That came from my sister C. She is probably the only one in my family who follows my blog and as we can see, she is keeping me on my toes. Which is just as well, because we are already seeing the end of June and I have pictures from way back when we were in London, so here is the rest of what I was going to say.
When I was younger, I was more obsessed about food. Hard to believe I know, but it's true. For my 21st birthday, I invited about a dozen of my friends over and spent a whole day cooking for that dinner. The menu included toasted bagels with cream cheese or peanut butter, grilled lime-soya chicken, grilled 'mediterranean' vegetables, hummus, deep fried wantons, there was probably a quiche or fish pie of sorts, all very BBC Good Foods of the late 80's and just about all I could afford on the pocket money my parents sent over to cover my student's expense.
With jobs came money, which meant dinners became more elaborate and plentiful. If I was on call and had no time to shop or cook I ate ready-made Marks & Spencers or Waitrose foods because suddenly I could afford to. C had to tell me to stop feeding her so well as "not everyone likes to eat like you do".
And when I travelled, I was a bit of a monster. Some people have heard this story before, and some have not. Anyway, Paris, in the summer of 1993. My travel companion, she who did not think it strange to serve undoctored microwaved canned salmon for her dinner parties, well, she was shocked at how few francs our miserable sterling pounds bought us and decreed that we should prioritise our spending for museums and attractions. Now then, food and shopping was my department, she was in charge of sightseeing, this division worked good for our previous holiday in relatively cheaper Madrid. Fine. Deep breaths. Understand also that her family is well-off and we were earning good salaries, we could afford to indulge a little but no, she had to be her usual kedekut self.
We were in the Opera area on the third day of our five-day trip, and I was hot and bored. Suddenly I felt like eating an omelet, a runny cheesy omelet with a little side of green salad, and it had to be eaten inside one of those mirrored, chandeliered belle-epoque type places in the area. Just because. What do you mean just because, it is neither lunch or dinner, and are you crazy, it is probably very expensive. But I want to. No. Silence. More silence. I am going home. Tomorrow. But we have two more days. I don't care. Silence. Oh fine, go ahead and have your dxxxxx omelet. Well, she didn't exactly say that, she is not the type to swear, but she did relent. We didn't have anymore arguments about meals afterwards and needless to say, we stopped going for holidays together.
I like to think that I am a little more relaxed these days. And probably also a lot more lazy. I no longer study the guidebooks compulsively and plan everything in the minutest details, checking reviews against forums and 'best of' lists. I read a little around the subject, and maybe earmark something to try but is not too crushed if it falls through and leave it all up to chance.
Why, on our last trip to London I even placed faith in the concierge. The one who unabashedly suggested the hotel's own restaurant's The Bugis Street Cafe when I asked for Chinese food. Which I know is the pits, and I told him so. Still, we went ahead and decided to meet my sister for dinner at his second recommendation. On the way there we stopped by a Chinese grocery store, when I paid for my chilli oil, I asked the cashier what was her favourite neighbourhood restaurant and ate there a few nights later. Now, hose recommendation was better, can you guess?
Both places were brightly lit and busy, and smack in the middle of Chinatown. The waiters were quick, brusque but occasionally friendly. One served very moreish crispy salt-and-pepper prawns and a decent but not cooked a la minute dish of crabs stirfried with young ginger and green onions. Their tung-choy (kangkong) with fermented beancurd sauce of fu-yu was exemplary and so was their cha charn tng staple of iced milk tea. Details: HK Diner. 22 Wardour Street, London, W1D 6QJ. T: 0871 0757361
The other was not a typical Cantonese joint, as we had initially thought. The staff spoke Mandarin more than Cantonese and they had many chain-smoking Mainlander customers, the menu even listed lau gan ma sauce fried rice. I was tempted to back out but it was late and the others were hungry. The cooking was predictably cruder and MSG intensive, the only standout was a 'water-cooked beef' which was for once not too spicy as to kill the tastebuds. Not exactly a redeeming detail but in this case it was appropriate. Details: New Laughing Buddha, 12 Macclesfield Street, London W1D 5BP, T: 020 7437 5598.
HK Diner was recommended by the hotel concierge.
I didn't eat much Chinese this time. In between the Brit foods, there were other standout gems too. In the happy party land that is Upper Street in Islington, I was at one time torn between Carluccio's and Ottolenghi. Both restaurants have an inviting demeanour, their see-through windows beckon with tempting displays of baked goods and appetising salads. But my sister prefers Ottolenghi (287 Upper St, T: 020 7288 1454) and I can see why. Even though I had initially wanted to order a cup of coffee and a cake to eat while I look through my French verbs, a cavernous bowl of plum and beetroot salad called out to me and I was miraculously saved from an otherwise sugar-loaded teatime. The wait staff, all young and beautiful, were also very friendly and attentive. I loved the beetroot salad, and should have gotten a whole plate of it instead of combining it with the peas which were fine, but not not quite as magnificient.
After the power-packed lunch and much window-shopping, it was time to rest. And then time to eat again, this time at nearby Exmouth Market because I was curious to try Moro's, having read about it for, oh, only the past 10 years. Ah but I was full even before we sat down, so we decided to eat lightly from their tapas and mezes menu. The fried patatas were very good, so good that potato-phobic C ate quite a bit of it, helped along by an unbelieveably tasty tomato sauce. The chorizos were amazing, though I'm not sure if it is the same chorizos as the one sold at the famous Brindisa next door. Everything on the meze plate was eaten up, even the little pink radish was adorably sweet unlike the ones I usually buy from my market. Damned good chorizos, but I had already mentioned that.
So the next day I went to Exmouth Market because it was a Friday and on Fridays there have outdoor stalls. Also, my sister mentioned that Brindisa serves a mean tortilla. Unfortunately by the time I dragged my lazy self over, they had sold out, it was a very hot day and the picnickers had nabbed them all. Also, the St John's Bakery stand there only operates on Saturdays, so no Eccles cake for me either.
And by the time I reached the head of the queue at Moro's Paella stand, they were officially sold out. I contemplated waiting 20 minutes for the next batch. But the very nice man said he could give me the pan scrapings for free if I didn't mind that there would be no seafood. Blink. Are you sure? He smiled. Oh Yes. Wow! I would absolutely love some thanks very much.
So there it was, my very nice free lunch. I am not saying this because it was free, but the paella was great, so much nicer than all the other paellas I ever had in Madrid. It tasted of caramelised prawn shells, of saffron, of tomatoes, of peppers, of plump toothy rice. Yummy!
Speaking of free food, London has been kind to me in this aspect. At Krispy Kreme, although I paid for two hot donuts they gave me an extra one. And both times, because we checked in early and our rooms were not ready, the hotels soften the disappointment by offering free breakfasts.
Breakfast. We were pleasantly surprised to discover that our 6.30am journey home in the Eurostar comes with a choice of hot or cold breakfast. Now I know why the tickets are so expensive, but we had no choice as I didn't want to miss my exams that very afternoon. The juice, the jams, the breads and hot drinks were fine, but the omelet and sausage were of the same unappetisingness as their airborne cousins. Thank goodness because it gave me the excuse to chomp instead on my takeaway Exmouth Market brownies and cardamon shortbread.
In London, I was gripped by a wanting for lemon cakes during our nightly outings to the 24-hour Sainsbury's nearby. Their supermarkets are open nearly all hours, very cool. But everytime I looked at the labels, including yours Mr Kipling, I saw long lists of ingredients and the dreaded "e" word emulsifiers, and regretfully I had to put it back on the shelf. Until I was at one of the many Pret & Manger outlets, ostensibly to buy a bottled drink but also keeping a lookout for a prawn cocktail sandwich. Which I didn't find but in another case was a selection of cakes sold by the slice.
Granted, they are a bit too full of their own PC-ness but hey it listed no emulsifiers nor unnecessary additives. The cake was wrapped in plastic which is then packed inside this informative box, tsk tsk. The cake itself was delicious, moist and lemony with a great homemade taste and generously speckled with poppy seeds.
We're down to one small can of Heinz baked beans now. C, you know what to do right?
