a much better meal.

Olsen, Gorritis 5870, Palermo Hollywood, Buenos Aires, Argentina
Tel: +54 11 4776 7677

What others think

Frommers - Fish is the main point of this place, and a few of the meat dishes, though flavorful, tend to be on the dry side.

Art in Buenos Aires

Nico Alligator, Murdock lookalike, might just be the ideal specimen to investigate further the age old conundrum of when genius meets insanity. His form of scrap yard art isn't my cup of tea but the guy has a sense of humour.

Silverbrow & Silverbrowess are leaving the country

We're off. Later this week, we will be departing these fair shores and balmy weather for the autumnal/arctic/sub-tropical continent that is South America. The current plan is to visit , , , in that order.

I will write when I can. It goes without saying that I will still be writing primarily about food, but there might be a bit of travel writing thrown in for good luck. Silverbrowess might even make an editorial appearance.

Adios for now.

That summer feeling?

Is ALO's Girl, I Wanna Lay You Down the best foodie/summer/feel-good song out there? I think it could be. I particularly like the lines You're smooth and creamy like peanut butter and I'm gonna flood you like a love river.

Maybe I'm feeling the effects of the first waves of summer. You can watch the video below and decide for yourself.

The Magdala

It first dawned on me when I tried to read the menu through the dirty glass.  It then hit me like a thunderbolt as I ate the warm bread, flecked with onions and dipped in home-made herby olive oil: I rarely eat anywhere by chance. Wherever I am in the world, I make sure I know the good places to eat.  I don't mean just those recommended by Michelin, I mean the places where I know I will get some decent nosh.  That is particularly true for London, my city.   I was therefore surprised to end up having an excellent lunch today in a pub that at best looks grotty from the outside, that I pass fairly frequently and that I had never heard of.

I had strong-armed Silverbrowess into a trek across Hampstead Heath, following a weekend of eating, drinking and CSI watching.  So it was that we were in South Hampstead (that nether region near The Royal Free Hospital), and nowhere was open.  If I am honest, one of the reasons we took the route across the Heath that we did, was because I was salivating at the prospect of a pizza at Fratelli la Bufala, having watched Heston Blumenthal make the perfect pizza (you have got to love Sky+).  I was therefore disappointed FlB was shut, along with virtually all the other cafes and restaurants.  Somewhat dejected, we set out back across the Heath in a vain attempt to get a table at Kalendar.  Just before we strode forth onto Parliament Hill, Silverbrowess pointed out the aforementioned grotty looking pub and suggested we at least take a look.  I thought I should humour her and so went to investigate further.

The menu was tough to read given the filth encrusting the display the case.  But from what we could make out it looked interesting.  I particularly liked the look of the roast vegetable stew with cheese dumplings.  It is rare that such effort is put into veggie dishes.  So we went in and it soon became evident that effort is a watch-word here.

The bread was the clearest example of this.  We tasted a couple of different breads thanks to the speed with which we demolished each basket.  The first, was a white bloomer, with sweet, crispy onions sunk into the thick, crunchy crust.  The bread itself was pillowy soft.  This was good bread.  The next basket was more sour than the first.  It think it had some apple juice in it.  The crust was just as thick as the onion loaf and was crunchy enough to give the gnashers a work out, again very good.

I noticed that every so often the chef would put a hot loaf down onto the pass and it would be sliced by the waitress and served immediately.  There is an adage that you can tell the quality of a restaurant by the quality of its bread.  Although many such culinary adages are downright lies (just because locals eat in a place it doesn't mean its good, they might have bad taste) this one held at The Magdala.  You know that if a chef cares enough to be bothered to bake loaves of bread on New Year's Day, then he really does give a toss what he serves you.

We both ended up having what could have been dull omelettes, the veggie stew was not on the truncated New Year's Day menu unfortunately.  Instead I got a perfectly cooked (not too dry, not too wet) exemplar, oozing with salty stilton and earthy mushrooms.  Silverbrowess had a similarly good cheese and tomato.  The chips were clearly not out of a packet, although I reckon they only had a single fry, not the double fry that is essential for good chip.  As an aside, this is yet another example of where my grandmother was right on something.  If The Magdala's chips were fried twice, they were not cooked for long enough, as both Silverbrowess and me had chips that were not cooked through.  Usually this would be a heinous crime.  Today, given my New Year's good humour and ongoing delight at finding this gem, I overlooked it.  Our meal was not rocket science, but all it takes is to do the simple things right and the punters will be happy.

The realisation that my dining out can be so formulaic was a bit depressing.  However, I think it bodes well that I found somewhere like this on the first day of the New Year.

Then again, this pub has its own notorious place in history.  It was the scene of the crime that sent Ruth Ellis to the gallows.  She was the last female executed in the UK.

Happy New Year everyone.

The Magdala, 2a South Hill, London, NW3 2SB, UK
Tel: +44 (0)20 7435 2503

Google Maps
Google Earth (download)

What others think

As far as I can tell, nothing has been written about this place.  If that changes, I will let you know.

A breather

Technology and bad time management have prevented me from writing sooner.  What I had wanted to say was that things will be quiet during December as I am on holiday. 

Try not to miss me too much.

Pot-au-feu

Next week is Thanksgiving in America and quite a lot of the food blogs have been writing about it. These posts got me thinking about holidays in general and the warm fuzzy feeling you get from all the food, family and festivities. That in turn got me thinking about what I could write about as a Brit which in turn reminded me that shit, I was more than a couple of months late in writing up my pot-au-feu recipe that I cooked for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.

Pot-au-feu is not a traditional Ashkenazi dish. However, slow cooked meat is an important element of traditional Ashkenazi cooking. Cholent is the most widely known example. It is a stew, some argue is a cousin of cassoulet, which is eaten in Ashkenazi homes on Shabbat. It is a perfect meal because it does not contravene any of the laws about what can and cannot be done during the Sabbath. It is prepared on the Friday, before Shabbat starts, stuck in the oven for twenty odd hours until it is needed for lunch on Saturday and in theory, comes out of the oven moist, succulent and beautifully cooked.

The rules for cooking on Rosh Hashanah are somewhat laxer. Nonetheless, I wanted to cook something that was going to be easy. We had a lot of entertaining over the two days of Rosh Hashanah, largely because my in-laws were staying, and on the second day my whole family were coming over. We were cooking for fifteen people. Silverbrowess was tearing her hair out at the prospect. In pursuit of a peaceful life, I promised her I would do all the cooking and cleaning and therefore would make things as easy as possible. In return, this meant I could run rampant in the kitchen. I figured pot-au-feu was the way forward. It allowed me to have all the fun in the kitchen with the preparation, but in the end make it look oh so easy. The plan worked a dream.

Another reason for the pot-au-feu was that I really wanted to get my teeth into my copy of French Provincial Cooking (p156) by Elizabeth David. I also used Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's Meat as a guide as well (p284). I used both because that is what Hugh recommends. He provides a more straightforward recipe than Elizabeth, he also misses out the history and semantics that she is famed for. The recipe and process below are my interpretations of Elizabeth's and Hugh's, although reading back through theirs, mine owes more to her than it does to him.

• 3kg brisket, unpickled
• 2kg veal on the bone
• 2kg ox tongue, unpickled
• 8 pieces marrow bone approx 5cms thick
• 6 chicken giblets
• 5 leeks, trimmed
• 5 carrots, scrubbed
• 6 onions
• 1 small turnip, peeled
• 1 parsnip, peeled
• 2 stalks of celery w/leaves
• 2 large tomatoes, halved
• bouquet garni (2 bay leaves (use 1 if dried) | 2/3 springs fresh parsley | 2/3 sprigs thyme, wrapped in muslin or tied together)
• optional - or at least I didn't include: 4-6 pea pods dried in the oven. According to ED, they're used for colour
• optional - you can serve the marrow on toast, with a bit of flat leaf parsley and pinch of good salt. If you want to, buy a baguette or similar.

To serve

• capers
• cornichons
• horseradish
• mustard
• salad

First off, if you are cooking for 15 and using the proportions above, you will need a bloody big pot to put it all in. I used a 28cm round Le Creuset casserole, which I was surprised held it all in, but with some pushing and shoving did the trick.

Tie the brisket. I used Leith's Techniques Bible as guide, but frankly all you want to do is tie up the meat into a neat parcel.

Wrap and tie the marrow bones in muslin. This will stop the all important marrow from falling out into the stew.

Tie four leeks in a bundle with one stalk of celery.

Grill the tomatoes, get a decent char on the cut-side.

Wash three onions - don't peel, the skin adds colour.

Put the beef, veal, tongue and giblets into the pot and cover with cold water. Heat gently and skim religiously. After reading Thomas Keller I have had it drummed into me just how important this is when making stocks, soups or broths. Remember, Elizabeth David argues pot-au-feu is essentially two dishes, bouillon (the broth) and bouilli (the meat). She suggests they should be used at different times and for different meals. You want your broth as crystal clear and consomme like as possible.

Put in the vegetables prepared above, add a good portion of salt, approx 1 tbp and the bouquet garni.

Leave to simmer gently for five and a half hours. By gently, I mean only a light bubbling, not a raging boil. You might need to buy a heat diffuser to get sufficient control over your hob.

Put the tied marrow bones parcel into the pot for the last thirty minutes to 1 hour of cooking.

At the end of the cooking time, turn off the heat and lift out all solids. Put the beef into a covered dish and keep warm. Skim the broth again - you should have been skimming anyway, but there's always more skimming to do. You should think about passing the broth through one or two fine sieves, you could even pass it through muslin, if you want to be really anal (it is the sort of thing I do.)

Extract the marrow meat, put onto toast and serve with parsley and salt.

Elizabeth David suggests serving the broth with rice or pasta. A typical Ashkenazi interpretation would be to add kreplach. If you are going to do that, I would suggest the kreplach stuffing is liver or a well flavoured mince (maybe with a hint of paprika) to work through the complex flavours of the meaty broth. You would end up with a dish very similar to tortellini in brodo - one of the by-products of bollito misto, Italy's boiled meat dish. For the sake of my good health, I dare not compare bollito misto and pot-au-feu too closely, but there are undeniable similarities. If you are interested in bollito misto, I find Claudia Roden's book very good, or read Divina Cucina's recipe.

Back to pot-au-feu, serve the meat with cornichons, horseradish, capers, mustard and a green salad with a decent (read: homemade) vinaigrette.

Cook the remaining vegetables separately and serve with the pot-au-feu.

Personally, I found the leftovers just as tasty as the main meat dish.

Pot-au-feu leftovers

Being a perverse sort, I'm posting about what to do with the leftovers for pot-au-feu before I post about the pot-au-feu itself.  I'm only doing this out of laziness.  I reckon it will take as long to write-up the pot-au-feu as it did to cook it, this is quicker.  I am pleased to say that I'm not doing this because I have a ton of leftovers left over.  Most of what I made for lunch on second day Rosh Hashanah got eaten up.

According to Elizabeth David, pot-au-feu is two dishes in one.  First you have the boulli, the meat, second you have the bouillon, the stock.  You can use some of the bouillon to baste the boulli as you serve it, but basically the two are quite separate entities.  She suggests you serve the boulli to your guests hot - as I did.  She then notes that the bouillon can be used as the base for a multitude of recipes.  I followed Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's recipe and got a third meal out of it.  The upshot is below.

Given the the length of ingredients for the p-a-f itself, the technique for the leftovers couldn't be simpler.  You shred by hand any of the meat you have left over.  Dice an onion and garlic and quickly fry in oil.  Add the meat until you get it nice and crisp and serve.  That's it, or so Hugh says.

I added a of salt.  I also made a bit of a rough and ready sauce for the fried meat.  I chopped some flat leaf parsley and mixed it with a healthy swig of wine vinegar (I used white because I'd run out of red), a swig of good olive oil, some salt and a pinch of dried chilli flakes.  I preferred the meat with the sauce, it cut through the rich meat beautifully.  However, I am quite addicted to the cold meat without any accoutrements.  Having been cooked for so long in its gelatinous stock, it is soft, shreds at the touch of a fork and is full of flavour.

As for the bouillon, I have yet to find a use for it.  Although, the fat-cap (yes, that's what the photo is) is giving me thoughts of roast potatoes.  When I crack through that, I see soups and sauces in my future.

Light my (bon)fire

**Whoop** **Yeah** **Come-on**

Yes people, autumn has arrived.  Actually, given my intro I should say fall has arrived.  Either way, we're there.  Rosh Hashanah is over (there'll be a post about my pot-au-feu shortly), there's a slight nip in the air, the leaves are turning, the evenings are drawing in.  Italian mamas are beginning to pulp their tomato harvest into passata, thoughts are turning to stews, soups, pies and in general the best season for food.

Why so you ask me.  Well let me tell you.  Autumn heralds the short lived truffle season. I don't believe it's possible to add any new hyperbole to the delight truffles can give.  I do think that much of what is written is pretentious hyperbollocks, but I do love those expensive little pieces of pig food.  It's impossible to describe what they taste like, although Giorgio Locatelli gets close in his new book (more of that shortly as well, in addition to this).  He says something along the lines of they taste like sweaty humans.  I know what he means - there's something earthy about them and somehow that makes them delicious.  They are the apotheosis of umami.

Additionally, if there are truffles, there must be risotto.  If there's risotto, there must be butter.  If there's butter, all must be well with the world.

Autumn also heralds the return of the chestnut.  You can put that nutty little chest to all sorts of uses.  Whether in soups (as we did for the Silverbrow nuptials) you can make cakes out of it, you can make stuffings out of it.  Sod it, you can chuck them on the fire and eat them straight out of the shell.  For the record, the best place to do this is wandering around Florence in the early evening, contemplating just how many courses of your dinner that night will include truffles.  The worst place to do is Oxford Street with the pushy vendors and those annoying tourists.

Apples come into their proper season, not their Tesco season.  With apples here, that can only mean that citrus fruits are not far off.  Strictly speaking a winter fruit, but by the end of November, you can get some fantastic juicy, sweet flavours.  And oranges and lemons (say the Bells of St Clement's) and apples and some spices, means more pies and tarts and pastry and butter.

Unfortunately, for me, it is also the time of year that Vacherin Mont d'Or is put on the market.  All you heretical buggers that don't keep kosher can swan off and eat the greatest (and most hyped??) cheese out there.  I can merely watch and sniff and slobber in wonderment.

This year, there is also the Salone Internazionale del Gusto to look forward to in Turin at the end of October.  I won't be there damn it, but again, you kids can go enjoy yourself and tell me how it was.

People, this is a great time of the year.  As Nigel Slater recommends, chuck away your shopping list, ignore the supermarket, go to your local market and see what is crying out to be bought - ignoring the girl in the short mini skirt, ankle boots and dodgy make-up.  Go home and cook whatever you bought (excepting that girl once again).

If I were American I'd say I'm stoked.  I'm not American so the only thing I have any plans of stoking is the bonfire.  I am however very excited.  Childishly so.

Artichokes at Santa Monica Farmers Market

Who knew?

More than one year on and I am still posting.

World Halal Forum

It's the World Halal Forum this week and it's been generating a fair amount of interesting and thoughtful coverage.

I was particularly interested to see the Wall Street Journal note that one of the many similarities between kashrut and halal is

Calories and cholesterol don't matter.

That is, neither are by definition healthy.  We knew that already though.

Asparagus

Much excitement at Marylebone Farmers Market this Sunday with several stalls selling asparagus.  The season for English asparagus is depressingly short (from now until mid-June) so I've been eating them at every chance I can get.  Tonight was the first opportunity I've had to cook them myself.

They were blooming marvellous.

Taste of London 2006

This summer will see the third incarnation of Taste of London.  This time it is set in Regent's Park rather than the grandeur of Somerset House.  No doubt elements of it will be exceptionally commercial, food fares seem to be going that way, but there is a good line-up of chefs over the four days (15-18 June) including Tom Aikens, Michel Roux Jr and Atul Kolchar.

It rankles that I'll have to pay £5 to enter a park that I can otherwise enter for free.  It seems I'm not the only one who is slightly peeved that the lungs of our city are being used as commercial workhorses (how's that for mixed metaphors?).  Nonetheless, the two previous events have been quite enjoyable, so I'll probably end up going again this year.  A summer's afternoon, in the park, eating and drinking?  It could be worse.

Stop with the food already

It's that time of the year - around Easter - when etiquette, driving skills and good humour sink into an even deeper morass than usual in North West London.  The reason is Pesach (aka Passover), or more particularly Pesach shopping.

There are many aspects to Pesach, but the central focus of it is the Jews' Exodus from Egypt under Moses.  One of the major features of the festival is the rule that we must not eat any leavened food, which is known as chametz.  The most well known manifestation of this that we don't eat bread and instead eat matzos - unleavened bread - which are basically glorified crackers.

A ban on anything bread-like sounds relatively straight-forward and for eight days I really shouldn't have a problem.  However, the reality is, I find it quite tough.  Wheat, rye, barley, spelt and oats are all grains that if they are leavened for more than 18 minutes (why 18 minutes?) are considered chametz.  In addition, Ashkenazi Jews need to steer clear of rice, corn, beans and peanuts because these were traditionally used in bread making and our rabbinic leaders want all avoidance of doubt as to what we're eating.  It seems that the Sephardic rabbis don't have such concerns regarding the fallibility of their flock and they're allowed to eat these foods.  It has to be said that for Sephardis not eating rice or beans would be a bit like telling a Frenchman that onions and garlic were off the menu - they would wither and die.

In addition to not being allowed to consume these items, we are forbidden from benefiting from them and therefore need to be certain that none are in our houses.  That means that even those things that are okay for the rest of the year need to be dumped (or 'sold') in favour of explicitly kosher for Pesach products. The practicality of that, for those of us who are even vaguely observant, is that we need to empty our store cupboards, change our cutlery, crockery, pots, pans and anything else that has come into contact with the dreaded chametz.  So, imagine it, across the world there are millions of Jews desperately cleaning, sorting, storing and most importantly buying, buying, buying.

I have just returned from a two hour shopping trip and have spent over £200 on eight days worth of food. This year is slightly unusual because Silverbrowess will be stuck at home throughout the eight days of the festival so I've had to buy for every meal of the entire eight days.  Normally we try to foist ourselves upon our respective parents and get them to go to the hassle of doing the cooking.  However, that is not a choice a lot of people have, so they have to undergo the tortuous shopping expedition and the result is long queues and bad tempers.  My mood was lightened by the impressively humorous bag packer who told me he was on a break from yeshiva in Gateshead.  Clearly though he was bored senseless if the excitement he displayed when a disgruntled customer returned to shop complaining about the three bottles of wine that had smashed over his food, was anything to go by.  The other customers looked ever more weary and kept an especially beady eye on the packers to ensure their bottles of wine didn't suffer a similar fate.

As often seems to be the case with kosher food, over Pesach, it is of impressively crap quality.  Yoghurts that have only the vaguest hint of what a cow is, food that is deep fried or deep frozen or conveniently dehydrated so all I need to do is add water.  Why do I buy it?  I'm really not sure, except that with the advent of Pesach I'm beset by a malaise that results in cooking being at the very bottom of my agenda and eating to survive at the very top.  Every year I'm shocked that a belligerent big-gob like me can be swayed into buying this crap and every year it happens without fail.

The first night of Pesach is Wednesday 12th April and it goes out on Thursday 20th April (in Israel it goes out on the day before - a quirk of the Jewish calendar.)  I don't imagine I'll be minded to post too much during the period so apologies if I'm a bit slack.

My culinary heart sinks with the first whiff of the Pesach shopping trip and doesn't return until I've wiped the crumbs from my lips of my first post-Pesach bagel.