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Marco_Polo

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  1. Marco_Polo

    Cycling and food

    Hey yellow truffle, looks like you've got some great rides planned for 2004. Probably a long way to travel (though every year friends do come over from the US) but for the past four years I've organised a sponsored century cycle in aid of cancer research and in memory of my cycling chum and fellow foodie friend Nello Ghezzo. The ride (it's not a race) is called The Nello Century Cycle Challenge and it is a truly gorgeous yet testing century route that follows the Exe Valley from near its mouth on the south coast of Devon, England over the roof of Exmoor and back via the cathedral city of Exeter. My friend was an Italian chef and therefore the event has always been as much about cycling as about getting together afterwards to share memories and the camaraderie of the road over a great communal meal with lots of good wine and beer. That to me is what cycling and food should be all about. This means that after cycling the century with my wife on the tandem, we have a quick pint at the finish, then get into our kitchen to help with the food preparations for about 250 hungry cyclists, partners and families (in addition to the century route, there is a 55-mile route and a 20 mile easy and safe family fun ride). Fortunately I have some very good friends who are chefs and food writers and who come along and really cook up a storm. This is post-ride cycling food at its best. Here's the menu from last year. This year's ride will take place on Sunday 27th June and all are very welcome! MP
  2. Marco_Polo

    Cycling and food

    That sounds great, Boris. Lyon to Bordeaux to Perpignan is quite a ride! I love cycle touring, too. Some of our best family holidays have been when we have cycled onto a cross-Channel ferry to Brittany, me, my wife, and then two young children, together with panniers, etc. You feel like kings of the road cycling onto the big boat ahead of all the waiting cars; then you're first off on docking in France. We wouldn't go far at all (my son was only 8 or so, my daughter 3 and in a Burley trailer that I towed behind my bike, loaded down with camping equipment and just about everything but the kitchen sink). It was just wonderful, cycling past artichoke fields, stopping for frequent treats, at patisseries for tartes aux fraises, a sandwiche aux rillettes at lunch with a bottle of wine (for us) and Orangina for the kids by a river somewhere, or maybe a galette au sarrasin, and at night, all tired and going out en famille to some little place to enjoy a dozen huitres de Cancale or (on the last night) a huge plateau des fruits de mer. Lately my wife and I have done some 'credit card' tandem touring, too, mainly in Devon and Cornwall. It's the only way to travel. Looking forward to much more of it in the future, and especially to riding in the Alps. MP
  3. Marco_Polo

    Cycling and food

    Thanks for all the input. Some great points being raised. I guess I've never approached diet that scientifically, more from a trial and (often) error approach. Last year when doing an SR series (200, 300, 400, 600K rides), I tried eating lots of different things on rides. Even went on a high-protein binge munching on beef jerky on longer rides. Never got on with any sports bars, too dense, indigestible. I agree that what you eat before a ride is very important. Night before, no more than half a bottle of wine, plus big carbo feast. Morning (if time) oatmeal with maple syrup (great slow-burning carb) plus scrambled eggs. During longer rides, we often stop at cafés, and I'll eat something high carb like (sounds terrible I know but it tastes great on a ride) baked beans on toast, or jacket potato. Plus lots of muesli bars, flapjacks, and cups of tea (with plenty of sugar). In France and Italy, options are better than in Britain. Drinking is as important as eating (I drink upwards of 10 litres of fluid on a really big day's ride, especially if it's hot). I try and use isotonic and energy powders, but avoid the denser high carb drinks. I have used GU, try and suck a tube down 10-15 minutes before I need it (usually at the end of a long ride before a last killer hill -- it is very hilly where I live). The energy boost is noticeable, definitely, but ridiculously short-lived. Get the timing wrong, and it kicks in after, not while on the climb! Good to know there are lots of cyclists out there who also love eating. Cheers, MP
  4. Marco_Polo

    Cycling and food

    The main energy source when cycling relatively briskly is glycogen, metabolised from carbohydrate and stored in the muscles. This is a finite source of energy that must constantly be renewed. That's why any who do long distance exercise stoke up on pasta and other carbs (and in the case of cycling, eat such foods while on the hoof -- I carry flapjacks, muesli bars, bananas etc and try to eat a little and often, especially on all-day or longer rides). As for performance racers (like your brother), they may well need more protein in their diets. Tour riders used to traditionally eat large quantities of steak at the end of the day. I'm neither a racer, nor am I a vegetarian: yet after lengthy (or even not so lengthy) exercise, what my body craves most of all is carbohydrates, mostly pasta. I guess I'm unlikely ever to be a candidate for the Atkins. As for chili, well, no problems there for me: life is too short to eat bland food.
  5. In for a penny, in for a pound, so they say. Forget trying to cut the fat, and just go for it: the de rigueur accompaniment (in my book) has got to be potatoes sautéed in, what else, duck fat. Sprinkled with lots and lots of coarse sea salt. An all-duck meal is close to my idea of heaven (though at the moment, I'm waddling about rather uncomfortably like a fatted duck myself, having just consumed WAY too much pasta for dinner...)
  6. I've just got back from my usual Wednesday afternoon ride, a pretty miserable, cold, wet, winter 35-miler (if I'm honest). After a hot bath, I'm feeling better now, and absolutely ravenous. When you've been out in the cold for two or three hours, exercising hard and using up all that stored glycogen in your muscles, that hollow-to-your-soul feeling of emptiness in anticipation of eating always makes food taste all the better, don't you think? So what's for dinner? Well, for me, in such circumstances, it is always something ridiculously simple (because I'm knackered), but incredibly filling and satisfying. Most always pasta. For example, today I've rummaged around the organic vegetable box that is delivered on Wednesdays and it looks promising: some tasty valour potatoes, some bright green organic broccoli, a handful of calabrese, some other unidentified winter greens. So this is what I'll do: sauté about five fat cloves of garlic and a couple of chopped fairly fiery red chillies in a fair amount of extra-virgin olive oil; peel, cube and par-boil the spuds, then add them to the garlicy oil; cut the broc into small florets then add to the mixture along with the sliced greens. Season to taste with coarse sea salt and coarsely ground black pepper, then let the whole lot stew until tender. Then I'll add a ladle or so of homemade chicken stock, boiled up from the carcase of last night's dinner. Meanwhile I'll cook a fair amount of stubby pasta like penne or tortiglioni and when al dente, add to the vegetable-and-chili medley and mix well. Serve generously (that's an understatement) in bowls topped with a good dribble of best extra-virgin olive oil. The oil-coated pasta, potatoes and greens, combined with the heat of the chili and the crunch of the coarse sea salt just seems to hit the spot, washed down with lots of cold water and, why not, a tumbler or two (or three) of fairly light Pinot Grigio. My first big ride of the year is this Sunday, a 200k cycle over the lanes and valleys of Devon. So I'll be eating lots of pasta over the next days. Any other hungry cyclists? What do you enjoy eating after a long or arduous ride? Any favourite recipes to share? MP
  7. Yes, please! Mine is too and I'm a million miles from the nearest horno de asar. Continuing on the subject of tostón and lechazo, I wonder, are there possibly geographical, cultural or historical reasons why certain areas preferred to raise and consume baby lambs rather than pigs and vice versa? As for sucking kid, where would that triangle be? Possibly moving towards Estremadura? And where should we go to sample the best? I have enjoyed kid stews but never had the chance to sample sucking kid. What is it called? MP
  8. Mmmnnn, difficult one this, for the famous omelette a la Mere Poularde has been around for so long that it has become one of France's great culinary clichés. To me, as you jostle with the crowds and climb up the cobbled path of the Mont, the rhythmical syncopation of eggs being beaten in copper pans that greets you is all part of the experience of being there. And make no mistake: crowds or no crowds, Mont-St-Michel is definitely worth visiting. Of course, the omelette was never intended to be a food experience in its own right, rather simply one course among many in a typical Norman meal that might start with a bowl of moules à la crème, continue with the omelette, then a plate of roasted pré-salé lamb, followed by the chariot des fromages de Normandie, and finally a rich and creamy dessert. I don't know what the restaurant is serving now, but that is the sort of sound cuisine du terroir that they used to have on offer (no wonder you need a trou Normande midday way through the meal). I can well understand that coming all that way to eat the omelette on its own could be disappointing, as it really is much ado about essentially nothing: light, airy, incredibly fluffy but with no substantial flavours or depth and not even sufficiently filling to assuage the hunger you gain from the walk. Yet there we are: it is what it is and is probably best enjoyed as a sweet dessert soufflé rather than a savoury course (you can sample it both ways). Culinary clichés: we all want to experience the quintessential foods that have become iconic and legendary, yet so often they disappoint not because of what they are but because of the hype that has been built about and around them. MP
  9. Thanks for this, vserna. Would love to find an excuse to visit Sepulveda and the Asador Zute el Mayor. A question: you speak of the lamb triangle. Within this Spanish heartland, is there a similar or defined area where toston takes pride of place over lechazo? Many on this list may have visited the theatrical Meson de Candido in Segovia, which I understand is actually a 'declared national monument'. Last time I was there, I did enjoy that wondrously succulent delicacy, theatrically sliced with the edge of a plate by, I think, Candido's grandson. But there was undoubtedly something of a 'food tourism for the masses' feel about the place that is the complete opposite of the atmosphere enjoyed in the most basic hornos de asar such as you describe. Sucking pig is good, but nothing can beat lechazo when, done simply and well. And I agree, you don't really need anything else: just lamb, lettuce, bread and wine. MP
  10. Zero atmosphere? It sounds like wonderful atmosphere to me. Your excellent and evocative post brings back fond memories of hornos de asar in Castilla y Leon and Rioja. Favourites include the archetypal (and very basic) Casa Rafael Corrales (Obispo Velasco 2) in Aranda de Duero for an unchanging feast of lechazo, lechuga, pan y vino. We've also enjoyed great (if predictable) lamb feasts at Meson de la Villa (Plaza Mayor 3) and Asador El Cipres (Plaza Primo de Rivera 1). But my favourite of all time is in Rioja: Casa Terete (Lucrecia Arana 17, Haro). Come to this winegrowers' favourite, pass by the downstairs wood-fired baker's oven, and climb upstairs to enjoy an unchanged menu off scrubbed wooden communal trestles, elbow-to-elbow alongside smart bodega owners and workers in blue overalls. Start off with such Rioja favourites as alubias con chorizo, menestra de verduras, pimientos asados, morcilla y chorizo before feasting from earthenware cazuelas of the most tender and delicious cordero lechal asado you're ever likely to eat. Best of all: this simple, basic, humble joint has the most sensational wine cellar with bottles of old Riservas and Gran Riservas from the best wine producers of the Rioja. This is food to rip into with your bare hands, to mop the grease off your mouth with good crusty bread, and to wash down with tumblers of excellent oak-aged wines. MP
  11. John is too modest to say so himself but his Paris Bistros reviews is one of the best collections of essays (well-written and well-observed) about bistro dining in Paris today that I've come across. MP
  12. I've got nothing to sell myself, but I can confirm on Jim's behalf that Portuguese flor de sal from the Algarve is truly a superior product, equal in quality to the better known French fleur de sel de Guerande from Brittany. I spent some time in the Algarve researching the subject for an article and was impressed by the hand-care and the quality of the finished salt. Personally, I love coarse sel de Guerande (not fleur de sel de Guerande) to sprinkle over fish or meats before grilling over charcoal. The salty, burnt on crunch, for me, is the taste of summer. My favourite for table use is Maldon sea salt from the marshes of Essex. It's very friable and I just love the way you can take a pinch in your fingers and crumble it over foods; light and delicate, it never seems to oversalt the food itself. Texture and crystal structure seem to me as important as pure taste. MP
  13. Andy, that's still the way we shop where I live. In my small Devon town, we have two great butchers, a greengrocer, a fantastic fishmonger (enjoyed some incredibly fresh diver's scallops last night followed by a thick centre-cut of pollack), and an award-winning cheesemonger (a true artisan fromager-affineur who buys cheeses young and nurtures them to perfect condition). We only have to go to a large supermarket once a month or so. To me, food in Britain today is not about historical or even regional recipes as no such canon exists that has been practised in households over the decades and centuries as it has been, say in Italy or France. Speaking locally, a dish such as star-gazey pie is an interesting curiosity, but not something I'd actually make myself very often (though we have made it!). What has changed most in the past twenty or so years since I've been down here is an appreciation and recognition of the quality of local foods: great fish and shellfish landed at Brixham and Exmouth (and the best is no longer just sent to France or Spain); grass fed and organically raised meats, especially Exmoor lamb, Devon beef, good organic pork; outstanding organic vegetables locally grown and distributed (we use a weekly box scheme from nearby Riverford Farm); outrageusly good dairy produce, including a range of cheeses that is unsurpassed anywhere in the world such as unpasteurised cheddars from Montgomery, Keenes and Weston, soft full fat cheeses from Sharpham that rival the best and richest from Normandy, great blues such as the sheep's milk Beenleigh Blue, pungent rind-washed cheeses such as Cardinal Sin, local goat's cheeses and even, my god, now buffalo milk cheeses, too (not to mention Devon clotted cream). The best chefs today, whether in restaurants or gastro-pubs, don't necessarily cook regional British recipes per se: but they use (and trumpet the fact that they are using) these fine local ingredients creatively and imaginatively to result in fantastic dishes that are wholly modern yet at the same time unashamedly British. Down here I'm thinking particularly of Michael Caines, the two-star Michelin chef at Gidleigh Park (and MC at the Royal Clarence Exeter) who, though classically French trained, is a champion and ambassador of the foods and produce of his home region, the West Country. If your conception of British food dates from the 70s or 80s, make no mistake: there has been a truly remarkable renaissance in British cooking and food in recent years (reflected not only in restaurants and gastro-pubs, but, yes, in homes too). As for the history of food in Britain, I certainly agree with my friend John that Colin Spencer's magnificent work is unsurpassed. It is not only massively knowledgeable, it is also hugely readable, written with considerable wit, humour and affection. MP
  14. Not strictly congee, I know, but growing up, whenever we were sick or a little under the weather, my mother would make a pot of 'rice soup' - nothing more than good sticky Korean rice cooked with enough water to make a soupy gruel. Nothing else, not even salt, certainly not broth. This warm, steamy, bland, delicious bowl of comfort is something I still long for occasionally (and it is never the same if you make it for yourself, I can tell you). The best thing, nay the ONLY thing, to accompany it would be what we called in our household 'Korean hot meat' (it's really changjorim), fiercely hot soy-braised shin of beef, cooked for hours with lots of fresh chilies and toasted sesame seed until the gelatinous meat falls apart in shreds, then allowed to cool so that it forms a cold blend of rillette-like strands of meat and bits of red chili, all fused together in a fiery hot, soya gelatine. A big bowl of steaming hot rice soup topped with some fridge-cold Korean hot meat is one of the simplest and greatest food combinations on earth! MP
  15. Hi Geoff, If you are looking for a practical easy-to-carry illustrated guide on regional Italian food and drink (features on general food topics, wines, cheeses, salumi, artisan products from pane toscano to culatello di Zibbibo, addresses for producers, food shops, limited number of restaurant recommendations) then you could try Frommers Food Lovers Companion Italy. I've just checked with Amazon, and though it is no longer in print, there are three used copies available. If you can't source, come back to me and I may be able to help. I'm the author together with my wife who is the photographer. MP
  16. Hi Moby, Been chewing over your post. In essence your philosphical musings really do get to the kernel of the issue. The term 'gastro-pub' is a truly horrible new word that is bantered about too willy-nilly (and applied to far too many indifferent places that are neither particularly gastronomic nor not even very pubby)Yet it does manage to encapsulate in essence what the best of such places should aspire to. 'Gastro-pub' may initially seem an oxymoron as 'gastronomy' traditionally and historically has never (before now) been what a 'pub' is (or should be) about. Whereas the word 'pub' as you point out exudes all sorts of other cultural, regional and personal connotations: most of us who know and love and frequent pubs know what that means to us (comfort, refuge, camaraderie, friends, good cheer, a certain fuggy atmosphere, tradition, licensing hours - 'drinking time, you've 'ad your drinking time'-, beer, beer, more beer, good beer, whatever). A gastro-pub at best must somehow manage to combine good, imaginative (and sometimes if we're lucky even great) food in a place that maintains the essence - deeply and integrally, not superficially - of what a true pub is. Just tarting up a pub interior, and installing a restaurant is not quite what it ought to be about, is it? There are plenty of restaurants in the premises of former pubs, but I wouldn't call them 'gastro-pubs'. Nor for that matter is it enough just to serve good 'pub grub' (pies, pasties, fish & chips, however excellent). I think it's the imaginative, the unexpected, the juxtaposition of truly superior food in a pub setting and atmosphere that really goes some way to making the phenomenon of the 'gastro-pub' a new form of British dining institution that may, as you suggest, one day become a classic along the lines, for example, of the true Lyonnais bistro (however much the latter may be copied, to varying degrees of success, from Paris to Paris, Ohio). So I guess the fact there are so many self-proclaimed but horribly bad 'gastro-pubs' emerging (just as there are, and always has been, so many bogus bistros) should take nothing away from the best. Now, when the first gastro-pub opens in Paris, Ohio, then we'll know the genre has truly arrived...(no doubt someone on this list will tell me that it's already open and thriving). MP
  17. I was weaned on Kikkoman. My Korean grandmother (who immigrated to Hawaii in the 1920s as a 'picture bride') used only Kikkoman. It's like milk from a mother's breast. NO OTHER WILL DO. Here in Britain, there are two types on offer (not the eight so eloquently outlined above), the normal, which is the same as I grew up with, and a 'sweet' version that is quite disgusting and to be avoided at all costs (as horrendous as the little bottles of cheap 'chinese' soy sauce on offer in supermarkets). Kikkoman normal may not be a 'boutique' or premium product, it may not be the best, but for many of us, soy sauce is one of those basic staples that have over the years percolated into our very souls and in the process become a very part of who we are. That is why for me, no soy sauce tastes quite right unless it's Kikkoman.
  18. Great foam pics! And thanks for the link on foaming techniques, very helpful. This thread has made me realise what an utter rookie I am. Latte art, could this be the new trial sport at the 2004 Olympic Games? That said, I'm going to come out of the closet on this one and state my unapologetic allegiance for semi-skimmed milk. Admittedly, semi-skimmed may be more difficult to micro-foam than full fat, but hey, it's not just a question of mouthfeel and aesthetics, it's also a question of taste. Full fat is just WAY too rich a taste for us. And it definitely is possible to micro-foam semi-skimmed milk to perfection. My wife consistently achieves magnificient results so fine and dense that you can sculpt it. Me, I have to confess in having, from time to time, some real bad foam days. I've even had to consult an analyst...
  19. The greatest potato chips in the world are Burts Chips, hand-fried from potatoes grown in Devon, southwest England. They come in various flavours (sea salt and sherry vinegar, hot chili lemon, salt and black pepper) but the best are the simplest, lightly sea salted (for purists there is a 'no salt' but that's abit too pure even for me). Each bag carries the name of the person who fried that particular batch. Absolutely irresistable, and totally awesome when enjoyed with a pint (or two or three) of Branoc beer...
  20. Me too. Cooking pancakes right this minute in fact. Kids are on their way home from school and will devour with sugar and lemon. Making enough for dinner too. Basic crepe recipe, then will stuff with spinach and ricotta for crespelle, and will have enough left over to makes crepes suzette. Happy pancake day!
  21. Hi Moby, This is a great thread, and while I don’t deny your central premise that the ‘gastro-pub’ has transformed the British dining scene in recent years, may I also suggest that it is true that rise and rise of so many wannabe gastro-pubs has at the same time paralleled the demise of the good old traditional local. In my small Westcountry town, for example, we used to boast something like a dozen real pubs, some serving only just a street or two, and all with their own fiercely loyal clientele. Over the years I’ve lived here, a few have gone completely, the buildings themselves more lucrative for developers to turn into residential houses. Of those that remain, most have been tarted up, or re-tarted up (the velvet booths of the 70s replaced with faux traditional bare wood flooring, ship’s decorations, or bistro-like furnishings). A particular loss is that the public bars are now mainly history (that is, there is no longer any distinction, in decor and beer price, between smarter lounge bar and the more rough-and-ready public bar) and most places now insist on serving food of a sort that is becoming as predictable as it is indigestible, a sort of pseudo-international faux-cuisine that invariably includes the likes of Thai green curry, cajun chicken, nachos covered in cheezey gloop, deep fried squid with gunky sweet chili sauce out of bottle, etc. Don’t get me wrong, the fault, of course, is not the rise of the true gastro-pub per se, and it is great that places of real quality and individuality have evolved to take the place of locals and tied houses that have fallen by the way. But it's sad all the same that the loss of real pubs is undoubtedly one casualty of our time. So what makes a great gastro-pub? Perhaps for me, living in the country, it is different than what you may want and expect in the city. For me, a gastro-pub shouldn’t be a high-class restaurant masquerading in the guise of a pub but really, deep down, wanting to be recognised as a restaurant. That is, a place serving restaurant foods - at near restaurant prices - in the setting of a former inn that is no longer a place where you'd feel welcome just to pop in for a beer or two. IMO, the best ought to serve real foods based above all on quality local produce (wherever they may be), competently and unfussily prepared, served in an informal and relaxed setting. Two examples from near where I live: the Drewe Arms at Broadhembury (near Honiton, Devon) is a gorgeous thatched local pub that has for some years enjoyed a reputation for serving outstanding local fish and shellfish, sometimes simply (great homemade gravadlax) sometimes classically (seabass in beurre blanc, great fresh diver’s scallops, local crab and lobster). Excellent beers, too (Otter ales) plus good list of reasonably priced white wines (mainly). It is always good, and is well worth a detour if you are heading to the Westcountry (not far off the M5 motorway, exit at Cullompton). Another example: across the Haldon Hills that rise above the Exe Valley, in the tiny hamlet of Doddiscombleigh you’ll find the Nobody Inn. This pub not only serves a great range of cask-conditioned ales, it also boasts one of the best pub wine lists in Britain as well as an outrageously comprehensive selection of single malts. The restaurant food is only so-so, but the bar meals are always good. Simple foods like homemade pies, smoked fish, lamb casserole, and, best of all, sensational selections of West Country cheeses. Is this a ‘gastro-pub’? Probably not. Just a damn good one. As for locals, in my small riverside town, I am happy to report that one exceptional place remains, utterly unchanged for over 100 years (and certainly unchanged for the quarter of a century that I’ve been frequenting it). Rated by CAMRA consistently highly for its fantastic range of cask-conditioned ales, but gloriously and stubbornly untarted up, this is probably the anti-thesis of the modern ‘gastro-pub’. Me, I go there a couple of times a week at least, was there last night, in fact. Though there are always a dozen beers on offer, drawn direct from the cask, I’m a creature of habit, always enjoy pints of Branoc ale (a light quenching ‘session’ beer from the nearby Branscombe Brewery). For food, well, you don’t really come here for food but if you are really hungry, you can have hot pasties (not homemade but excellent, served with gooseberry chutney), homemade soup, perhaps on a good day a smoked chicken ploughman’s (the smoked chicken from the excellent Dartmouth Smokehouse), but that’s about it (apart from the massive jar of pickled eggs on the bartop counter).This pub, incongruously, has the ‘honour’ of being the only pub ever visited by Her Majesty the Queen. Where am I? Answer
  22. Marco_Polo

    Pork Belly

    Sounds like could have been Nigel Slater in last Sunday's Observer? Me, I like my pork belly slow-cooked (and I mean really slow) as a braise, not roasted (or even slow-roasted). That way the lean, the fat, the gelatinous, and the chewy rind all fuse into a deliciously melting, falling apart gloop that is irresistable. Asian style is hard to beat. Or why not fry off some garlic, onion, diced carrot and leek, add the pork belly and a bottle of rich, red vin de pays d'Oc. Let slow cook for a three or four hours, then add some lentilles de Puy and continue cooking until tender. A one-pot meal that is warming, cheap and incredibly satisfying. Of course, you don't get the crispy pork crackling with this method, but honestly I can live without it. If you can't, then slice off the rind first, rub with a bit of olive oil, coarse sea salt and then cook separately in a hot oven or under the grill.
  23. Hey phaelon56, nice info and pics about tampers. I've considered purchasing one of the neat heavy looking metal ones as illustrated (I think Rancilio offer such an item), but continue to use the fairly solid but plastic tamper that came with my Rancilio S26 (single group, plumbed in). This beautiful beast makes espresso as good as you can get in even your favourite Italian bar (mine's Bar Gino in Dorsodoro, Venice). But as with all things, tamping is a fine and delicate art: too little and the coffee comes out too quickly, too hard, and it dribbles out so slowly that it eventually gives a sort of burned flavour. I tend to err on the side of too hard, however, first filling the coffee holder with freshly ground (of course) coffee to just the right level, then levelling off the tamper before pressing down very firmly, leaning up on the counter to give it some weight, then dusting off any coffee around the rim to ensure a perfect seal. This seems to work for me and the result is espresso with that beautiful crema and rich aroma and flavour that is nothing short of heavenly. (The coffee? In a perfect world, it's got to be Illy, of course.) But hell, now you've got me wondering: would my espresso be even better with one of those beautiful objects of desire as illustrated in your post?
  24. While I would concede that bulgogi as served in most western Korean restaurants is often indifferent, usually way too sweet for one thing, I would state categorically that properly home-prepared bulgogi is the greatest food in the world. Of course I may be biased: I was virtually weaned on the stuff, and everyone in my family has their own variation. That's how food evolves, and who can say what is 'authentic'? Here's my take on it (from a piece I wrote a few years ago): Bulgogi — Korean bbq — my way In traditional societies and cultures, certainly, the passing down of recipes from mother to daughter (usually) is one way of keeping taste, national, local and familial culture and food intact. Traditional recipes may change little as they are passed down the generations because one learns 'the right' way to do them, i.e. mother's (or grandmother's) way. However, today, with families often living far apart, the extended family no longer reality for most of us, the ties that bind are nowhere near as strong, so inevitably more radical recipe mutations may occur down the line. In my own personal experience, this evolution can be rather like a game of chinese whispers (or should I say korean), with our own end results often very different, sometimes hardly recognisable, from, say, my grandmother's original, yet still undeniably rooted to that original. Such variations may be as much a reflection of place and culture as time and space since we literally inhabit very different worlds (physically, culturally, generationally, emotionally). To raise that dreaded 'f' word, this is how true fusion foods are often created, as a perfectly natural evolutionary process. An example: one of the most delicious mainstays of the Korean kitchen is bulgogi, marinaded barbecued beef. My grandmother liked to prepare bulgogi in the classic traditional Korean way: she'd cut the meat in fairly fine strips, then marinade in soy sauce, garlic, ginger, and toasted sesame seeds. The meat ideally ought to be cooked at the table, on a domed brass shield as part of a communal cooking-and-eating experience. Halmoni would always insist on doing this herself, as she liked to be in control, using metal chopsticks to pick out the choicest titbits for those in her favour — I usually scored big since I was a favourite (if prodigal) grandson. As the meat was cooked you'd take a piece of lettuce, add a spoon of steamed white rice, perhaps a bit of chili-tinted kochujang, and finally a bit of the char-grilled meat; then you'd roll it all up and eat with the fingers. Wonderful! My mother, growing up in Hawaii and California, on the other hand, where meat was plentiful and relatively inexpensive, would keep the meat in fairly large pieces, scored deeply in a diamond pattern with a knife. The marinade was basically similar, though Mom added vinegar and heaps of springs onions, didn't bother with the toasted sesame (a very distinctive, and to my mind, essential flavouring). She always like to cook Korean barbecue (rarely called it bulgogi) over a charcoal-fired hibachi in the backyard. The meat was served more like an American style char-grilled steak, together always with a huge pot of rice and a green salad dressed with vinaigrette. Equally wonderful and probably my all-time favourite desert island meal. Me, I love both of the above but I still can't help fiddling around with variations, attempting, perhaps, to gild gold. I love to use the basic marinade for sirloin steaks: cook over charcoal, then serve with a fusion sauce that is a sort of Cabernet-infused beurre blanc made with the strained leftover marinade. It works well. Tonight I'll do something different. Some of my cycling and chef friends are coming around this evening, first for a farewell cycle then a final communal meal which we'll all cook together. Our great friends the Brandons are emigrating to New Zealand in a few weeks. John, deputy headmaster and renowned local chef, is both a great cycling as well as foodie mate. So tonight is the last chance to ride and cook together, perhaps for a very long time. David'll go down to the docks at Exmouth to pick up some live crabs from his trawlermen friends. Jeremy is doing his party piece mushroom risotto, the only dish he can cook, but boy is it good. Michael will make a flying cameo appearance after his stint in his two-star Michelin kitchens at Gidleigh, no doubt with some incredible offering. And John will make us, for the last time ever, his amazing bread and butter pudding, the best I've ever had. Me, I've got a thick piece of rump steak marinading in the pungent mix of soy sauce, garlic, ginger and sesame. I plan to cook this over charcoal for only the briefest period, say 4 or 5 minutes in total, then leave to rest. Then I'll slice the meat on the slant into the thinnest pieces — charred on the outside but almost raw inside — and I'll lay the slices over a bed of organic mizuna, peppery wild rocket, and herbs, all from our local organic farm, Highfield. Over the sliced meat, I'll pile a heap of thinly sliced radishes, shredded spring onions, chopped coriander and of course a sprinkle of the toasted sesame seeds. Then I'll dress the whole lot with the strained marinade together with a generous squeeze of the juice from a couple of limes. Purists may not agree, but this to me is undoubtedly bulgogi — Korean barbecue — though unmistakably a product of this particular moment in time and space. I wonder if my grandmother, who passed away earlier this year age 94, would have liked it? My guess is that, yes, she would have (but she might have struggled with the cycling). Bulgogi, my way Marinade 4 fat cloves of garlic, peeled, crushed and finely chopped 1 inch piece of root ginger, peeled, crushed and finely chopped 6 spring onions, shredded on the diagonal 1/2 cup of Kikkoman soy sauce (no other brand will do) 4 tablespoons vegetable oil 1 tablespoon sesame oil 2 tablespoons coarsely crushed black peppercorns 1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds 1 large piece of lean organic rump steak, at least an inch or more thick (flank steak or sirloin would also be suitable), say about a kilo and a half Mixed wild greens and herbs, such as organic mizuna, wild rocket, dandelion leaves, mesclun, fresh basil, flat leaf parsley and/or coriander 6 spring onions, shredded on the diagonal Some light vinaigrette made with peanut oil, sherry vinegar, and a splash of soy sauce A bunch of radishes, finely sliced A large handful of coriander, coarsely chopped 1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds, crushed with salt 2 limes Trim the beef of fat and any connecting tissue. Score lightly in a diamond pattern. Place in a large flat dish. Mix together all the marinade ingredients, pour over and massage into the meat with your hands. Leave for about an hour. Prepare a charcoal fire, heat up a grill or ribbed castiron skillet to very hot. Drain the meat, reserving the marinade, pat dry, and cook briefly, only about two or three minutes a side. The meat should be charred on the outside but still virtually blue inside. Remove to a wooden board and leave to rest for about 10 minutes. Meanwhile, place the marinade in a small saucepan, and bring to the boil for a few minutes. wash and dry the salad leaves and herbs, if necessary. Dress lightly with the vinaigrette and pile onto a large platter. Slice the beef on the diagonal and arrange the slices over the dressed salad leaves and herbs. Pile on top of the meat the shredded spring onions, sliced radishes and coarsely chopped coriander. Squeeze over the juice of a couple of limes, garnish with the toasted sesame seeds, then strain the cooking marinade and drizzle over everything. Wine: The deeply flavoured, almost pungent Korean marinade combined with the peppery, hot wild leaves demands an equally assertive wine, perhaps something rather wild and untamed, such as Aglianico del Vulture, from Italy's deep south, or a rustic Montepulciano d'Abruzzo. Or, since this is undoubtedly a fusion meal, how about going back to my childhood roots and serving with a good Californian Sangiovese.
  25. Tububuchim is simply fried tofu. Slice firm cakes in half horizontally then dredge in seasoned flour and shallow fry. Serve with a pungent chojang vinegar dipping sauce made from soy sauce, rice vinegar, a bit of sugar, a bit of coarse chili powder, a generous handful of chopped coriander. It's so simple and so delicious, served with a big pot of sticky Korean rice. Tubujorim is a little more considered, but really good, too. My grandmother used to make this: fried slices of tofu (as above) layered with braised pork in a hot and spicy kochujang sauce, garnished with spring onions shredded on the diagonal. Best of all is tubutchigae, a sort of one-pot tofu stew, the cubes of tofu swimming in a tasty meat broth flavoured with garlic and ginger (of course), fresh chilies, kochujang, toasted sesame oil and toasted sesame seeds, plus zucchini, red peppers, celery, lots of shredded spring onions. It's dinner time here and I'm just about to cook some tofu, a simple homestyle stir-fry with chicken breasts, broccoli, spring onions, chilies, coriander. And on the side, some thinly sliced cucumbers salted for about a half hour, wrung out, then simply dressed with vinegar, sugar, coarse chili powder. The fresh, chilled, sweet heat is fantastic on a mountain of steaming hot white rice. I LURVE tofu...(in case you hadn't noticed).
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