Where's My Pork Chop?

I'm Getting Too Old For This Shizz

2011-09-28T00:00:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, I was sent home due to an extremely gross hangover, in my days as an office junior for a financial PR company. The receptionist was the first to witness my deathly state that day. The lift door slid open and after a brief pause, a shaky claw-like hand emerged and gripped the marble floor. Thankfully, they kept the floor highly polished so it was quite easy to slide towards my desk on my belly, under the concerned but still quite pretty nose of said receptionist. I made it up onto my chair and then promptly slid off it, back onto the floor and just remained there. After a short period, an account director with a harsh haircut came over and asked how I was getting on with a project I had been entrusted with, which involved compiling a lot maps if I remember correctly. I stared up at her nostrils, moving my mouth but no words came out, so she turned about face and haughtily strode off. Shortly afterwards the office manager walked over and after taking one look at my green gills, suggested that I should go home. Which I thought was quite kind at the time. But the dressing down I got the next day revealed that there was a great deal of contempt behind my dismissal because I was "obviously no good for shit." From then on, I made sure that any exuberance from the night before would be kept in check. Or well hidden at least, by sleeping it off in the newspaper cuttings room.

And hey, we've all been there haven't we? Suffering for that one little extra indiscretion on a school night, goaded by friends and devils on shoulders, descending into level five, yes? I know I have been there too many times to mention but as I've got older, I like to think that I am beginning to learn the error of my ways. I still slip up sometimes though. I slipped up on Sunday night, having dined at the most excellent Montpelier Basement supper club who had their first outing in London at the Coach and Horses in Farringdon. The bonhomie of great company and great food got to me to be honest and I should have known better but I ordered an extra bottle of fine Malbec with half an hour to go before closing time. Consequently, I felt very shady the next day. Which wasn't good because I was meeting the sassy and well presented Jackie from I Am A Feeder for a WMPC swap. Luckily Jackie was running late so whilst I was waiting, swaying outside Barbican station, I did at least have some time to pull it together and put on my 'happy' face. When she arrived, she was a bit flustered herself, cursing flatmates and washing machine engineers but then the sunglasses came out and coolness resumed. I began to wish that I had some some sunglasses too as it was rather a bright, sunny day but off we trotted to Whitecross Street Market.

Now I am quite the conversationalist and can happily chirrup to anyone who cares to listen but given the state I was in, I think I went a bit onto autopilot as we wandered around the market. After a brief pause in my gabbling, Jackie piped up and asked if I wanted to know what she had made for me and for a split second, I wondered what the hell was she talking about. But then I felt the weighty white freezer bag in my hand, glanced down and suddenly remembered what we were actually doing there. "Oh God, yes, tell me", I replied, a touch embarrassed. And so Jackie did. Except I didn't understand any of the words. 'Lardy, plasticky, bolognesey? Terry and Sue? Who is this Terry and Sue? Did she just say ladyfingers?' were some of the phrases and questions that ran through my confused mind. But I did catch that she had made me some proper Italian lemonade, which threw me a lifeline. "Ah, you like to cook Italian then?" Jackie nodded, postulating that this made her a bad Chinese girl before zeroing in on the Turkish pizza wraps that are sold on The Iskele stall. So I bought two squeaky halloumi filled wraps for our lunch and off we went to the nearby park. Sitting down on the grass was a nice respite, what with the slight drop in atmospheric pressure on my aching temple and I could finally focus on having a nice chat about life, the theatre (turns out we've both trod the boards, darlink) and blogging. Alas, it didn't last for long as the baking heat on my bonce started to pop my neurons like popcorn and so I had to make my excuses to get to work. Jackie didn't seem too bothered, agreeing that maybe I should get indoors as I did look like I used to be a 'ginger'. I thanked her for her contribution and left her basking and peddled back to the office, back to my desk.

And then crash, the secondary hangover kicked in.

Time then slows, clocks come to a standstill and the only regular beat is the thump, thumping in my head. Colleagues talk to me in slowed down, deep voices, I dribble on my shirt and my eyes fix to a blank screen. Eventually, after a few of hours of mute distress, I get sent home for the second time in my working life. It's shameful but I am grateful. I hop onto the train, hop through the door and hop straight into bed. I am getting too old for this shit.

Luckily, I remembered to stick Jackie's offerings into the fridge before crashing so yesterday after a shower and a coffee (and about 12 hours sleep) I had the most enjoyable brunch. And better still, Jackie had emailed, repeating what she had cooked for me. To start, she had given me a shot glass of chilli whipped lardo to spread on some homemade bread. For main, she had made a bolognese pasticciata and for dessert, a mocha tiramisu with hazelnut chocolate. All to be washed down with Italian lemonade, the syrup of which had been muddled with basil. And from start to finish, it was all amazingly impressive. I exclaimed to my wife, who was upstairs at the time, that she should really, really try this lemonade. "My God it tastes like lemons!" is probably a daft statement to make (Holly shouted back in an oh so sarcastic tone "that's great darling") but I've never tried lemonade like this before. It delivered a sharp, citrus, tangy hit and It was gorgeous. To be frank, if I had drunk it on the way back to the office, I probably would have made it through the day such was the lemonade's restorative qualities. The lardo was very good and I really enjoyed the chilli heat of the back fat smeared on oven warmed bread, although towards the end it did start to err on the salty side as I licked the remainder out of the shot glass. Jackie's bolognese pasticciata was a totally new one on me. In her words "it's like lasagne but with layers of polenta" and it certainly looked the business after placing it in the microwave and negotiating a chunk of the stuff from the glass kilner jar onto the plate. I did have to laugh at Jackie's instruction to remove all the metal pieces from the kilner jar before heating. I mean, come on, does she take me for some kind of idiot? Again, it was delicious. Lighter than lasagne with fluffy layers of polenta and rich, intense ragu, I polished off my plate in double quick time and went to go for seconds but unfortunately, Mrs FU came down stairs and wanted to see what all the fuss was about. This also meant that I had to share the dessert which again was light but had a decadent vein running through it with the nutty, chocolate sauce and a pillow of creamy mascarpone. Full credit to Jackie for baking her own lady fingers, adding a lovely personal touch (I know them as sponge fingers!)

So thank you Jackie for a wonderful meal, perhaps it was just as well that I waited a day later to try your fine cuisine. Eating whilst lying prone on the floor is never much fun.

Italian Feast

Chilli Whipped Lardo

Bolognese Pasticciata

Mocha Tiramisu with Hazelnut Chocolate

Italian Lemonade

Smeared lardo on warm bread

S'not lasagne you know

Mummy's Little Helper

2011-08-15T11:59:00.000-07:00

Ask anyone where they got their passion for cooking from and more often than not they will immediately drop their heads to the floor, begin to fumble with a button at the bottom of their shirt and raise an awkward left foot onto tippy toes before answering, "in my Mummy's kitchen". Shortly after this brief retreat back to childhood, it is then quite normal for the person in question to expand, quite vividly, upon a detailed history of peeling, baking, chopping, stirring, and tasting, all by their Mother's side. Knee high to a grass hopper is demonstrated by level palm and the battered stool to reach the counter top is reminisced with tearful joy. Before long, they start boasting that they we're doing the Sunday dinner at the age of 6 and had cracked champagne sabayon way before the first hairy shoots of pubescence appear. Such is the wunderkind who owes it all to Mother.

Well I have to say from personal experience, that this is a load of rubbish. And before I go any further, I should tell you that am reliving, in part, a tale I heard from a chef in a tv studio. As I sat there, listening to him regale an over romanticized upbringing of culinary enlightenment starting at the age of 3 (all of which of course was all down to his dear, dear Mummy) I found myself desperately wanting to shake him and slap him and scream "THIS IS NOT TRUE!" Why? Because I've got kids myself and despite all my best efforts, the pair of them are absolutely crap in the kitchen. Have you seen their pastry? By the time it goes in the oven, it's grey, malformed and usually has a brick of Lego stuck in it. And we can never ever get frigging cupcakes baked, you know why? Because the bloody mixture always gets eaten before it can be spooned into the paper cases and the hundreds and thousands usually gets scattered into hundreds and thousands on the kitchen floor. And as for chopping vegetables, how difficult is it to mirepoix some onion, carrots and celery? Quite difficult with a plastic knife by all accounts but the fact that the twins still haven't got to grasps with redumentary chopping techniques drives me up the bloody wall.

So in short, anyone who opines that they caught the cooking bug by helping their Mum in the kitchen is a bloody liar. Like Nicola from The Shed, she's a bloody liar. I'm not buying into the ol' 'there used to be a mark on a cupboard in our kitchen where I used to balance and scrape my cooking stool against it'. I don't believe that she ever made cakes and pastry with her mum and that her childhood was always a wandering journey of homemade feasts, picnics and eating out. Ditching university to work at Foreman and Field sounds like a complete nonsense to me (although she now works at Hubbub - a food delivery company in Norf Landaan that utilises local shops). And to suggest that her supperclub was only ever to be a venture to push her cooking futher and to have fun, yes fun! Well come on, Nicola, you're making this shit up aren't you?

Maybe she's not.

Because her Mexican meatballs, complete with hot chilli sauce, gremolata and rice was pretty amazing. Spicy and tangy but not as hot as Nicola feared, the meatballs were fantastically moist, well seasoned with hints of lime and chipotle, the rice was plain and simple. Her dessert of meringues with strawberries and caramel sauce was an absolute belter. Delicately formed tears of crisp on the outside, chewy on the inside meringue, decorated with what, food colouring? I dunno but they were great with chopped strawberries and drizzled with sweet toffee flavoured, caramel sauce and cream. A real, naughty, decadent dish and delicious meal overall. Hard to believe that Nicola rustled it up after a night on the razz but we'll won't tell her Mum about that.

And as for me. Well I obviously have to pull my socks up where the twins are concerned. Either that or pass the baton to Mrs FU.

Thanks for a lovely kick start to WMPC Nicola, I hope you enjoyed the wine!

So who is next?

Meringue Yo! Rice Yo! Strawberries Yo! Meatballs Yo! Thundercats Yo!

Saponara, an Italian deli that is on the Hubbub rostra I believe

Mexican Meatballs with Gremolata and Rice

Meringues with Strawberries, Caramel Sauce and Cream

I drank the rest of the caramel sauce afterwards

The Man From Uncle Ji

2011-04-18T14:18:00.000-07:00

Everyday life offers you a cast of thousands when you work in London and having spent 13 years of my life around the Barbican area working in my heroic role as print monkey extraordinaire, I've seen a lot of faces. Over time, some people do begin to stand out though, who don't just colour in the scenery, people who you start to recognise and begin to acknowledge with a slight nod as you pass and get on with your day. They will probably always remain nameless but nevertheless, it's nice to make human contact, however understated and fleeting because ordinarily we all keep our heads down don't we. One of my favourite characters in the area who always stands out everytime I see her is a vivacious blonde and whilst she likes to act demure and shy, I know with absolute certainty gets a bit of a kick whenever I spot her and grin. It's all in the body language. Everytime I fire off a wink and smile those knees of hers, without fail, always collapse and waver. Those terrible, knobbly, hairy knees that just hang below a red, polyester hemline with calves gangling into an ill fitting pair of red high heels. It doesn't really improve from the waist up as it's usually a white flouncy blouse affair which barely hides a stuffed push up bra. The wig has definitely seen better days. And the face, well in all honesty, this vivacious blonde will never be able to conceal the reality that she in fact a he, no matter how much slap is trowelled on. Yes this local character is quite possibly the most unconvincing transvestite that I have ever set my eyes on. If any HRT treatment has taken place, it hasn't bloody worked. But he/she has been carrying it off with great aplomb for yonks now so long may he/she carry on strutting their stuff around the streets of EC1.

Some people do frown upon such behaviour unfortunately. Rigid, uptight, conservative, moralising, traditional, authoritarian types who would do well to take their heads out their own arses. And prior to meeting him, I was kind of worried that Uncle Ji would be precisely one of those types, given his persona on twitter. However after lunch, conversation and a WMPC swap, the first one in a long time, I was pleasantly surprised. And futhermore for such a strong, masculine, macho member of the male species, I have to say that Uncle Ji had pretty good hair and nails for a man. Too good really. So I'm kind of suspicious as a result. And as for what we actually talked about over a pie and a pint in The Fox and Anchor, well Uncle Ji has forbidden that I reveal too much as he is a fiercely private man. It turned out that he only really wanted to meet me to see if I could get my hands on some indigo kyanite but I didn't really have clue what dear old Uncle Ji was on about. "Vat you talkin' beta? Vord on the internets is you the man who gets things?" he exclaimed, to which I could only reply, "Well I do get food from people Uncle Ji but that's about it". So bizarre and curious goings on indeed but I was grateful for the Indian food he gave me which came in the form of an aubergine dish called 'baingan ke amchoo', some 'shahi paneer', a dahl chutney, some rice and a very unusual pigeon tikka dish.

Being a big fan of aubergine, the baingan was a big hit. Smokey and delicately spiced with a luxurious texture that was so so pleasing to eat, I loved it. And the pigeon was a nice surprise too as I've never had game presented like this before. Very tender and again light with aromatic spice flavours rather than the fiery heat I normally associate with curries, mind you Uncle Ji did criticise the English interpretation that Indian food should be packed with chillies. The homemade paneer was very good too, rich and creamy whereas the rice was plain and simple and all the better for it given the combinations of flavours going on. There was one duff note though I am afraid which was the dhal chutney, compared to the rest of the plate it was rather bland and felt like it needed something else for some extra oomph. I normally love coriander but the last minute addition to this chutney left it all tasting rather.....soapy? Sorry Uncle Ji but otherwise, a splendid meal.

I did email Uncle Ji afterwards to thank him for his contribution to WMPC and was relieved that he didn't take my criticism of the dhal too hard. However there is something in his reply that makes me think there's a lot more to this gentleman around town than meets the eye. I just wish I could put my finger on it.

Good morning beta, (son)

You are very welcome for dinner. Vas pleasure to give you proper Indian food! Most food these days not good Indian! Is very important that you no write that Uncle Ji cook for himself beta, it no look good in my community! I have very good Indian lurdki (girl) who come in and cook for me - I ask her to make extra for you, innit? She very good cook. Uncle Ji no cook for himself - I am Indian man, Indian man no cook. Is Aurat ke kama (women's work) innit beta? You see these days these young Indian boys cooking all this food! It no blaady good! Vhat they blaady thinking?! Occasional toast of poppud over fire is thaik hai (ok) but whole blaady meal? No beta, no. Is no blaaady good.

Yeah, I agree beta. I didn't much like the chutney either. Dall should be cooked all together- not with some raw ingredients added after - new fancy bullshit if you ask your Uncle Ji. usually I would cook red dall with onion, lots of garlic, haldi (turmeric) and numac then when dall is cooked in separate pan melt ghee and fry whole dhanya (corinader) and jeera (cumin) in it gently with slices of garlic to make Tardka innit. Then you pour tardka into the cooked dall. Is much better traditional way. I no like this new fancy bullshit way of cold dall and raw onion.

I very much liked that pub you took me to, also they have good IPA. Although Uncle Ji does not drink alcohol of course. Good Hindu's do not drink sharab, beta. But was very good food. I liked the steak pie very much and the bone marrow was amazingly good. Although of course I didn't eat the beef or the bone marrow because I am good Hindu and Hindus no eat beef, innit. Guy maa ki hai. (cow is mother) innit.

British food is getting better beta, much better. Especially when inspiration is taken from old colonies, innit. Uncle Ji still prefer French food to British food though. Main difference between English and Indian food is English people lazy. they make one dish. Indians cook 5 or 6 for each meal, then chapatti and rice and chutneys.

Um, yes, I think it's very important for a man from good family to take care of both his hair and his nails, beta. That is all

Uncle Ji

Uncle Ji

Pigeon Tikka, Shahi paneer, Baingan ke amchoo, Dhal Chutney and Rice

The end of WMPC???

2011-02-21T00:27:00.000-08:00

And yet again there has been a lull in the movement that is Where's My Pork Chop? Just like the aftermath of a party, the good intentions and ideas behind this little project now, seemingly, lie littered on the floor amongst streamers, fag butts, chicken bones, empty wine glasses and empty tupperware boxes. As always it's fun at the time, chatting, laughing, drinking, doing the hokey cokey with my fellow bloggers. But lately whenever I go on these mad expeditions or food swaps, I keep finding myself perched on the edge of the bed nursing a fuzzy head the next day, fingers over my eyes, thumbs rubbing my temples desperately trying to get the ol' grey matter going. At the root of this particular hangover lies a simple question that I ask myself before sitting down in front of the computer. 'How am I going to write this one up then?' It's probably something that a lot of bloggers ask themselves, wanting to keep their posts fresh and original. Personally, this has meant going off on whimsical flights of fancy, scribbling down nonsensical journeys into the inner gubbings of my mind and sometimes the content is not always related to food. And as a result this has started to become a bit of a mute point when it comes to writing up a WMPC post. Brainy from the Numbskulls is starting to run out of ideas to put in the suggestion box. I don't want to say for a second that the party is over because I love meeting and connecting with people under this wonderful umbrella of food. But I think for WMPC to continue, I need to focus a bit more on the blogger and about reviewing the meals they send my way, to be perhaps a bit more succinct and not get too tied up in trying to fire off some witty parable. So there, I've said it. WMPC will carry on but in future it will be short, sharp and to the point.

And besides how could I even think about jacking it all in? Especially now that WMPC has gone international! Yes I received my very first food package from abroad (well second if you consider Scotland) way back in December all the way from Holland! Boo Yah! Man, it's a druggy cliche but the shit that Luc Martin sent me was amazing. I haven't had this much fun since the time I swallowed 12 space cakes at Glastonbury '94 and ran off to the Green Field wearing my sister's dress, screaming that I had transformed and shrunk into Willow Ufgood. It took my mates 3 hours to talk me down from an ancient oak tree that night but we still laugh about it from time to time....................... (stop it FU, stop it)

Erm yes, so I am now swapping food across the seas having engaged and bonded with Luc over the magic of Twitter. In his blog Roast Chicken and Red Wine, Luc displays a fondness for the unusual and is therefore a man after my own heart. For instance, his account of cooking hare is both funny and informative in which he praises the flavour of the animal whilst all the while highlighting the necessity of using a clothes peg when preparing it. And Luc certainly knows how to get the most out of ingredients. In return for his food packages he requested that I send him the finest black pudding in all off Laaandan Taan. After much deliberation (maybe too much) I couriered over some slices of blood sausage from Stornoway and a selection of Henderson's mini black, white and chorizo mixed puds, all purchased at Borough Market. Over a period of about 5 days, I could only watch my screen in amazement as he tweeted (with pictures) various meals, all with a black pudding element. Ribeye burgers topped with black pudding, eggs benedict and black pudding, black pudding on pizza and finally steak and black pudding...pudding. I really didn't think I had sent him that much. But he obviously enjoyed it for which I am glad as this iron-rich, colon busting package was sent in thanks for the Dutch goodies Luc had sent me a few weeks previous.

Unfortunately I wasn't so creative with the smoked salami-type sausage and pancetta that he sent me, along with some aged Gouda cheese and yep you guessed it, some black pudding. We received the package during the full on festival of gluttony that is Christmas so rather than knocking up some fancy meals like ol' fancy wooden clogs Luc, the FU clan used the meats and cheese to graze on as we were want to do throughout the whole fattening period. The charcuterie was very good indeed and survived the journey well, the sausage was smokey as to be expected but also with a nice spice. The aged Gouda really was interesting as this was quite hard and salty, similar to Parmesan in some respect and totally different to the creamier, rubbery texture I have encountered before. The closest I got to cooking and conjuring up a meal was when I fried the black pudding and constructed an open sandwich using a slice of rye bread, some of the cheese and a fried egg. Typical hangover breakfast material really but the blood sausage with delicious. Dense, iodine and supreme savoury. I am bit perplexed in fact as to why he was so eager that I send black pudding his way.

Thanks again Luc for sending your contribution over the waters and apologies to the delay in getting this post done. Believe me there have been many incarnations.

And lets get the International Preserves Exchange underway. Now that's something we could both get our teeth into.

And last but not least, let's get on with some more WMPC adventures, are you interested in feeding me?

Vac-packed goodies from the Netherlands

Hangover brekkie

Aged Gouda

Dutch charcuterie

Grazing

Late Again Mr Urchin, See Me After Class

2011-01-09T13:32:00.000-08:00

Oh you have been slack. Soooo slack with this one my boy. Naughty Urchin. Bad Urchin. Laaaazy Urchin. You deserve to punished for this bout of indolence and negligent behaviour. At least 2 weeks detention, 5000 lines and quite possibly 6 of the best. In fact let's do this now, bend end over Urchin, this is for your benefit, not mine. It's high time you learned about the value of integrity, about showing gratitute and delivering your honour. And believe me this going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you. Creditability, that is what is at stake here. Do you want to go through life with people thinking that you are nothing more than a shifty, cheeky, cockney con artist. Do you intend to carry on taking food from people's mouths without the merest hint of thanks? Do you want to continue with this project that known universally as Where's My Pork Chop?

No sir. No sir. Yes sir.

Then assume the position and after each subjugation, repeat after me "Never again, will I take 6 weeks to write up a WMPC post"

*THWACK!*

Never again, will I take 6 weeks to write up a WMPC post!

*THWACK!*

Never again, will I take 6 weeks to write up a WMPC post!

*THWACK!*

Never again, will I take 6 weeks to write up a WMPC post!

*THWACK!*

Never again, will I take 6 weeks to write up a WMPC post!

*THWACK!*

Never again, will I take 6 weeks to write up a WMPC post!

*THWACK!*

Never again, will I take 6 weeks to write up a WMPC post.................sir?

Yes boy?

Can I have one more please?

And we're back in the room.

Yes I am so sorry Claire of Green Onions and the much celebrated Shacklewell Nights, it really has been remiss of me to dawdle getting your contribution written up. When it comes to this blogging malarky, regularity and consistency has never been my strongest forté. In fact I don't really know what my forté is. Eating, yes that's my forté and it was well worth making the journey to deepest East Laaandan to meet you and have a chat, albeit a brief, freezing one under the purple bridge at Hackney Central on a particularly grey November day. And of course it was great to sample your delicious food, which was so plentiful that even my beaming colleage got to try some later that evening. Your pumpkin and sage soup, which I actually had for lunch after meeting you, was velvety and comforting and warmed me straight through. It was just the ticket after that arduous bus journey back to the office, shivering on the top deck, muttering to myself that I could have shuffled back on my arse cheeks on the pavements from Hackney and got into Barbican quicker. Speaking of cheeks, your braised ox cheeks were immense, they simply melted in the mouth and were so so good. Your creamed swede mash, luxurious and sweet along with pearl barley and tender celeriac, all amounted to real stick to yer ribs, honest home cooking and it was beeeeyootiful. Like I said, for my work mate, it was like Christmas had come early, although thankfully he didn't quite understand where I got the food from (I can be very vague at times). So thankfully, the whole WMPC thing is still under wraps, kinda. And to finish with your frangipane fig tart, well that was the cherry on top. Or should that actually be fig? Light and not too cloying, it was the perfect ending and an excellent digestive aid after eating all that meat.

Thanks again Claire, I hope the wine went down equally well and I hope to get to Shacklewell Nights soon x

Pumpkin Soup

Braised Ox Cheek with Creamed Swede and Braised Root Vegetables in Pearl Barley (with Greens)

Fig and Almond Tart

The Young Ones

2010-11-29T12:00:00.000-08:00

Looking back, as I often do, it's quite amazing that after my tenure as an undergraduate at the prestigious University of Northamptonshire (formally Nene College) that I actually came out alive. A typically overwrought statement I know but seriously, money was very thin on the ground and I could barely afford to feed myself. I certainly dropped a couple of dress sizes I can tell you that. And when I did eat it was hardly ever nutritious let alone appetising. Cottage pies were often the order of the day, deconstructed cottage pies that is. Take one can of corned beef, mush up with various boiled grubby vegetables in a roasting tin, add a jug of Bisto gravy, blend until a slurry like texture is achieved, top with mashed potatoes, bake and eat at an ironing board substituting as a table. Very grim. I did once elevate the humble pie to another level though. I took one one of Fray Bentos finest and placed it in said roasting tin (my main piece of kitchen equipment) covered the abomination with more tinned stewing steak and sealed everything in with a Just-Rol puff pastry crust. A pie within a pie you could say and oh so post-modernist, ha ha ha! But that was probably the limit of my culinary creativity whilst at college. Otherwise my diet largely consisted of moribund fish fingers and watery beans on toast bought from the Netto down the road for threepence. Although this strict budgetary regime often left me hungry, it did at least leave me with more than enough spare cash to spend on alcohol and partying, the raison d'être for all students surely?

*Ruefully ponders the fact that he also came out of uni with no degree*

No, I really should have spent my money (and time) more wisely. On books, at lectures and in the library, that would have been a good start. And perhaps if I had headed towards the markets and stuck my nose in the bargain bins at the supermarkets or even struck up an uneasy relationship with the butcher, just concentrated on feeding myself properly then perhaps my brain would have cottoned onto the fact that this was one of most important times in my life. Instead I ran around like an idiot with a traffic cone on my head for three years. If I had my time again, I would certainly do it differently and maybe take a leaf out of Eve's book. Her remit is to cook decent meals, get those vitamins in and make ethical choices when buying food. All within a tight budget. Eve writes Apples for Eve by the way and she is currently studying English Literature in London.

Yes, I am pilfering WMPC dinners from poor students.

*Hangs head in shame for second time in a post*

I met Eve ages ago and this post is way past it's submission date so apologies for that. If was to be honest when I started writing this piece, it went off on a tangent rallying against the injustices of soaring university fees, talking about the recent demonstrations and subsequent riots but I never intended this blog to be overtly political in anyway. However if anyone is interested in my idea to set up a pop-up tea and cake stall inside a 'kettle', please do get in touch. So yes I met Eve on a sunny morning in October outside Liverpool Street. She was late and I thought 'ah stereotypical student' but then I spotted Eve wheeling her bike across the concourse waving with grease marked hands. She said that her chain had slipped which brought up memories of all those other old chestnuts. Ha yes "the dog ate my homework" and "I twisted my ankle". A likely story indeed. But then I realised I was projecting and decided to forgive her. We had a good chat actually, about her studies, life in London, the social scene, her plans for the future and before long I was starting to feel quite jealous of it all so I changed tact and began to brag about my blogging exploits. This didn't last long though for fear that I was projecting again and revealing myself to be a colossal prick so we switched to common denominator of food. Eve was fairly principled as you would expect from someone her age (oh my God, I do sound like a colossal prick!) Shop local and buy local produce, think organic, think seasonal, eat healthy etc etc. However Eve was also realistic about the expectations of living on a budget and was keen to highlight that some of the student cookbooks and guides out there, in her opinion at least, didn't reflect this. Which is why she started her blog. Like I said it was great to spend 10 mins chatting away with a complete stranger and I hope Eve got smashed out of her head on the bottle of red I gave her. Because I would have done at her age (I suspect she didn't)

So what did Eve give me in return? Well she certainly showed that you can still enjoy a good feast whilst watching the pennies with Homemade Soda Bread, Chickpea and Spinach Salad, (ingredients from Ridley Road Market, Dalston), Hummus and Bean Shoots (bought from Broadway Market), Pear and Stilton Tart (pears from a friend's garden) and Brownie with Raspberry Sauce (Eve freely admits that she got the ingredients for this dessert from Tescos). It was all hugely impressive and an absolute far cry from my efforts. Her soda bread was deliciously dense and crumbly which soaked up the warm nutty hummus. The chickpea salad was punchy in flavour and colourful to the eye and Eve's stilton tart was really was good. The salty, creamy textures of the cheese combined with sweet juicy pear made for good bedfellows, well worth the poach. The highlight though was Eve's chewy, chocolatey brownies set off against a sharp, vivid raspberry sauce. Fantastic. As in the past, I often take WMPC contributions home to share but not these brownies. Don't tell the wife though. Or the kids. Especially the kids. They've got to start learning things the hard way, the way their idiot Father should have done in the first place.

Thanks Eve.

Student Feast

Brownies with Raspberry Sauce

The Menu

Daisy Does Dinner for Kavey

2010-10-14T11:02:00.000-07:00

I've known Danny for a long time. Not long enough to have seen him with hair, obviously. But long enough that he wasn't yet the Food Urchin when we first encountered each other, online. He was Toady Dan, on the BBC's online food chat forum.

It's worrying isn't it?

I mean it's one thing letting a Food Urchin make you dinner. But quite another taking food from a toad!

Luckily, for reasons that have almost (but not quite) faded into the mists of time, I've known this sweet, egg-headed Essex lad as Daisy since the first time we met in person. And saying that "Daisy's Doing Dinner Tonight" has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

I was one of the first to sign up to his Where's My Pork Chop (though not the first to get around to actually doing it, by a long shot). I roped Pete in to help and we made some shahi paneer, egg curry and basmati rice and I threw in a box of polychromatic Indian mithai (sweets) from my local Mahavir Sweet Mart. By his account, the effect of all that sugar was pretty psychedelic…

Now, Daisy did do a rather incredible imu, where he buried a headless lamb in his back garden, with fire, for many hours. And proceeded to feed an entire army of WMPCers!

But, I wanted a proper Reverse Where's My Pork Chop, usually abbreviated (with no explanation for the odd capitalisation) to rWMPC.

After a little badgering, Daisy gave in. At around the same time, he was talking on twitter about getting his hands on some game birds. I demanded Magpie Pie. Not because I have any particular desire to eat magpie, or even know whether it's a bird that is considered to be good eating. But for no other reason than that the name tickled my silly bone. Magpie Pie! Magpie Pie! Magpie Pie!

In the end, Daisy didn't get his hands on any magpies and we both needed to defer the date which is how we suddenly found ourselves agreeing to schedule for my birthday, at the end of September. So what did he conjure up for me to celebrate my 21st again again again… ?

To start, we enjoyed a smooth, creamy cauliflower and blue cheese soup. Daisy had also lightly pickled some mixed fruit and vegetables for dropping into the soup as a garnish. The soup was delicious and I really liked the juicy little cubes of flavour provided by the pickle.

This was followed by a duck hash, greens and mushrooms and a fried duck egg each. We couldn't get the duck hash to form any solid shape, so it doesn't look gorgeous on the plate, but it tasted lovely, especially with the rich duck egg yolk mixed through it.

The highlight of the meal for me was the beautiful pear tart tatin, made from his own produce too! We served it with some posh ready-made fresh custard and it was just the ticket. Best of all, having stuffed ourselves with the Tasting Menu at Launceston Place for lunch, and off to Dorset for the Meemalee's Kitchen Burmese Popup the next day, we realised we couldn't finish it all so there's more than half a tart left in the freezer!

Oh and what did I swap for the lovely meal above? I met Daisy in China Town late morning and introduced him to dim sum. I was very good and only had a bite of each dish but as I love feeding people, was gratified to watch Daisy munching through lots of dim sum delicacies, including his first chicken feet!

PS I really wanted to call this post Daisy Does Dallas, just because… but it made no sense, so I had to resist. I had a happy 2 minutes coming up with all kinds of Daisy porn titles like Daisy Does Deep Throat and Daisy Fucks A Duck but, you know, that'd make this NSFW. Oh wait, now the post is NSFW. Oops

A wonderful warm review Kavey, thank you. I am glad you enjoyed your birthday supper. The duck recipe was lifted from Mr Mark Hix's new book, Hix Oyster and Chop House. I couldn't get it form any solid shape either. That's your fault Mr Mark Hix.

But what the fluff is this fuck a duck porn business at the end? Eh? EH!? I didn't realise you had such a potty mouth. Or do you suffer from Tourette's?

PS Mrs FU was most dismayed to find out that I was giving the whole tarte tatin away. So much so that she punched me in the mouth and I had to make another one.

Never Ever Give Up Your Staff Discount Card

2010-10-11T13:04:00.000-07:00

Back in the summer whilst idly slouching on the sofa in my pants, watching the box and repeatedly shoving fistfuls of twiglets into my mouth (hey that's how I like to relax), I got a text from my brother-in-law. It simply said 'Dan are you watching MasterChef? Fucking Sliney is on it!' Now please forgive an expletive so early in the post but you have to understand, my brother-in-law was making a powerful statement here. To explain further, you also have to understand who Sliney is. At the risk of enlarging his already bulbous head, Sliney was the enforcer on the rugby team that I used to be in. During the heat of a match, he would often come flying in from out of nowhere should there be the merest hint of a fracas. I think he preferred fighting to rugby. A wild card and a crude man but he was also viciously funny. So you can imagine my reaction when I did switch over and spotted this huge brute quietly explaining his delicate duck starter to Torode and Wallace.

"Fuck me Sliney is on MasterChef!" I shouted, springing to my feet, spitting twiglets everywhere.

It really didn't make any sense, past just didn't marry up to present. I had witnessed this man carry out numerous unmentionables and pranks (what goes on rugby tour, stays on rugby tour) and there he was fretting over presenting his rack of lamb, handling it as if it were some precious newborn. Weird, very weird. So shortly after, I engaged in some email conversation with him. To cut a long story short, Sliney simply went onto MasterChef to push his cooking further (who ever knew that enjoyed cooking in the first place). Over the years he had gone through many different jobs but underlying throughout, he always had strong passion for food (again, who knew!) and wanted to pop his head over the parapet to see if he could take it somewhere. And I can totally appreciate that because it's something that I am trying to do with my food writing, although my arrow is slightly aimless. I haven't been in touch with the big man since but I hope he is plugging away and that one day, I'll find out that he's opened his own restaurant somewhere. I sincerely believe that it is possible to turn things around as long as you work hard at it. This link is tenuous at best but when I met Neil of The Lambshank Redemption for a WMPC swap, after having a chat with him at Dose coffee shop near Smithfield, his story is testimony to all of this. Of course I am not saying for a second that Neil has ever shat in a pint glass, waved his willy at French policemen or ate a can of Whiskas in under a minute. I am just saying that in his pursuit to become a full-time freelance writer, like Sliney he has undertaken a fair few jobs along the way. And quite possibly, Neil could have played loosehead prop at some point.

In his own words Neil's CV is "fucking hilarious" having made transitions from private banking to cheese monger to events organising at Albert Hall, all fairly disparate you might say with some years out in the wilderness building a reputation as a writer. His scary tales of securing positions at publication houses, only to discover shortly after that the whole deck is about to collapse gave a great insight into the industry. However, after 10 years of plowing on through stormy and calm seas alike, Neil now seems to be in the enviable position of getting the sweet stuff. I follow a few freelance writers on Twitter but I have to say that Neil is one of the more annoying ones. Forever advertising the hardship of driving around the Highlands in Bentleys, sampling whiskey or having to fly off 'somewhere', well it can all get rather grating. But I forgive Neil because I really like his humorous, cynical style of prose and plus there's the fact that he originally hails from Harold Wood and is therefore a true Son of Essex. Even better is that we shall soon be venturing on a Pie and Mashcapade together, a trawl around some of London's finest cockney cafes to sample as much gluey potato and unidentifiable, fetid mince as possible. All smothered in a palid green liquor, laaaverly. I shall be stumping up for a few pots of eels in return for the sumptuous feast that Neil provided.

The bag that Neil handed over was fairly weighty and as he did so he explained with twinkle in his eye that he enjoyed large portions. Which probably raised an eyebrow or two in the close confines of the small coffee shop in which we sat but I was oblivious to this as I peered in and immediately got a waft of cheese. For my supper, Neil announced that I was having some the haddock chowder he enjoyed the previous night along with a special chocolate rice pudding. The piece de resistance though was a fine selection of cheese. Yes his career in cheesemongeryness may be far behind him but Neil has still managed to keep hold of his Neal's Yard staff discount card. And to be fair why would you ever relinquish that? Another quiet night in the office meant that yet another WMPC would have to be enjoyed at home but that's never any skin of my nose. Give me that to working until four in the morning any day of the week. Neil's chowder was certainly substantial and packed with flavour with lovely chunks of pepper, sweetcorn and slithers of salty bacon. It was probably more dense than any chowder that I've tried before but I wasn't complaining and I really appreciated the peppery undertones, Neil's seasoning was perfectly balanced against the rich, creaminess of the dish. I also liked the way he created a twist on rice pudding, adding a bit of Terry's chocolate orange magic to the mix by melting a whole chocolate orange or by using an orange liqueur, I'm not entirely sure. It was very good either way but perhaps a bit too much after the very filling chowder. In fact, I was fit to bust and had to leave the cheese till the next day but ensured that I got it out of the fridge nice and early to breathe in time for lunch. Neil's selection - Ardrahan, Kirkhams Lancashire, Tunworth, Colston Basset, Red Leicester and a goats cheese which he told me the name of but forgot to make a note - was fantastic. All quite individual in character with their own qualities, I can safely say that I enjoyed all of them. Well OK the runny, gloopy, funky, pungent Tunworth was my favourite but even the Red Leicester was great. I find the supermarket variants of this cheese can be fairly bland but the one that Neil chose was lovely and strong. Cheesy heaven.

Thanks again Neil, I'm looking forward to our forthcoming Pie and Mashcapade.

The Stash

Neil's Haddock, Bacon and Sweetcorn Chowder

Close Up

Chocolate Rice Pudding

CHEEEEEESE!

GCSE Spanswegian?

2010-10-03T11:03:00.000-07:00

To this day, I still don't know why she did it. And to be honest, I don't why I agreed to her proposal. I think it was the discreet tap on the shoulder and the whisper to stay behind. Although fairly plain in looks with lanky greasy hair, she still carried off a certain gamine charm with her big brown eyes and button nose so for this pubescent freckle faced boy, the whole arrangement was spiked with frisson. With the class finally empty, she beckoned me to come over as she sat perched on top of her desk, legs crossed and angled to one side. Slowly, I edged over from the far corner of the room and stood, motionless in front of her. I was so close that I could smell stale coffee on her breath. The transaction could have only taken a minute or two but I distinctly remember walking out of the class room into the heaving throng of a school corridor at home time, flushed and heady from what had just happened. The French supply teacher was probably only at Forest Lodge Secondary School for about 3 months and you know what, I can't even remember her name but what had just occurred would have an impact on me for the rest of my life. I definitely remember sitting in the gymnasium a few months later, sitting there, staring at the paper and then staring at the clock and then staring at the paper again, thinking "why the hell did I listen to that French bitch? Why did I agree to take the higher levels? My god, what have I written down here?! It makes no sense! Oh shit, time is running out, oh shit! Why? Why?!"

I ended up with a grade F for my French GCSE and the whole episode has left me with a total distrust of grubby, waif-like, sexy gallic women. Audrey Tatou? Phwoor but non! She would date you, make mad passionate love to you but then go on to mentally screwing you up for her own perverse amusement. Embittered? Moi? Non, je ne regrette rien.

Which is a lie because I would really love to have a second language that I could casually and fluently slip into. When abroad, I hate that squirm of embarrassment in the pit of my stomach as I desperately flounder about the place before launching into barking and gesticulating mode. As such I am always in awe when I witness someone move from their mother tongue to a completely different one with no effort at all. Rachel of Catalan Cooking and erstwhile partner in crime does this all the time. Except she speaks Glaswegian AND Spanish and when I met her for a WMPC swap at Moo Grill some moons ago, the brain did go into meltdown at times as we conversed over a big juicy lomito. Try imagining holding two phrasebooks up at the same time, manically juggling the pair and flicking through the pages, eyes and ears jumping all over the place, lip reading, trying to make sense of what was being communicated and you'll get a sense of my inner turmoil. To be fair on myself (and to Rachel) when she in is full flow using her native burr, I can keep up quite well. My boss of 12 years is from East Kilbride so I am well attuned but Rachel, being the Catalonia obsessive that she is, will often start waxing lyrical about a recipe or story that is interjected with Spanish prose. At which point, I might as well stick my fingers in my ears and shout "la la la, I can't understand you, la la la, I'm not listening". More to the point, throughout our lunch, Rachel would often break off to utter something incomprehensible to the handsome Argentinian chap who runs the very cosy and affordable Moo Grill. This always unnerves me when people do that and I have to say when Rachel was pointing in my general direction and having a good ol' laugh with said chap who also started to point and laugh, it did irk me somewhat. Rachel after told me that was she was telling him of my exploits with lamb and holes in the ground but I don't believe her. Perhaps I should get off my arse, just try to learn a language and banish the memory of Mademoiselle Tordu altogether. I mean if an Argentinian can learn how to speak Spanish, how hard can it be?

Linguistic issues aside, it was great to meet up with Rachel as she's always prepared to give advice and a piece of her mind and she has a great sense of humour to boot but what did she come up with? Well somewhere, out there, is a poor little piggy who is wandering around with no feet as Rachel decided to introduce me to the Catalonian staple of trotters, one part of the animal that I had yet to try. There were 3 variations to sample, Trotters A La Catalan, Trotters Stuffed with Prunes and Plain Trotter, all prepared up to a point with some cooking to finish them off as well as some super concentrated pig stock. It was stipulated that the finishing part should be done at home and with a proper hob and oven. Try to do everything in a microwave and it will all turn to "pish and I'm nae having that" I was warned. By the time I got home that night, it was a little late to eat even by Spanish standards so I decided that I would rustle up the trotters for breakfast. So the next morning I set to business before work filling my kitchen up with delicious porcine smells. First up was the trotters catalan which were heated through in a vibrant orange carrot sauce and finished with picada stirred in, which is a blend of chopped hazelnuts, garlic and parsley fried with some of the sauce mixed together. Second was the trotter with stuffed prune which were to be sliced into rounds, fried and served up with a simple accompanying tomato sauce. And the third was the plain trotter wiped with some honey and roasted until crispy. And in terms of order of preference that's exactly how I favoured them. The trotter in the lairy orange sauce was beautiful and cut nicely through the glutinous flavour of the meat with a lovely nutty sweetness. I ended up drinking the remnants from the pan like soup which left me with a happy carrot moustache. The trotter with prune was a very close second with it's mixture of caramelised piggy crunchiness and soft textures within. Prune and pork made good bedfellows and the tomato sauce with some of a teaspoon of that thick stock blended in added just enough tartness to balance the flavours overall. The plain trotter was also nice but having smeared some honey on it, the tasting session was starting to err towards the saccharin end. I would be interested to see how trotter fares with more savoury or spicy flavours. The twins finished them off nevertheless (in fact they had a good dig in with everything).

Thit Rachel, thanks doll, tha's a great bit o' scran ya knocked up therr (as they say in Barcelona)

Trotters 3 ways (with extra super concentrated piggy stock)

Trotters A La Catalana

Trotters Stuffed with Prunes and Tomato Sauce

Roast Honey Trotter

They Walk Among Us

2010-09-22T00:21:00.000-07:00

The word 'foodie' it seems has many different connotations for different people. For some, the word gets right up their noses. They find it pretentious and elitist and anyone who labels themselves as such is deemed to a complacent knob-end with an overinflated sense of superiority. For some, it's the actual phrasing of the word itself with it's pronounced "-ee" at the end that winds them up. It all sounds far too cutesy, nauseating and precious. Witness Sophie Dahl self-proclaim that is she a 'foodie' and you might understand. However, for others it is just a simple way of defining yourself as someone who is interested in food. That you view it as a hobby, a passion, that you like to talk about food, write about food, cook food, photograph food. That you like to dine, entertain, eat in, eat out, explore, experiment and on the odd occasion, are willing to fail in your pursuits (or to have your pursuits fail you). Or you can think like me and believe that 'Foodies' are true believers of a higher culinary authority. When the time comes, we, the greedy but select chosen few will be whisked off in a great apple pie shaped spaceship just before the arrival of Galactus the planet devourer. I can tell you with absolute certainty, when he turns up all Earth will amount to is a mere patty of butter to be spread on a colossal slice of cosmic toast. Meanwhile, the 'Foodies' will bask for all eternity in the galaxy of Gluttonia, which is largely made from butter, anti-matter and marshmallow. I am a Foodie. This is what I believe.

But anyway going back to the meaning of the word, despite its varying resonance, I would say that it is a fairly generic term these days so for the rest of this post I shall continually refer to the word (can you guess that there's been a fair amount of hand wringing going on?)

Ever since writing this blog and my other one, I have been lucky enough to meet a fair number of people who share the same enthusiasm and as time goes past, more and more foodies seem to be coming out of the woodwork. The proliferation of new food blogs that are popping up daily and the growing interaction of foodies on social networking sites are testimony to this. A case in point is Clerkenwell Lunchers or #clerkenwelllunchers as you'll find it trending on Twitter. Via the idle chit chat of tweeting with folk announcing what they are up to for lunch in their area, a collective seems to have evolved out of nowhere. Well not exactly nowhere, out of Clerkenwell of course. Having discovered that they work quite close to each other, you now have a group of people who once a week actively plan a different lunch destination (our High Priest is The Grubworm) where they meet, eat, chat, laugh and be merry. How brilliant is that? It certainly beats sitting in the park on your todd with a lunchbox on your lap. There are other lunch clubs springing up I believe, such as #greenparklunchers and #cgardenlunchers. Which is all fine and dandy so long as they don't stray onto our turf, sparking off some ferocious gang war battle reminiscent of a scene from The Warriors. Except we'd use sharpened mangoes instead.

But what does this explosion really mean to me? Well it's simple, it means that there are more and more foodies out there that I can tap up to take part in WMPC and feed me. I am positively rubbing my hands with glee. Saying that though, upon coaxing a willing victim into my trap, it is strange to find out that they work around the corner from me. This is what happened when I met Mary of Did You Put Garlic? outside St John's Restaurant, just a stone's throw from my office for a food swap.

"Where do you work then?" I asked Mary

"Just a few doors up there" Mary replied, pointing.

I was gobsmacked and I stared back at her as if to say "why didn't you tell me this before?" even though her attendance at some of the Clerkenwell Lunchers get togethers should have suggested that she worked nearby. We only had a brief conversation on the street with Mary giving me the lowdown on her Maltese background, her impending nupituals and of the particular dish she had prepared for me but I have to be honest and say that my mind was on other things. Given the revelation that Mary was a foodie who worked so close to me, I began to wonder just how many where out there and just how could you tell? Mary's lips were moving but speech and sound slowly faded out to silence as my eyes began to dart up and down the street, focusing on passers-by. That old man walking his dog, does he keep charcuterie hanging on his balcony? That woman tottering across the road in high heels, is she into baking cupcakes or does she find them too twee? That young boy in the pram, does he throw a tantrum after his mother has lovingly prepared and served his dinner using an Annabel Karmel recipe? I hope he does. These were the thoughts running through my head when suddenly Mary coughed and announced that she really had to get back to her office. I just dumbly nodded and handed over a bottle of Torres Sangre de Toro in exchange for her contribution. As I watched her walk off, like a broken record I kept muttering to myself over and over again, "how many of us are there? How many?"

And then it hit me.

"My god! We're going to need a bigger ship!"

So what did Mary make for me and does she deserve to get on that apple pie shaped spaceship? Well given her heritage, her blog primarily centres on Maltese food and recipes which pleased me to no end as I have never tried Maltese before. Ha and I call myself a foodie. Her menu consisted of Laħam fuq il-fwar, Torta tat-Tamal and Cisk. Or for the unitiated, Steamed Meat, Date Pastry and Maltese Beer called "Cisk". Mary also provided some very healthy steamed broccoli, cauliflower and Chantenay carrots with hazelnut mash. The steamed meat or Laħam fuq il-fwar sounds like a very efficient and economical dish to make. As most Maltese meals begin with soup, the meat for the main course is often cooked over a large pot as the broth bubbles away underneath. The meat itself is usually beef which has been thinly sliced and sandwiched between two plates, seasoned with garlic and herbs and placed on top on the pot (see I was listening Mary). This sounded amazing and indeed it was, even after reheating in the microwave, the steak was wonderfully tender. Mary had also been very generous with her toppings of parsley and bacon but maybe a little too generous with the garlic but hey, given the name of her blog, I suppose it was to be expected. Mrs FU asked me not to breathe in her general direction in bed that night. The vegetables like I said were very healthy and still had a firm bite, there's nothing worse than soft, boiled beyond submission carrots. The hazelnut mash was a bit of a delicious surprise actually. There are plenty of ways of livening up your Maris Piper but with nuts, well that seemed unusual to me but Mary's mash with just a subtle kick tasted gorgeous. Unfortunately her date pastry didn't fare so well as it was a little bit too dry for my liking. The flavours of clove, aniseed and orange blossom came through well but overall, it did clog up my mouth somewhat. Thank gawd then for the Cisk Maltese Beer she gave me (and by all accounts saved from the clutches of her boss). This beer was really refreshing with lovely floral undertones, quite unusual for a lager really. Now that I know where she works, I shall be putting my orders in. I mean how hard can it be carting a case load over from a small island in the Med? Though after my dissing of her pastry she may feel inclined to throw a full can at my head.

Thanks though Mary, it really was a great WMPC contribution and you certainly have won the right to be on that spaceship.

Laħam fuq il-fwar (Steamed Meat with Steam Vegetables and Hazlenut Mash)

Torta tat-Tamal (Date Pastry with Clove, Aniseed and Orange Blossom Water)

The very refreshing Cisk (posing with empty can the next day)

I AM COMING TO GET YOU! HAHAHAHA!

2010-08-15T09:00:00.000-07:00

Feign a passing interest in taking part in Where's My Pork Chop? at your peril.

That's all I have to say on the matter.

Because if you do, I will slowly but surely grind you down. I will become the devil on your shoulder whispering into your ear, the kid whining in the back of the car "are we nearly there yet?", Mrs Doyle incarnate, repeating "go'waan, go'waan, go'waan, go'waan, go'waan, go'waan, go'waan, go'waan, go'waan, go'waan, go'waan" ad infinitum until your knees buckle, you wet your knickers and with clumps of hair in your hands, you scream "I'll do it! I'll do it! I'll do it"

And that is exactly what happened to Señorita Thomasina Miers when she asked me on Twitter, many, many months ago, the question 'what the hell is WMPC?'

Well OK, not quite. I made up the whole fainting, seat wetting, hair pulling scenario but when Tommi (as she known to her BFF's) made the enquiry way back, she might not have been prepared for the barrage of direct messages that came back her way. I don't know why but very quickly, she went mysteriously silent on me. Perhaps I shouldn't have said that I would love her forever and ever and ever and ever if she took part. So I decided to change tack, drop the guise of manic possessive stalker and go for the gentle nudging approach. And it seemed to work as Tommi kept popping her head in on Twitter, saying that she would love to take part but her schedule was really really hectic. Still I knew I had her hooked. I was like the scab that you just can't resist picking but the question was how could I make a food swap actually happen.

Luckily a chance came up when I was invited to a secret supper at The Dock Kitchen where Tommi was cooking alongside Stevie Parle. I remember at the start of the evening, walking in and grinning like a loon at Tommi, practically pointing at myself, going 'look it's me! it's me!' but she was far too busy to notice. At the end of the evening and after a sumptuous feast which included a variety of starters (the broad bean and morcilla salad was amazing), Ajo Blanco, Wild Sea Trout with Mexican Salsa and Cherry Clafoutis, I spotted an opportunity and bounded over to her. Unfortunately I had also drunk rather a lot of wine by then and doubt that I made much any sense, slurring that I was the guy from WMPC and that we really should arrange a swap. I like to think that from staring into my cookie monster eyes, Tommi could see that I really was just a gentle, harmless soul. So smiling back at me, she said that "yes we should definitely do something Danny". With this news, I simply hugged her and waltzed out into the night, happy that my mission was very nearly accomplished. I wasn't so happy to wake up in Bas Vagas later that night but that is a different story.

True to her word, an email bounced into my account the next day that I should liaise with her assistant and we'd do lunch at her restaurant, Wahaca. Now this was slightly out of remit, given that the whole WMPC ethos is about providing a meal for me when I am on my late shift at work but I thought what the hell, Tommi is still going to feed me, again in fact! The lunch date did get pushed back a few times because as she said, she is a very busy girl. And all of this didn't bother me too much until I discovered on one occasion that she had to cancel because she was out in Baja, eating, sampling, tasting and soaking up the sun. Which when you think about it, was rather cheeky really. There I am, wasting away and Tommi is living it up, stuffing her mouth with Mexican food all in the name of research. When the time for our lunch date finally came around a couple of weeks ago, I decided that I would give her a piece of my mind. But as I walked past the huge queue on the stairs of Wahaca, leapfrogging to the front and announcing my arrival, I soon realised that I was the brazen one.

Wahaca was packed to the rafters that afternoon and as I sat alone at a table, I did feel a bit stupid trying to take a few snaps with my camera. With a partner or en masse, it's fine but when you're on your tod, it felt really bizarre so I took to chugging away on a Corona whilst nonchalantly scanning the menu. Señorita Miers soon came to the rescue, breezing in and relieving me of billy-no-mates status. After ordering for the pair of us, we settled down to a good old chin wag. We covered a lot of ground. Talking about anything and everything, be it the elimination of the human race for the greater good of the planet, which we both agreed was rather a depressing subject for a Friday afternoon, to the somewhat lighter subject of dancing in muddy fields with wellies. She was utterly charming with a great self depreciating sense of humour, which shouldn't really come as a surprise. It's funny but when meeting someone with a high profile you tend to turn up with negative expectations but at the end of the day, we're all the same and Tommi was certainly down to earth. I suspect that I've played the 'don't you know who I am' card more often Tommi. Never goes down well in my local though. I particularly liked the fact that she was open to criticism and acknowledged that there was always room for improvement. She even admitted that her tortillas could be better and had been working hard to source a more authentic variety (and succeeded by the sounds of it).

Speaking of which, as we chatted away plates of food were piled onto the table consisting of Pork Pibil Tacos, Shrimp and Scallop Ceviche Tostadas, Broad Bean and Feta Quesadillas, Potato Taquitos, Guacamole, Frijoles and a Green Salad. All to be washed down with Agua Frescas or Hibiscus water plainly put. And it was all lovely, especially the ceviche which was refreshing and spicy hot at the same time. The broad bean quesadillas were great too, a light and healthy take on a dish that can sometimes can be a little too greasy. The potato taquitos were slightly odd as the combination amounted to a bit of a carb overload for me personally but the frijoles (refried beans) were gorgeous, rich and almost dark chocolate in flavour. Throughout, I did try to remember to take photos but concentrated more on the eating part, falling foul of Tommi's only bug bear about bloggers taking crap photos of food and then posting them willy nilly. Looking back through the pics I took, it seems that my technique generally consisted of shoveling a juicy and fiery pork pibil taco in my mouth and then taking a photo of an empty plate thus demonstrating Tommi's point.

As we finished up with some very naughty churros with melted chocolate, the topic of conversation then turned to how was I going to settle up on the agreement of giving something back for getting fed. With a mouthful of sweet doughnut, I stared back at Tommi trying to fathom exactly how I got into this position of getting a free meal. Strangely, the whole WMPC deal of this little adventure sort of left my mind so I stammered back that I would gladly come back one evening to do the dishes. Thankfully Tommi wouldn't have any of it and suggested that some allotment produce might be suitable payment and that she would even try to think up a recipe with what I give her.

See what I mean? She really is a lovely lady. Thanks again Tommi, I shall be popping by this week with a box of goodies for you.

Wahaca

Le Menu

Busy, busy, busy

Shrimp and Scallop Ceviche Tostadas

Stalker alert!

Security!

Fuss Free Shopping?

2010-07-28T13:00:00.000-07:00

Oh shopping for food used to be such fun. Hand in hand we used to go skipping down the aisle, flinging whatever took our fancy into the trolley, laughing gaily at each other. Smoked salmon for breakfast tomorrow? Yeah why not. Ha ha ha. Oh look at those rib-eye steaks. Yes, those two please, yes the big ones. Ho ho ho. Champagne? Oh sod it, it's the weekend! HAHAHA! Total exuberant abandonment. And we never really had to rush so along the way we could take actually take time to smell and grope fruit, sample and taste cheeses and make lascivious comments about freshly baked baguettes. OK, shopping in Sainsburys on a Friday night may not be everyone's idea of foreplay but no matter, food is certainly conducive to arousing erm states of passion. Sometimes the shopping bags never left the hallway.

There are consequences though when you submit yourself to pleasures of wanton indulgence, wallowing in food, drink and lust. For us they came in the form of two little bundles of joy. A beautiful boy and a gorgeous girl who have brought so much happiness into our lives that it's impossible to describe. Yes, aw bless but let me just say that these terrific creatures have also mugged us of money, time and energy and when you have children, young children in particular, the food shopping experience is never the same. Friday nights (or Saturday mornings mainly) are now rather fraught affairs. The list is prepared and accounts for only the essentials. The car is parked and each child is plonked into a trolley, one already agitated because Upsy Daisy has been dropped onto the floor. We both run through the doors and then separate, knowing that we only have a small window of opportunity before all hell breaks loose. I cover meat and dairy, my wife covers fruit and vegetables. We meet back at the tinned goods aisle. For a second, I take my eye off the ball looking at some Merchant Gourmet Dried Porcini and then I hear a crash. My son has pulled a whole tray of baked beans from off the shelf. My wife, clutching an armful of tinned tomatoes, shouts at me for not keeping an eye on what he's doing. What she hasn't noticed however is that my daughter who has been chewing on a packet of spaghetti, has split the packet and has been emptying straws into pretty patterns on the floor. So I shout back. Which in turn starts both children crying. And there's nothing worse than a child screaming in a supermarket. So I dash to the bakery aisle, grab a loaf of Soreen, rip the packet apart, take fistfuls of malty dough and shove them into the twin's hands. The rest of the shop is done double quick time, knowing that once the Soreen is done, repetitive demands of "Ineesomemore, Ineesomemore" will build into a crescendo of screaming and I'll have to grin inanely at the old lady who frowns and tuts as she walks past. Because if I didn't, I would have to punch her in the face.

All in all then shopping for food has become quite a stressful experience and it's one task that I generally do by myself these days. And that's still quite a difficult one to juggle given the time constraints surrounding work commitments and other chores around the house, the allotment, time for hiding in shed etc etc. And plus there is also the added factor of having to shop on a budget. So what can I do to make life easier for myself? Well if I were to listen to Helen from Fuss Free Flavours then by all accounts I should really try to find out if there are any food co-ops in my area. Like really really try. To say that Helen is passionate about food co-ops is an understatement. I met Helen again quite recently (this was long after she actually gave me my WMPC dinner I should say, slack posting strikes again) and I was quite taken aback by her fiery rhetoric with fists slamming down on tables. "I don't remember Helen being like this" I thought to myself but then again we did have a fair bit to drink at Bob Bob Ricard that night.

So what is all the fuss about about then? And why is Helen who by definition writes a blog that contains fuss free recipes getting so fussed up? I mean, what the fuss? Well the concept of a food co-op is very simple. A group or collective gets together and pools their combined buying power to make bulk purchases of food from suppliers and then via a box scheme or from stalls run at schools, churches etc, fruit, vegetables and other goods are then distributed back out to the community. All at a fraction of the cost that you would expect to shell out at the supermarket. The produce is usually standard grade, no organic, bio dynamic frippery here but it is fresh, affordable and accessible. Helen's mantra is that simple good food like this should be available to everybody and as I said, a large proportion of the recipes on her blog are created from her weekly box which she gets from her local food co-op in West London. With vegetable and fruit laden boxes costing £3 each a week, the concept is certainly attractive especially when you consider a family box from Riverford or Abel and Co costs between £17 and £20 (yes, ok it's organic). Of course the rub is when I looked on the Sustain website, my local co-op was 15 miles away across the river. And I don't own a boat. There is always the prospect of starting one up in my area myself but again, I really don't have the time and plus I really like hiding in my shed. However, it is a very laudable scheme and certainly benefits many people, families in particular who struggle to make ends meet. If a food co-op did spring up in my area then I would definitely use it.

So what did Helen make for me from her box of delectable goodies? Well Helen did say when we met for the exchange that she had felt fairly cooked out from the previous days exertion of feeding Messrs Torode and Wallace so had opted for a simple meal of Flaked Smoked and Tinned Mackerel, Roast Baby Potatoes with Capers and Olives and Rocket Salad with Parmesan and Tomatoes, followed by Lime and Elderflower Posset. Oh and she threw in some of her homemade Elderflower Cordial. Yeah, like I said, she really couldn't be that fussed to cook. Yeah right. It had been a rather warm day so it was nice to finish work early for a change and dine out on my patio when I got home and equally, this light supper was just the ticket. The mackerel was nice and delicate with just a smidgen of mayo and some chopped chives. The salty slivers of parmesan contrasted well with the salad that had been neatly dressed in balsamic vinegar and her potatoes were very nice indeed. I love a caper but never thought about tossing some throwing them in with spuds for a tangy, piquant kick. The posset was good but may have suffered a bit from travelling, jogging around in my backpack on a sweaty train. The cream had started to separate but I wolfed it nevertheless and got the subtle lime flavour. And finally Helen's cordial was very freshening to wash everything down. I am definitely going to have a crack at Elderflower cordial next year. And vodka, most probably. And for this exchange, all Helen would take from me is a paltry tomato juice in the pub but I like to think that my conversation was riveting and entertaining enough to warrant cooking for me. She only yawned once.

Thanks again Helen, keep up the crusade and get the message out there.

Flaked Smoked and Tinned Mackerel, Roast Baby Potatoes with Capers and Olives and Rocket Salad with Parmesan and Tomatoes

Great eating on a summers evening

Posset, whyst did thou split on me?

And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire

2010-07-08T13:16:00.000-07:00

You know when you've been out on the razz with the lads and consumed half your body weight in beer and spirits, smoked 40 Rothmans, eaten 12 packets of pork scratchings, laughed, jeered and snogged each other and rolled around on the floor and then been kicked out of the pub not for fighting but for suggesting that Wendy Richards (RIP) is prettier than the barmaid after which you'll make your way home, falling through numerous hedges on the way and then narrowly escape arrest for swinging from a lamppost. Yeah you know when that happens..............ok you might not but I do have to ask, why oh why does the curry house at that point seem so appealing. Actually that is a silly question. Of course it's going to be appealing. You're starving but you're drunker than 10 sailors who've taken on Ollie Reed (RIP) in a drinking competition and the Raj of India is the only option available because they're the only ones, bless them, who will take you in. No the bigger question is why oh why when surrounded by your mates, do you suggest with drunken bravado that we should go for the hottest things on the menu?

Why?

Because the male mind, thick, languid and blotted with alcohol cannot make reasoned choices and when goaded will happily decide that a phaal is the perfect end to a night out. Created in response to years of abuse from small minded pissed up oiks, the phaal really is a ridiculous dish that will leave you red-faced, sweating, crying with streams of snot running from your nose. Your mouth feels like someone has poured molten lava into it and that a brigade of fire ants are exercising their mandibles on your tongue and no amount of Kingfisher, water or sugar will douse the flames. Worse still, in the morning the pain will revisit but at the other end as you go through your ablutions on the porcelain throne, eyes closed, teeth clenched. If the Spanish Inqusition had the phaal at their disposal, then surely it would have been preferred tool for extracting confession over the red hot poker. After some very dainty wipes and a hurried telephone conversation to your protocologist, you swear later that you will never ever ever do that to yourself again. And I haven't. Not since my single days anyway. I have matured, I know better. But every now and then, the 'ring sting' echo of the past comes back to haunt me. And a certain young man going by the name of Nick and who writes Lost In The Larder was responsible for the most recent one.

Having reread that last sentence, I think I should just clear up that it was Nick's Cochinita Pibil Tacos that caused the last episode, nothing more, nothing less.........filthy gits.

I met Nick a few weeks ago now. He was coming up from his native Bournemouth into the big smoke to collect a huge stash of magazines and to attend a symposium organized by some Danish butter manufacturer. This could be considered as slightly odd behaviour but I was happy to meet Nick again as we had bonded at Bloke's Eat Beef and ever since then he had been eager to take part in WMPC. Nick was over an hour late getting to the arranged meeting point that day but given he that had to drive all the way from Dorset and make his way into Wimbledon before coming into town and was feeding me to boot, I forgave him (do it again though Nick, in the immortal words of Rory Breaker "I'll kill ya!") So we ambled around to Smiths of Smithfield for some brunch (club sandwich) and chat and after a short while it soon became clear that this guy was very passionate about food. Displaying a thorough knowledge of the produce available in his area, Nick earmarked local farms, shops, restaurants and deli's with great enthusiasm and reverence. You know how it goes in conversation when you often want to respond in kind to a subject, I have to say I started to feel like a dork and a fraud. What the bloody hell do I know about stuff grown, sourced and produced in Essex? Not much, I soon realised as we talked further. Nick's main thrust then turned to setting up a network in Dorset similar to the strong food community that exists in London where people engage with producers and restaurateurs at events, eat and drink with each other and write up about it in blogs and the like to get the information out there. That was the reason why he had 100 magazines to collect, he was putting on an event in Poole centering around a screening of Food Inc and was picking them up for goodie bags. Of course it has since happened and was very successful by the sounds of it and at this point in the game I can only feel a personal sense of underachievement. In fact I am the tardy one here. Damn these young go getters is what I say. Hats off to Nick for what he's doing though, it's certainly admirable that someone is making great efforts to showcase local food in it's infinite variety outside the capital.

But what of his contribution is Where's My Pork Chop? And what the hell did he do to my bum?

Actually his Cochinita Pibil Tacos didn't really wreck that much havoc, the initial school boy theme of this post came from Nick's enquiry the next day when he asked did I suffer any side effects to my posterior, making me giggle and think about past misdemeanors. No his meal of traditional Yucatán tacos were indeed delicious. Constructed from 7 hour slow cooked Dorset pork, corn tortillas, shredded cabbage and radishes with a chilli salsa and pink onions and I savoured every last bite. The pork was wonderfully tender and sweet with strong tones of citrus which contrasted well against the chilli salsa. The salsa did have a decent kick to it but it wasn't up the top end of the scoville scale and I was grateful for that. The addition of the plain shredded white cabbage did seem unusual to me but for texture it worked well and the onions which I presume had been marinated in vinegar added a lovely tart flavour. All to be washed down with some chilled, freshing Mexican Modelo lager. By the way if you are thinking of participating in this project and think that I can be won over by some alcohol then you'd be right. If I was to be at all critical with Nick's dish, I would say that he could have done me a favour and drained off some of the juice from the meat as my shirt certainly got a good Pollocking. But then again, that's nothing new.

Thanks again Nick, for a fantastico contribution to WMPC. Keep us posted on further events down in Dorset.

Cochinita Pibil Tacos

Chilli Salsa

Succulent pork

Delicious combination of flavours

Will you respect me in the morning?

A Letter From Ameri......Ooooh No Aberdeen!

2010-06-09T03:25:00.000-07:00

When I was at university, I shared a house with a bunch of guys who were a great laugh but hygiene, food hygiene in particular, was not high on our list of priorities. We were absolute slobs. And the kitchen certainly rivalled the scene from Withnail and I - FORK IT! It's a wonder that I didn't contract e-coli or something like that. Or maybe I did but I would always put the galloping trots down to the horrible but cheap 'Graphite' cider we used to drink. Anyway, one of the guys, who for the purposes of anonymity shall be named Greg because that was his name, used to get a regular package from his parents every week. It would contain a letter, some cash, couple of Pot Noodles, a few sachets of Cup-A-Soups and a pair of clean pants. Which was sweet and endearing but the whole escapade used to baffle the hell out of me. Did his parents really think that those meagre dried and totally unhealthy rations would sustain him throughout the week? Did they really think he would spend the money on decent food? And why did Greg get a clean pair of pants once a week. What happened to the other pairs? Did he wear those pants for the whole week and then throw them away? I never did pluck up the courage to ask him. Not even after a couple bottles of that crap cider.

But why am I harping on about the past (yet again). Well not that long ago, say only about a month ago, well maybe longer, I received my very first WMPC contribution by post all the way from bonnie Scotland! This filled me with no end of excitement, largely because of all a sudden I could see this project going global. Yes, first Scotland, then Wales, maybe Ireland, Isle of Man? The sky was the limit now. I started thinking that perhaps I could start to expect packages from all over the world, containing strange and exotic foods such as Armadillo Roadkill from Texas, Crocodile Curry from Thailand or Mole Crickets from Mexico. I got all these perfectly postable suggestions from here by the way. OK maybe this is all a bit much to be asking for just yet but you never know what's on the horizon. And oh to be a blogger of international fame. Sure call me ambitious, call me big headed, call me vain, vapid and vacuous if you like but seriously to push WMPC onto the world stage, well it would be a dream come true. Sigh But let's come back down to humble beginnings and have a delve into the wonderful Celtic treasure trove that Lyndsay of White Wine In The City sent me. First a little bit of background.

I originally got in contact with Lyndsay via the magic of Twitter having got embroiled into some debate over Danny Dyer of all people. I still say he's a prick Lyndsay but anyway I detected a sniff of interest from her to participate in WMPC. People should really keep their guards up really because give me an inch and I'll take a mile. So we got into this email exchange where I soon discovered that beneath the hardened shell of an maintenance technician who works for an offshore oil company beats the heart of a passionate foodie By her own definition, Lyndsay is originally a Weegie who has moved up and settled down in the fair Granite City of Aberdeen which is far more than north than I have ever been. Actually the furthest I've got in Scotland has been the Trossachs and once you've been caught by the trossachs, you daren't go any further. I digress. Frustrated by the lack of a decent food scene in Aberdeen she began to develop a strange compulsion to look and paw at food blogs when she's supposed to be dieting for her wedding. And of course she started to write her own blog which, cooking and gardening experiments aside, displays a slavish devotion to fish fingers which I think is brilliant because I love them too.

So after just a couple of days corresponding, Lyndsay sent me a tweet saying "Therr's a wee boax a goodies on therr wey, ah hope they dinnae git foosty" and low and behold the postman came knocking on the door the next day with a box labelled FRAGILE and addressed to 'Mr Food Urchin and Family'. I was over the moon. As I opened it, a soft yellow hue shone outwards, lighting up my face and my ears filled with the sounds of bagpipes. Inside there contained -

A can of Irn Bru
A packet of Aberdeen Rolls aka Butteries
A roll of Charles Macleod Stornoway Black Pudding
A squat but perfectly formed little Macsween's Haggis
A patty of butter
Some raspberry jam
Two Gingerbreadmen
And a packet of Scottish Fudge

The real nice touch was the handwritten letter from Lyndsay, giving me a brief and funny overview of everything. I was particularly tickled by her tale of having worked with an American chap who used to regularly eat 6 butteries for breakfast and more with his fish and chips for lunch. Apparently he was also a rather large chap which is no surprise given Lyndsay's estimation that they contain roughly 2 million calories a bite. Essentially this was a traditional breakfast package and she recommended creating a stack of fried potato scone, fried haggis, fried black pudding and topped with a fried egg. All to be washed down with the Irn Bru. Now at this point, I don't want to cause a diplomatic incident by saying this but fucking hell is it no wonder that Scotland is the coronary capital of Europe?! Still I am always game for eating, however unhealthy it may all sound so a couple of days later I set about frying up a storm early one morning for myself and Mrs FU. I didn't get my hands on any potato scones or farls so I decided just to slice up and saute up some charlottes that I had knocking around. And just for a touch of colour, I decided to throw in a pinch of chopped parsley, like a proper English tube. I have to say it was all indulgently wicked. The haggis was very good with warm spice and peppery notes that cut through the plump oats and lungs. The black pudding was surprisingly light, crumbly and very moreish, so much so that we sliced some more up afterwards and whacked in the pan. Cutting through the soft fried egg, the yolk escaped and oozed down into the morass which made everything taste even better. The tatties did their job in upping carb overload (and the parsley added a certain fresh zing to proceedings). Drinking a glass of fluorescent, possibly toxic orange fizz at that time of day was unusual but I do like a can of teeth coating Bru and it washed everything down fine. Afterwards, we were fairly full up but I decided to plow on with some toasted butteries and jam. Interesting, they were like a cross between a plain white roll and a croissant, very nice thickly spread with jam in fact but how you'd get through 6 of them is beyond me.

Mrs FU also reported that the fudge was some of the best she's tasted so high praise indeed. As for what the twins thought of the gingerbread men is anyone's business, I can't understand them at the best of times but they are only two years old. I think the clue lies in the fact that they demolished them in seconds.

So thank you Lyndsay for your excellent contribution to WMPC, it certainly knocked the socks and pants off what my mate Greg ever got sent to him in the post. I know you've been waiting a while for the post and I feel bad for that. I also haven't been able to reciprocate yet with a package of goodies from London but in the meantime I've sent you a signed copy of this photo which I hope goes towards some way of making things up. I am sure you'll find it much more sexier then that tube Danny Dyer.

Box of Delights

The haul and handwritten letter

Cardiac Attack Breakfast

Very buttery 'Butteries'

One is the limit

Green Eyed Monster

2010-06-05T03:23:00.001-07:00

Many well informed commentators on food will give you the opinion that the concept of grazing in restaurants in the UK, sampling lots of dishes from tasting menus and sharing your plate with your fellow diner comes from an evolved appreciation of tapas, dim sum, mezze and the like. This could not be further from the truth. Yes Heston, in part you may also be responsible, you may well have pioneered the 20 course blow out but there are darker forces at work here. What many people don't realise is that the government had to do something to combat a social illness that was slowing creeping into our collective consciousness and affecting our behaviour towards each other. Forget binge drinking, forget ASBOs, forget Ant and Dec. No the real problem that threatened to undermine the very foundations of this great nation was food jealousy. Simply put, as we began to dine out more and more, we became more and more competitive. And worst still we began to covet our neighbour's Osso Bucco.

You may recall this situation. You go out to a restaurant with a group of friends, family or maybe it was just you and your partner. You peruse the menu, spending a good five minutes um-ing and ah-ing before making your selection. You then listen to everyone else's choice with a squint in your eye and a lump in your throat. Your dishes come up and immediately you scan all the plates. You then realise that your choice was shit and that you really should have gone for that pork and ham terrine that your best mate is just about to tuck into. He looks at you, smirks and winks triumphantly. You become enraged and toss a bread roll at his head. He throws a fork back at yours. You both leap at each other and roll around the floor, smashing the place up, chaos ensues. For a period of time in the 90's this kind of scene was commonplace in restaurants throughout the land and something had to be done. You see as a result of this antisocial behaviour, costs to the NHS started to spiral out of control, the catering industry began to suffer tremendously and the burgeoning food revolution was in serious danger of being snuffed out altogether. Until the government stepped in with Deliah Smith as special advisor and they came up with the idea of grazing so people could feel at ease with sharing and therefore prevent food jealousy and the violence connected with it.........

........of course this is all a bunch of horlicks. When I was formulating in my head how to write up my WMPC swap with Garlic Confit, my own personal foible of food jealousy popped up and a sorry incident from the past. When it comes to eating out, in all shape and form, I simply hate it when someone chooses better than me. And Mr Garlic Confit (as he wishes to be known throughout this post) pipped me way past the post when we met up nearly a month ago.

It was a glorious day, Election Day in fact but we won't go into that and I had arranged to meet GC in Leather Lane at Daddy Donkey. This was another one of those blind dates where I had never met the blogger before so spent a good few minutes hanging around before noticing this chap in the winding queue staring at me in that "er, it is you isn't it?" manner. Spying a bulging bag at his side, I leap frogged over the barrier, shook hands and we immediately kicked off with conversation about food. Within seconds I could tell that GC was passionate about the stuff (in fact GC did you say you'd trained as a chef, I can't remember) and was quite enthralled by his sidelines and projects. Wednesday Night Curry being one of them where he regularly invites strangers via an email lottery (or via Twitter) into his house where he'll knock them up a tasty and authentic ruby. Other schemes involve running cookery classes at schools local to him, teaching children and parents alike to cook which is a wonderfully magnanimous project. One madcap endeavour more closer to my heart was GC's approach to laying on an enormous paella for parties. Ever wonder what to do with that huge pan you lugged all the way back from Valencia? Simply plonk it on a wheelbarrow full of glowing charcoal, add several bags of calasparra and several other ingredients of course and away you go. This is something I shall definitely be having a crack at in the future.

So anyway, like I said we were having a fair old natter. When we finally stopped and had stationed ourselves by a wall in the sunshine to chow down on the Mexican goodies that I had paid for, I asked GC what he chose. I hadn't really paid any attention up until that point. "Oh, I got the Three Amigoes, you get the best of everything then" he replied. As he said that I have to be honest and say that I couldn't help feel the wet fart of disappointment as I stared down at my fat, bulbous Daddy-D with black beans and chilli sauce running over my mitts. Damn it! Why didn't I see that? I think it was the "best of everything" that got me. And that smug grin. And that flick of the dark, black mane of his. And that.....it was too late, I could feel the Hulk within ready to burst out and roar "you bastard! you picked better than me!" I started to shake, I started to quiver. My frown pitched forward, my lower lip dropped down on my chin, I began to sneer. But then at the perfect moment, GC piped up and said "I suppose you should have a look at what I've made you, you've got a nice bottle of wine in there by the way" motioning to the bag at our feet.

And then suddenly, all was well.

Funny that.

In all seriousness, despite that very brief spell of green eyed food monster, it was great to meet up with Mr Garlic Confit and it was a shame that we had to cut lunch short to get back to our offices. Hopefully we'll meet up again soon so that I can pick his brains further but most importantly, for the purposes of this review, what did the man cook for me? Well as it was Election Day, his contribution focused on the vivid colours of red, green and yellow namely Seared Tuna with Anchovy Marinated Courgette, Radish and Home Dried Tomato Salad along with Lemon, Chilli and Radish Leaf Baby Potatoes. Oh and he threw an Alphonso Mango into the mix for dessert. As you can see, there was no introduction of any kind of shade of blue. Whether GC was making a political statement here I am not entirely sure but his meal was fantastic. The instruction for the tuna was to sear all sides in dry pan on all sides for 45 seconds and it came out perfect, meaty, succulent and obviously very fresh. GC had made the right decision not to mess around with it too much by giving it just a light seasoning. His anchovy marinade gave a lovely twist to the courgette which had been sliced into strips, delicate and fresh which contrasted well the the crunch of the radish. And the potato salad was very good too, combinations of lemon and chilli always works well in my book although the radish leaves left me a little bit nonplussed. All in all it was really a beautiful looking, summery meal. GC proposed that whilst cutting up and eating the very orange flesh of the mango, I should sing Glen Medeiros' "Nothings Gonna Change My Love For You" which I didn't get at first. But can you believe it, this was my first Alphonso and as the juice ran off my chin, a flashback of first love came flooding back. The sweet perfume also helped, reminding me of Zoe Downey who gave me my first french kiss at a school disco. No doubt, the Hawaiian smoothy was number one way back then. Oh and lest I should forget that bottle of wine, a pale floral rose from Provence which also sang to me in mysterious ways, seriously good.

So thanks Mr Garlic Confit, thanks for the memories and thanks for your contribution.

Seared Tuna with Anchovy Marinated Courgette, Radish and Home Dried Tomato Salad along with Lemon, Chilli and Radish Leaf Baby Potatoes

Sweeter than Zoe Downey's kiss

The menu

Wine stops Hulk appearing

In too deep…

2010-05-11T22:45:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what to do. I should have listened to the warnings. I should have seen the signs. I thought I knew how to handle it. But I was wrong.

They tell you to be careful on the internet. Careful about who you talk to. What you say. And be extra careful if you go to meet them.

And I was. Very careful. Public places. People knew where I was. Who I was meeting. It should have been fine. It should have just been the once. But no, I’ve not been able to keep away. I’ve had to go back for more, and more. I hoped this last one would be the one to finish it off. The one to expose the situation for what it was. After all the first time I met him he used a pseudonym so I should have known. But something tells me its not going to stop. Its bad; I’m married, he’s married. He’s got kids for goodness sake.

But still we can’t stop.

Swapping food.

Yes really. FOOD.

Because out there in the mad world of food blogging people seem to want to share. Not just their recipes or reviews in print. But real actual food that they’ve carefully grown or crafted with their own hands. And so I’m in deep because I like food and I like sharing. What started as a chance to bag a wild garlic plant for the garden, has turned into a whole host of meetings usually with some food item surreptitiously handed over: from cooking pork five ways for this project to learning the glories of real pie mash and liquor.…and well this. A reverse ‘Where’s my Pork Chop’ exchange, commonly known on twitter as rWMPC.

Of course we all know Danny’s onto a winner with his WMPC project, he gets his dinner cooked by some of London’s finest food bloggers (and a few hangers on like me) and he buys them cheap lunch or gives them a bottle of plonk. This guy’s no fool. And of course he claims he’s proved his own cooking credentials before with his rWMPC swap with Essex Eating. But I’m not buying that. I mean they are both called Dan, they are both from Essex, they pretend to go to the same events, they tweet from the same train home, and to my knowledge they’ve never been seen in the same room at the same time. So you know, I think they are the same person, its obvious, well maybe at very least related in some way that means Dan 2 isn’t going to say Dan 1 can’t cook and vice versa…..I’m suspicious and so I coolly volunteer to be rWMPC participant number 2. Danny is rather evasive and it takes me quite a number of months to finally pin him to a date….is this because after all he can’t actually cook I wonder.

And so at the allotted time on the allotted day we meet again at Liverpool Street. No flowers this time. We pop to a nearby pub. Get some beers. Talk food experiments. Then Danny rummages in his bag and whips out a foil tray.

OMG it looks like something from the Chinese takeaway could be lurking inside. Then there is a bag that apparently contains Dan’s nemesis, or did he say something for which he’d had to conquer his nemesis. I can’t quite remember. Because by this time I’ve realised I really am going to have to eat this, I’m accepting food from a bloke from Essex who I know very little about, no real idea where he’s been or what he gets up to and to cap it all I suddenly notice with his glasses he has an eerie resemblance to Dr Crippen.

Way’s of getting rid of the food and rustling up a similar meal spool through my head, then I can claim I ate it, write the post and be done. I hand over my rWMPC gift of homemade damson vodka. And nonchalantly we stroll off to get our respective trains home.

Once home I peak inside the parcels properly. We appear to have some homemade pasta, ah so that’s what all the muttering of nemesis was about, Danny’s fear of the pasta machine.

And in the foil tray we seem to have something that resembles some form of ragu, possibly with sausage in or possibly just some sauted off chopped up remains of Dan’s previous victim.

And a little pot of allegedly freshly grated parmesan, though it looks remarkably like the pre grated stuff they sell in the supermarket.

I’m still a bit concerned. It’s a lovely idea this food swap. But you know who is the guy I’ve accepted it from. Then my husband points out that since Dan has already scoffed his way through the WMPC dishes I prepared for him (actually we don’t know he has he just SAID he had) we should get on with eating these. The hunger gets the better of the dithering. We heat up the ragu, we boil water and cook the pasta. Into some bowls and parmesan on top. Voila (except its not French of course). We eat. It’s good. Very good. The pasta is just right, not to fragile but with the lightness and silkiness that homemade pasta has once the nemesis has been beaten. The sauce is rich, earthy and robust. The sausage turns out to be fennel, for which marks are deducted by my husband as he doesn’t like the flavour fennel (something to do with ouzo and greek holiday I believe). I however, am rather enjoying it. The parmesan doesn’t have that weird smell that pre grated usually does so I’m guessing it was truly grated by Dan’s own hands, I still knock marks off though because personally I’d have liked an enormous lump of top notch parmesan to grate myself but there you go in the world of ready meals you can’t have everything. And even after this feast there is enough ragu for me to have for lunch later in the week by which time the fennel flavour is mellower.

Maybe Dan can cook after all, or maybe just one of them can. Because yet again they weren’t both there to hand over the food so Dan 2 could have cooked and Dan 1 delivered it. Or Dan’s wife could have cooked it. Or his mum. Or his Nan. Or some fab secret ready meals service in Essex.

Nothing much is proved. Dan may be able to cook. He didn’t go all Dr Crippen on this occasion. What I do know is that the food I got to eat was pretty darn good and if that’s not a reason to continue meeting I don’t know what is.

Scores out of 10:
Pasta: 8
Ragu: 9.5 (7.5 from fennel hater)

Linda - with knife and fork

Well I really don't know what to say.

I am torn.

On the one hand, it's obvious that you enjoyed my pasta, my homemade pasta which pleases me immensely and then you go and say that I look like Dr Friggin' Crippen? The ragu gets a stellar 9.5 rating on the richter scale but then you infer that "nothing much is proved" and that quite possibly I have got someone else to cook your rWMPC meal?! Furthermore you dare to suggest that Essex Eating Dan and I are one and the same person??!! You actually think I am related to that hairy oaf???!!!

I am beside myself with outrage.

I need to lie down.

Left On The Shelf

2010-05-10T12:09:00.000-07:00

I suspect, like most food lovers, that I have too many recipe books. At the last count, I'd say about 80 different books line my shelves with possibly over a 100 copies of various magazines. Some might say that you can never have too many books and some might even scoff at the size of my collection. I do know in fact that some people have mini-libraries tucked away in their houses with reams and reams of print dedicated to gastronomy but those types are food obsessed dweebs with the look of a blogger about them. Food bloggers are easy to spot by the way. Think part human, part meerkat with large eyes, even bigger mouths, extended index fingers and a tendency to dribble. They're also oblivious to flashbulbs, not very fleet of foot but over time their elbows have evolved into sharp points and will use them as deadly weapons should you come anywhere near their plate or glass. I know this because I look in the mirror everyday and can only marvel at the dramatic changes that have occurred since taking up this hobby of eating and writing about it.

I digress.

So why do I think that I have got too many cook books? Well the simple reason is that I hardly bloody use them. I do have some favourites that I return to time and time again but for the large majority, the only purpose they have is to sit up there on the shelf and look pretty. Case in point number one is Gordon Ramsay's *** Chef. That's the title of the book by the way. I've not censored it. It's not called "Tit Chef" or anything. Though that wouldn't be too far from the truth (sorry Gordo, love you really!) So I bought it when I went to visit the man himself at a book signing, laughed and joked when I shook his hand, mumbled like a total plonker when he blasted a question at me and left feeling 40 quid lighter. It is a lovely book, with stunning photography and amazing recipes but I am never ever likely to try them at home for fear of a) getting the book dirty and b) well how the hell I am I suppose to recreate dishes of that quality anyway. Do me a favour! So it just stays up there, looking pretty. It is signed though so perhaps in the future I could sell it and recoup that 40 quid. Just as long as his stock doesn't plummet any further (sorry Gordo! No really I do love you!)

Case in point two is the Ottolenghi cookbook, another gorgeous volume that languishes on the shelf, gathering dust, only ever to be taken down when I am home alone and feeling fruity. And of course Yotam* has now brought out Plenty which has already been raved about and I will probably get that too. But this is no good, I must at least use the damn book otherwise it's a waste of time and money and precious paper. Things are looking good for Ottolenghi though as last week I finally got to sample a recipe, thanks to Gail from One Million Gold Stars who showed me the way with her own twist on an already eclectic dish.

I met Gail a few weeks ago at an event at La Fromagerie where we consumed our own bodyweight in cheese and I got to explain the whole concept that is WMPC - "er, you feed me and I'll write a totally nonsensical review about it". Thankfully Gail was up for the challenge despite some ungentlemanly conduct from yours truly. In the Affineur room, I practically barged her out the way to get at some samples (remember those elbows?) and felt very bad afterwards. For about 10 seconds. I must admit though, it was great to see her smiling face the other day outside Barbican tube station as yet again this little project of mine has gone through a lean spell. I miss meeting different people from all walks of life, it's not just about getting fed. Honest. Unfortunately, I didn't have much time to spare so it was a bit of a whizz bang conversation as I dragged Gail up the road to buy her some wine. In her twitter bio, she describes herself as a freelance Content Editor and writer, Domestic Slut, Craftivist, Londonist contributor and #KaraokeKlub co-founder and after chatting about her day to day activities, I did feel a tinge of jealousy. I mean oh to be a Domestic Slut. Like I said our meeting was prompt and so I bade her farewell and good luck on her journey to a Kings Cross postal depot (OK so maybe it's not all glamour for you eh Gail?) and made my way back to the office.

So what delectable Ottolenghian dish did Gail rustle up for me? Well her meal from the previous night had been a variation on their Puy Lentils with Sour Cherries, Bacon and Gorgonzola. The twist being that Gail used chorizo instead of bacon because well she didn't have any bacon in the fridge and I like that kind of resourcefulness. Interestingly this was also the first Ottolenghi recipe that Gail had ever tried so it's good to know that I am not the only one with a fetish for harbouring books. The combination of the lentils, cherries, chorizo and cheese was amazing. Earthy, salty, tangy, creamy, all rolled together to deliver one hell of a sucker punch. I was seriously impressed and of course, although this wasn't Gail's creation per se, it still takes a deft hand to assemble so I'll give her full credit. And I'd say that the smokey paprika heat from the chorizo takes the dish one step further over bacon. Spread over a bed of rocket leaves lovingly cultivated from a supermarket chain, this warm salad really hit the spot. If you go to Gail's blog, you'll see that baking is her forte and I was very happy to chomp down on her delicious chocolate cookies.
Moreish, moist and sweet, quite naughty really. A big glass of milk wouldn't have gone amiss but unfortunately I had to put in a few more hours on the late shift but could I have some more for beddie bye-byes please Gail?

All in all an excellent contribution to Where's My Pork Chop? Gail and thanks to you for spurring me on to actually use a recipe book. Rather than paw it lasciviously with the curtains closed.

Puy Lentils with Sour Cherries, Chorizo and Gorgonzola

Chocolate Cookies

* Although to date I have never ever used one if his recipes, I am still on first name terms with Yotam

No Sex Please We're British

2010-04-13T13:15:00.000-07:00

I don't know why but some folk seem to have this impression of me as a bit of a cheeky so and so, particularly with regards to this little project of mine. I can't see the problem really. I'm just asking people to feed me, that's all. OK so I'll often come at them out of the blue, assaulting them unexpectedly through a series of bombarding emails, brusk direct messages on Twitter and nasty comments on blogsites. What's wrong with that?

I don't do that really of course, no I like to think that my approach comes across as sage and thought provoking. Whenever I ask the question "have you ever heard of Where's My Pork Chop?", I like to think that it has the same impact as "have you ever considered donating blood, life assurance or a future in plastics?" To my mind, it is certainly a contemplative question and one we should all ponder carefully.

The 'ooh you cheeky monkey' factor cropped up recently when during the finale of the recent MasterChef series, I started probing Dhruv, Alex and Tim on Twitter to see if they would be up for taking part in WMPC. Given some of the reactions from my fellow tweeters, you'd have thought that I was offering to pull them all off but I was simply testing the water, just to see if they would be interested. It's not like they're the first MC competitors I've propositioned. I've been gently tickling Thomasina Miers for ages now, though have laid off from that lately due to a court injunction she had issued against me. I even managed to get hold of Mat Follas' email address, sending him a entertaining and witty invite to take part but I haven't heard anything so that was a total waste of money. But why am I bugging, sorry appealing to former MasterChef winners to take part? Well, I'd simply like to up the ante and start getting higher profile faces involved, you know like proper cooks. HA! Opps, sorry, I really was being cheeky there! No, in reality I am just trying my luck so Dhruv, Alex or Tim, if you do happen to read this please consider it and seriously.

Because I now know where you all live.

After saying all of that though, I am delighted to say that the most recent participant in WMPC has had a brush with television fame so I am getting there. It took a few months of wrangling and co-ordinating of diaries but I finally got to meet up with Mathilde of Mathilde's Cuisine before Easter. This Gallic blogger who also works in Food PR is indeed a busy lady but still managed to find time to take part in a recent series of Instant Restaurant shown on BBC2 which pits two amateur cooks against each other, opening a restaurant in their own homes for one night only. Sure the programme was jumping on the whole underground, pop-up, Come Dine With Me roundabout that seems to be the formula for food telly at the moment but Mathilde carried herself with great aplomb and came out victorious in her particular episode. She was clearly passionate and focused about food, especially her native French cuisine and it was obvious from the start that she was going to win. It also helped that her opposite contestant was a complete chancer with a fetish for Johnny Depp and couldn't really cook for toffee. One distinct thing I remember from watching the programme was wondering how much that drunk Frenchman got paid and how easily I could do that for a living (you probably have to watch the programme to have a clue what I am talking about).

So I met Mathilde for the swap at Chilango in Fleet Street and judging by the queue snaking out of the door, it does seem that the public has taken the humble burrito to heart. Being in public relations, Mathilde had naturally procured some vouchers for the said burritos so all I had to stump up for my WMPC meal was a mere couple of bottles of Corona. We found a spot in the crowded and narrow bar and then proceeded to chow down over a natter. I should mention that I've met Mathilde quite a few times now so it was good to catch up and chat about food, ideas and life in general. Mathilde is getting married later in the year and having got 8 years under my belt I was able to impart what I hope were some pearls of wisdom but nothing could have prepared me for one of her questions. I had just given a rundown of the impact that children have your life (insert here the words joyous, tiring, hilarious, draining etc) when Mathilde made the innocent enquiry "and the sex, 'ow ez it with your wife?"*. I have to say, at that point I had just gulped down a mouthful of steak and guacamole and very nearly choked before composing myself and replying with stereotypical British restraint "yes, well er we keep the flames alive er yes". I don't know what embarrassed me more, the question or the bloody answer but I do know that afterwards I felt like some black and white character from post-war British cinema. Damn you Mathilde and your liberal continental attitude to life! Luckily, normal service quickly resumed and I don't think that she noticed my blushes. Besides, it was soon time to get back to the office and Mathilde had to get to Gatwick to fly off to Amsterdam with her fiancé for space cakes and illicit pre-marital how's yer father no doubt (disgusting)

So what did Mathilde cook for me? Well I have to say that this was the simplest meal that I have had so far but it certainly didn't lack in the flavour and sustenance department. Mathilde had whizzed up a sauce made from port, cream, mushroom, lemon and a dash of tomato paste which was to be heated and given me some ham to slice up and stir through. And in turn, this was to be served on a bed of mixed rice. Like I said, simple and as often is the case when you take that route it was delicious. The sauce which was salmon pink in colour did look slightly odd so I added a sprinkle of chopped parsley for photographising purposes but still it tasted wonderful. The port and cream added a certain richness but it was far from heavy or cloying and went well with the ham. I was surprised to discover that she left out onion when making the sauce but only because Mathilde is a fervent campaigner for this vegetable. The rice had been perfectly cooked and provided an ample base for this filling supper. I have to add as an extra that the ham that Mathilde had bought from Downland Produce was sublime. It was full of hammy, porky goodness and so so good and I need to find out where she gets it from.

Thanks again Mathilde, your contribution was très bon (you saucy wench).

*Since posting there has been some debate as to whether Mathilde actually said that or whether it was all lost in translation. I know I definitely made the 'keeping flames alive' comment so it's staying in (despite my further embarrassment!)

Mathilde's Ham Supper served in a Port, Cream and Mushroom Sauce on a bed of Mixed Rice

Sublime Ham

Parsley added for photographising purposes

Must find that flame, must stoke the fires, must......eh? How the hell can anyone manage that?

Whoaoaoaooo Mysterious Girl

2010-03-29T13:16:00.000-07:00

How did it ever come to this? How did life get so busy, so complicated? Since when did it become so important to keep abreast of things, to keep in the loop, to know what's going down, to know who's cooking what, keeping an eye on who's been here, there and everywhere? Twitter, Blogger, Wordpress, Facebook, Linkedin, Digg, StumpleUpon, Qype, UrbanSpoon, Flickr, MySpace, YourSpace, ArseFace, Ning, Ping, Zippedity Ding. I mean how am I supposed to keep up!?

I got told off this weekend.

"Dan! Are you going to keep looking at that bloody thing all weekend or do you want to converse with some real people for a change? You dickhead"

And the funny thing is that it wasn't my wife shouting at me this time. No the verbal abuse came from my mates. I was on a stag do and should have been knee deep in beer, vomit and male bonding. But I just couldn't resist sneaking a glance at my iPhone every 5 minutes for a fix of social media crack. Bloody iPhone, bane of my life. If you haven't got one yet then please try to resist for a little while longer as they are highly addictive and there's nothing worse than looking like a bog-eyed guppy as you stand at the train station thumping at the screen with one sausage-like finger. My excuse for getting one was the blogging, a fairly feeble one but I stand by it. I figured that whilst on the move, it would help me keep in touch with the thousands of eager participants who would want to sign up to WMPC. In turn I could read up on their blogs, see what kind of food they were into, get a bit of background information, you know do some research before we met up. Of course that kind of thinking was always going to bite me on the posterior. It very nearly did when I met Charmaine who writes Tasty Treats (and elsewhere)

We had arranged to meet up on the corner of Leather Lane last week for the swap and grab a juicy burrito from Daddy Donkey for lunch. As it is the case sometimes, I was running late having made the decision to walk from Fenchurch St and grab a bottle of red on the way. Not very wise considering I had about 10 minutes in which to make the journey. By the time I got to St Pauls, I was fairly sprinting with rucksack slung in the crook of my arm, bottle of Babich Syrah in one hand, the iPhone in the other, frantically trying to tweet Charmaine that I was running behind. If you had given me a pair of heels, I could have easily passed off for Bridget Jones. I've never met Charmaine before so she told me to look out for a garish pink and grey checkered coat. I'd say that this was a slight overstatement about her garb, I was expecting 80's luminosity but I found her nevertheless, waiting patiently. We shook hands and then made our way down towards Leather Lane market and then I made my clanger.

"So what's the name of your blog again?"

To which Charmaine replied that she has a blog but hasn't written any posts for a while, so then I ask "oh so what do you do again?" and Charmaine simply pauses for a second, smiles and says "do you know anything about what I do?" I reply "er No." And so she smiles again before mysteriously adding "well that's OK then, there are breadcrumbs out there if you really want to find out though."

For a second or two, I am completely stumped and stare back at her like the moron I can be at times. Then I have a flashback, the penny drops and the little voice in my head starts to gabble.

"I do know! Yes! But er, oh no I can't say how I know. Because the person who told me, said that Charmaine likes to keep it under her hat for obvious reasons and that person asked me not to tell anyone what they told me. And that's why Charmaine keeps herself anonymous on twitter for those obvious reasons. Should I say I know? Oh I don't know. Oh no, now I bet she thinks I'm just out to score food from people because I look like I don't know what she does and haven't even bothered to read her blog. But I do know! Oh what a cock!"

Unfortunately, this babbling train of thought set me up like a kipper and for the rest of our meeting I waffled on like an idiot. Telling someone I've just met that my daughter thinks they look like a duck might not be the most complimentary thing to say but Charmaine giggled and got the point. On her avatar on Twitter she wears a Commedia dell'arte type mask and yes I have sat at the PC with my daughter on my lap whilst twittering before, so put two and two together. Damn social media crack, I've even got Isla hooked, what a bad parent. Charmaine didn't have too much to spare and had to get back to the West End, which was lucky for me in the end as I began to feel distinctly flustered. As I watched her walk off to the underground station with a frankly enormous burrito in her hand (she's quite petite) I kicked myself for not revealing all. Although having just reread what I've written so far maybe I have let the cat out of the bag anyway. Whoever might read this post is certainly going to be intrigued now. Secrets and iPhones, the bane of my life.

So anyway what did this mysterious girl make for me and how did it go down? Well Charmaine decided to cook me one of her favourite meals that she would normally have at home when she's not otherwise out. Which is all the time by the sounds of it. Reflecting her Hong Kong heritage, this was a simple dish of Pork Mince with Aubergine, Shitake Mushrooms, Spring Onion and Water Chestnut served with rice and yummy truffles for dessert. The pork had a lovely depth of savouriness with a nice chilli hit running through it. The aubergines and mushrooms were particularly good with a soft velvet texture that contrasted against the crunch of the water chestnuts. Along with some great fluffy rice, all in all this was a very moreish dish. Perhaps it was just a tad over seasoned with salt or soy but I could have gladly eaten more. Charmaine's truffles were delicious, at first I found flavour combination of green tea strange and unusual against the rich chocolate but I did like them. My favourite were her sesame seed ones, very delectable.

Thank you very much Charmaine for a smashing meal and I hope that I haven't led the breadcrumbs to close to your door but I've got a funny feeling that you're not too worried anyway ; )

Pork with Aubergine, Shitake Mushrooms, Spring Onion and Water Chestnut

Green Tea, Sesame and Coconut truffles

The cat that very nearly got out of the bag....

2010-03-17T08:00:00.000-07:00

It's not easy keeping a secret and there have been plenty of times when I have nearly come a cropper and spilt the beans. Plant the seed of secrecy in my head and it will spread like wildfire through the tiny chasms of my brain before making its way down to my mouth to burst out like the proverbial magician's bouquet. Surprise! Opps, I shouldn't have said that. I don't know where this strange compulsion comes from but it can be by turns embarrassing, annoying and life threatening. In the past I have been caught bang to rights. Oh that terrible sinking feeling you get when you realise that you have just revealed all, especially when you also realise that the fellow conspirator who trusted you is also in the room. I have learnt by my mistakes though and how to cover my tracks whenever confidential information comes looming to the surface. The method may not be entirely convincing but it works. If I get the urge, I just simply go way off tangent and people are used to that from me. "Hey, you won't believe this but did you hear about....ah ah ah what wow, WOW, what about that Avatar eh? Did you get it? Did you er, did you keep your 3D glasses?"*

Baring all of this in mind, the real crazy thing is that I am trying to keep all this WMPC malarky under the hat and from the powers that be at work. Yes, ridiculous I know. You couldn't describe writing a blog on the Internet as a secret pursuit and let's face it, I'm hardly doing this anonymously now. I mean I'm not a second Belle du Jour in waiting (or am I? ooh la-la). And given my confession for being crap at keeping secrets well why am I trying to keep all of this quiet? Why shouldn't I just say to my colleagues right "I'm off to get my dinner for tonight that a total stranger has made me. See you in a bit suckers!"? Well I have thought long and hard about this and I can't really come up with any proper reasons other than it might restrict what I can write about and I'd feel odd knowing that my workmates can read about the food adventures I have on the outside world. I try to keep work and play separate you see and therefore WMPC is my guilty greedy secret. It's quite a buzz to pop back into the office and stash goodies in the fridge to be consumed later and it's amazing that no-one has noticed what I'm up to. Until now.

So far, most contributors have handed over their lovingly prepared meals, neatly stored in tupperware boxes, in nondescript plastic or paper bags. And as such I can waltz into the office as though I have just nipped to the deli up the road and bought a few bits, they're used to that in my office. However, Aaron of The Grub Worm decided to hand over his effort in a garish, tiger-striped plastic carrier bag, the kind you might get after buying some dodgy latex underwear from a sex-shop in Soho. Despite enjoying a very pleasant lunch and chat in The Jerusalem Tavern with Aaron, throughout the conversation my mind kept wandering back to one over-riding thought, which was how the hell am I going to sneak this into the office?! Grrrreat. Even his funny tales of redneck cousins who keep enormous arsenals in their wardrobes way down in Georgia in the good ol' USA couldn't distract me. After we bid each other farewell, my game plan was to stroll back into the office, casually slip the bag into the fridge in the tiny kitchen and calmly seat down in front of my PC. As long as I didn't draw attention to myself, I figured that I would be fine. Of course it didn't work.

"Bloody hell Dan, what have you got in there? You been out buying kinky underwear or summink?"

And then all eyes were on me.

All I could do was grin sheepishly in the doorway and utter a nervous giggle whilst gripping the Tony Tiger bag as tight as I could. I even broke out into a sweat and probably blushed too which didn't help matters.

"So come on what have you got there?"

At that point, I very nearly came clean and revealed all, thinking that all this sneaking around wasn't worth it anymore. Who cares if they know I write a blog about meeting people and eating their food. OK, so I am doing something that is a thousand times more interesting than anything that has ever remotely happened in this dump, so what. I am bored shitless here and feel immensely frustrated yet I lack the will or courage to find myself another poxy job. In fact the thought scares the bejesus out of me because I have a young family, a house and I need the fucking money. This is what I am up to because it sure as hell helps beats the humdrum of this craphole!!!

Luckily the off-tangent bullshit kicked in before I uttered any of those sentences so for the record I am taking part in a little Twitter experiment where people are swapping meals and there's some kind of chart system going on with participants going up and down depending on the points they score and it's a bit like Come Dine With Me and at the end of the year there is a cash prize (this is in fact, a bloody good idea!). All the garish Tony Tiger bag contained was food, no rubber y-fronts I'm afraid. The workmates just stared back blankly, shrugged their shoulders in bemusement and went back to their computer screens. I placed the bag in the fridge and then sat down with fingers shaking at the keyboard. I think I might just have got away with it but then again maybe not, for as long as this post exists in the blogosphere, the truth remains out there. There are no secrets on the Internet.

So anyway what the hell was in the bag that Aaron gave me and how did it fair? Well, it seems that he is a big fan of Turkish cuisine so for this installment of WMPC he prepared a lavish Ottoman feast of Baba Ganoush and Aubergine Salad with Pide Bread as a meze starter, Lamb Tagine with Dates, Almonds and Honey for mains and a dessert of Stuffed Apricots with Strained Greek Yoghurt and Chopped Pistachios. Now Aaron has already gone and posted in his blog that he felt that his baba ganoush didn't quite hit the spot and I've already told him that he shouldn't beat himself up about this. No I am quite happy to do it instead because yes this traditional Turkish aubergine dish did misfire somewhat. As Aaron explained in his post, the aubergine almost certainly would have benefited from a proper roasting on a gas hob or under a hot grill to impart that signature smokey flavour rather than baking in the oven. Adding a healthy blob of tahini would have also given it a nutty kick. But that is my only criticism that I have to offer here as everything else was fantastic. The aubergine salad with tomato and parsley was fresh and zesty. The tagine was surprisingly good as on paper I wasn't entirely sure that the sweet combination of honey and dates would compliment the strong flavours of lamb but they went really well together. And I enjoyed the texture and crunch that the almonds provided. Aaron's cous cous was still nice and fluffy with just a hint of saffron in the background. The big winner for me was the simple dessert of stuffed apricots. Not only was it pleasing to the eye with vibrant, mounds of orange flesh contrasting against little emerald shards of pistachio, this dish managed a fine blend of rich yet clean flavours. The creamy yoghurt was nicely set against a subtle backdrop of aromatics. I was convinced that he had extravagantly poached the apricots in rosewater but apparently lemon and cardamom was all that he used in his syrup. Very good indeed and a fitting end to a fairly rich and luxurious meal.

Thank you Aaron, I salute you sir for a marvelous meal though next time whack those aubergines on the bbq will you old chap.

Another feast

Baba Ganoush

Aubergine Salad

Lamb Tagine with Dates, Honey and Almonds with Cous Cous

Stuffed Apricots with Greek Yoghurt and Pistachios

From now on I want to be an anonymous blogger (and keep my job for the time being)

*No doubt if you are reading this and have told me a secret, you are now crapping yourself.

A Conversation With Nanny FU

2010-03-01T02:09:00.000-08:00

Last Tuesday, I visited my Nanny Pat, a legend in her own lifetime and took along with me the latest WMPC offering to share and get her opinion. The following is a rough transcript of our conversation that afternoon which contains strong language so please take caution when reading.

(phone rings)

Hello Nan.

Hello Dan?

Yes hello Nan.

Dan? Dan is that you?

Yes Nan it's me, are you alright?

Where are you?

I've just got out of the station, I'll be there in about 5 minutes.

Oh good, will you get me a paper? Get me the Daily Mail and the Evening Standard. Go to the cornershop at the bottom of the road but don't go into Londis, make sure you go into the cornershop. The Standard should be free.

OK Nan, see you in a minute.

(knocks on door)

Hello Nan

Ooooh hello Dan, come on, come in. How are you doing you alright? Come on sit down.

How are you doing Nan?

Ooh I'm alright, you know same old, same old. Now you want a cup of tea? I can't give you a piss of cack* I'm afraid, I've got nothing in.

Yeah, a cup of tea would be great and don't worry I've brought some food with me. We can have that in a bit.

Ooh really, you been shopping?

No I got this from someone I met earlier today, another blogger.

Ooh did you? That's good. How is your blog coming on?

Yeah, really good. Been up to lots, I should be writing more really but....

What is a blog anyway?

Er, well it's erm a place where I can write stuff, which is mostly about food.....erm I suppose it's like a personal record or diary. I think.

Is it like the Internet?

Well, it's on the Internet, if that's what you mean?

Oh I don't get all of that stuff, your Mum prints your stuff off for me. Yeah I like it, makes me chuckle, although maybe you could cut down on the swearing.

Yes, well...

Have you met Lawrence Keogh, he's got a restaurant at Borough Market.

No I haven't but you never know....

Have you seen that programme on television where people come to each other's houses and they cook for each other, oh whatsit called...

Come Dine With Me?

That's it! Bloody car crash tv. What a load of bitchy people! Would you ever do that Dan?

I don't think so.

No I bloody wouldn't either......oooh bollocks!

You alright?

Yeah it's just me knee. Can't wait to get it done. I'll get moving in a minute.

Well you've only got to wait a couple more weeks, how are you feeling about it all?

Oh I'll be fine. I saw the consultant that other day, nice man, he had a lovely pair of shoes on. Always like to see a man in a classy pair of shoes.

I like brogues.

Oooh yes, I like brogues too, classy shoe. Thanks for bringing me the papers by the way, you did go to the cornershop didn't you?

Yes.

Good. I don't like that Londis, bloody shithole in there. Mind you, the whole place is a shithole. Makes you laugh but they're trying to set up a market down there. Maida Vale Market they want to call it! Ha, it's nowhere near bloody Maida Vale! Trying to gentrify the area they are but it won't work, it's more like a ghetto around here. It's all the bloody foreigners moving in. Mind you, everyone down this street is nice. They all look out for me and the Muslims next door are lovely.

You're kind of sending out mixed signals there Nan, maybe you should stop reading the Daily Mail.

What? Oh don't mind me, I haven't seen anyone for two days, gotta have me moan haven't I, I am 77 you know.

Are you still calling up BT customer sales wanting to complain to the Chairman?

(chuckles) I haven't done that in a while, last time I kept someone on the phone for half an hour, I wasn't going anywhere until they put me through, they kept suggesting that I write a letter Mrs Keogh but I wasn't going anywhere.

Naughty. Are you hungry yet?

Yeah go on then, what have you got?

Lamb shanks. With mashed sweet potato and shredded cabbage I think. Oh and a mango dessert.

Ooooh lovely.

How are you getting on with the oven we gave you?

I don't like it. I can't work it and I don't like the gas hob, too expensive to run.

Er OK, right well I'll just warm the oven up then.

So how did you get all this food?

From another blogger. It's part of my project called Where's My Pork Chop? where I get other bloggers to cook for me and I write about it afterwards.

Oooh they give you food for free? Oooh that's good.

Well I did buy this blogger some lunch and a beer in return. I always exchange something for the meal, that's the deal. Mind you, he was supposed to be giving up beer for Lent.

Oh not a very good Catholic then! Mind you, I can talk. So it was a bloke was it? What's his name?

James Ramsden. His blog is called The Larder Lout, well it used to be.

Lager lout?! No wonder he couldn't stay off the beer.

No, Larder Lout but he's changed it. He's a writer too, perhaps he thought Larder Lout was too frivolous. He trained as a chef too.

Oooh really, where?

In Ireland, er Ballymahony? er no that's not right, erm...

Ballykissangel?

Something like that. So once we've got the oven warmed up, I'll heat the shanks through. Where's your saucepans so that I can heat the veg?

Oh sod all that, why don't you use the microwave?

I didn't know you had a microwave? Where is it?

Up there on the fridge. I don't use it much mind.

OK, let me zap the shanks first and then I'll just give the veg a quick blast.

So does this James Lager Lout know Lawrence Keogh?

Er I don't know.

Well find out. Then you can tell him that your uncle has the same name.

Yeah I will do, this shouldn't take much longer.

Smells lovely, what is that curry?

Ah yes that's right, James said that the lamb shanks were spicy. Here you go....oh hang on, wait, I've got to take a picture. There we go. Hey we should have a picture of the two of us tucking in!

What with all this mess in the background?

Yeah, don't worry, it'll add er...a nice human touch.

But the place looks like fucking Portabello Road!

Don't worry Nan, the place always looks like fucking Portabello Road. Right here we go, the camera is on timer, ready?

Stop swearing.

Sorry, OK cheese! Right come on then Nan, get stuck in.

Ooooh this is nice.

Hmm it looks pretty good eh?

Yeah, what's he put in the mash? He's put something in the mash.

Erm, yeah, what is that? Strange, I can't put my finger on it.

The lamb is nice, hmm ooooh it's tender isn't, that lager lout must have cooked these nice and slow. That's the best way to cook meat you know....oh it's got a kick eh!

Yeah not too bad, it's not too hot for you Nan?

Ooh no, this is just fine, ooh it's lovely. What's this on the cabbage or are they greens?

Ah yes, he said he put mustard seeds in. I think. I wasn't really paying much attention, nice though eh? I like the way they pop in your mouth...

Ginger!!

Eh, ginger?

He's put ginger in the mash, ooh that's different, hmm nice, goes lovely with the curry, yes mops up lovely doesn't it.

Hmm ginger, yeah I'm getting that now, wow that is different, makes it fragrant too.

There's only one thing wrong though.

What's that?

I think you should of warmed the shanks in the oven, look the sauce has congealed in the microwave.

Right.

I don't think I can eat all of this, can I save some for later?

Sure Nan, you want some dessert though in a bit?

Yeah let's wait a bit.

(five minutes elapse before she crumbles)

Come on then let's try that dessert, what did you say it was?

Mango fool, I think.

You better bloody ask next time, no good eating something that you don't know anything about, someone could poison you!

Yes Nan, I'll remember that, here you go.

Ooooh..

Hmm, that's nice.

Hmm, it's an aquired taste I'd say.

What don't you like it?

No I do, it's the consistancy that's funny, what's he put in it? Tapioca?

I dunno. I still like it though, mind you I love mango. Oh look, there's almond flakes in it, that's different.

Is there lime in it too?

Hmm yes I think you're right. Do you like it?

It's nice but it's an acquired taste though, make sure you put that down when you write all about it. Say it's an acquired taste.

OK, I might do. Maybe I'll just ask him what was in it when I see him next.

Oooh what is he going to cook for you again?

Oh no, no, James is organising this event, this food debate where people talk about the one ingredient they couldn't live without and they go head to head and it goes to a jury as to who was the most convincing. I think.

Ah what so it's some kind of slanging match then?

Yeah sort of, I expect it'll get quite heated especially as it's in a pub.

What ingredient are you going to argue the toss for then?

Well I've not put my name down as a speaker, I thought about dessicated coconut though.

Who?

I'm only kidding.

Ooh well that sounds like a laugh, I do like a good row. Shame they don't have Kilroy on anymore though, I don't like that Jeremy Kyle.

Well you should come along Nan.

Where is it then?

Battersea.

Ooh fuck that, that's too far........

I think I'll end it there so thank you James, it really was a stellar meal even if your dessert did throw up some interesting questions, I really enjoyed it and I know my dear ol' Nan loved it.

*the "piss of cack" comes from a book I bought Nan for Christmas one year. It was a compilation of homework spelling mistakes from young children and the term translates as "piece of cake". I know it tickled her highly when she first read it and she has been saying it ever since.

Ooooh

Aahh

Food Urchin and Nanny Food Urchin

The Case of the Curious Vegetable

2010-02-20T13:05:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself in East Laandan in a ramshackle building that ordinarily provides rehearsal space for preening drama types and work areas for creative whatnots. No I wasn't auditioning for the role of Grant's long lost half brother Dave in EastEnders (although they do need to replace the recently expired ginger soon). No I was there in my capacity to help out at The Hart and Fuggle, one of the capital's most recent pop-up restaurants which has now popped off elsewhere. A shout had gone out over Twitter asking for spare pairs of hands and I thought it would be good fun to get involved. And it was. The whole place had this wonderfully bohemian vibe going on with mismatched furniture, abstract art dotted about and open plan kitchen. It was a great place to work in. The only downside was that it was facking freezing in the cavernous room that Alice Hart and Georgina Fuggle had taken over for this 10 day installation. It was my intention to stay well into service but possibly because of my whinging about the temperature, Alice insisted that after 4 hours or so of peeling and chopping veg I go home. Although it is also quite possible that after witnessing my carrot shredding technique, the girls may have considered that I was a liability. I did carve up my hands somewhat and perhaps they felt this didn't bode well for later in the evening when customers turned up and the missing heat would finally arrive in the kitchen. So it was with a heavy heart that I bade them farewell and wandered off back home.

But wait a minute, I forgot to tell you about the omyfackinggodwhatthefackhaveijusteatenohmygodamigoingtodofackingdie incident!

The theme of the menu on that particular night was to be Vietnamese and shortly before I left, Alice had been preparing a peculiar looking Asian vegetable. I asked her what it was and she gave me it's name in Vietnamese which quite naturally floated in one ear and out the other but she held up a sliced piece showing it's unusual looking structure. And I promptly took it and popped it into my mouth. Within seconds, I felt this pin-prickle sensation at the back of my throat and my lips contracted so tightly that they resembled the proverbial cat's arse. Clutching my throat and thinking I was going into anaphylactic shock, I glared frantically at Alice who glared back with a "shit! you're not supposed to eat it raw!" look. She dashed to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of milk, some amaretti biscuits from the side and then force-fed me both asking all the while if I was alright. After a short while, the sensation subsided and I said I was and then a kind of embarrassed lull fell over us after which nothing more was said about the matter. And then I went home.

Ah right so that's why I was asked to leave.

Still for days after, I was perplexed by this vegetable, what it actually was and what indeed it was called. After some searching online and quizzing of knowledgeable people on Twitter, I've come to the uncertain conclusion that I had made an acquaintance with bitter melon*, which apparently is very very very bitter. The hint is in the name. But where am I leading with all of this? And what has this latest episode of idiocy got to do with Where's My Pork Chop? Well, having made contact recently with Kok-Loong Wong who writes the very exotic sounding (or should that be erotic) Only Nature Food Porn blog, he told me that he would be well up for taking part in this project. He even had a bitter melon dish for me to try.

Omyfackinggodwhatthefackhaveijusteatenohmygodamigoingtodofackingdie!

Having gone through a recent drought of participants, I left a message on the UK Food Bloggers Association website forum asking would anyone like to take part in WMPC and this is how I got in touch with Loong. In fact he is the only one to have got in touch so far which surprised me. I mean what is wrong with the idea of feeding a total stranger? It seems that those UKFBA members are either far too shy and retiring or I don't look thin enough in my profile picture. Pah! Come on, where's your sense of adventure??!

No matter, I was very happy that Loong emailed me especially since he said he would rustle up some Chinese food, what with it being Chinese New Year and all. Originally from Malaysia, Loong's blog covers a whole spectrum of Eastern cuisine with also a healthy nod to traditional British food. His blog is more of a personal record of recipes but along side his very nifty food photography, they certainly got my mouth watering. So last Thurday, all I had to do was make the quick drive down to sunny Southend. Except it wasn't sunny, it was freezing (again!) and I got slightly lost. Loong did say that I should call him for directions but male pride got the better of me. I was certain that Cliffs Pavillion, our rendezvous point, was more towards the town centre but it turned out that it was in Westcliff, 20 minutes away from my parking spot. When I finally found him, he was calmly looking out to sea and so I shook his hand whilst trying to suppress heavy breathing and casually wipe the sweat from my forehead. We went down to a small cafe on the front where I bought some hot chocolates and we had a nice chat. I have to say that he was a fairly shy fella and I hope that he didn't find my quizzing too intrusive, although I could tell from his giggling reaction when I told him that I eaten bitter melon raw, that you really really shouldn't. We went through the contents of the bag he brought along much to the amusement of our fellow patrons and then it was time to make a move and make the 20 minute run back to the car.

So what did Loong make and how did it taste? Well, yet again an absolute feast was provided in the form of Chinese sausage pastries, Hakka Stuffed "tofu", Chicken and tofu pieces braised in five spice sauce and Apple tarts with cloves. The little sausage pastries were surprisingly sweet but delicious nonetheless with hopped shiitake mushroom and asparagus, really nice little morsels to get things going. The Hakka stuffed tofu was apparently a variation where Loong had opted to use aubergine, chili and bitter melon over fresh tofu. This was definitely unfamiliar territory for me but the results were very good indeed. The vegetables themselves were soft and tender with a lovely minced pork and fish stuffing which was intensely flavoured and succulent. As for the bitter melon, it was fine, perhaps slightly astringent still after cooking but this combined well with the meat mix. Loong's chicken, enveloped in a thick fragrant sauce was fantastically savoury and may well have been a little too salty for me had he not mixed in the five-spice which lightened things up a bit. Interestingly though, it was the rice that had the biggest impact. I think I've mentioned before the fact that Oriental home-style rice tastes so much better than that from restaurants and takeaways and Loong's was no exception. Coated in a shimmering gloss of chicken stock and fat, simply put, the rice was perfect, I could have eaten a lot more. The apple tarts were very pretty to look at and it seemed a shame to eat them but I soon overcame this and they rounded off the meal nicely.

This was a real cracker Loong and I still feel uncomfortable that you wouldn't accept anything in return for this wonderful meal. I think that perhaps that one day soon, I should meet up with you again and hand over something that I've prepared, how does that sound? And I'll make sure I'll park nearer next time.

Chinese New Year Feast

Chinese sausage pastries

Hakka Stuffed "tofu"

Chicken and tofu pieces braised in five spice sauce

Apple Tarts with Cloves

*I am still unsure whether this is what I actually ate raw that day so Alice or Georgina, if you ever read this, put me out of my misery. But not by making me eat it raw again OK?

Tonight's Special Guest Star IS.........

2010-02-17T10:09:00.000-08:00

Hello!

Do not adjust your browsers.

This week’s special guest-star on “Where is my pork chop” will be me “Dan” (Another Essex Dan you ask aghast? – yes indeed, we are rather prolific)…..you lucky, lucky people.

Let me introduce myself. You may know me from the rather fabulous, award winning* blog Essex Eating and also perhaps, for the more eagle eyed amongst you, from a series of “educational” films I made in Amsterdam in the late 80’s, which frankly I’m not proud of …anyway…moving on…

The Roman poet, Juvenal once said "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" Which, translates as “Who will guard the guards themselves?” or as it is more commonly known “Who watches the watchmen?” Who indeed? And how does a Roman Poet have any bearing on Where Is My Pork Chop?

Let me illuminate you….

As you know, FoodUrchin has been quietly meeting scores of bloggers across the capital and stuffing their rather superb food and then writing up the results on this very blog.

The question that quickly became apparent to my keen analytical mind was “Ok, we know FoodUrchin can eat – but can he cook himself?” – who passes judgement on his cooking? He may look like a frankly uglier version of Heston Blumenthal, but that’s no guarantee of anything…Triple cooked chips or McCain’s oven chips is the question…or “Who watches the watchmen?” (See what I did there?)

Just before Christmas, I put this to FoodUrchin and he enthusiastically agreed to respond to the challenge by cooking for me, in a reverse of the WMPC format… I would then review his food on his own blog…he also insisted that I be honest and say exactly what I thought…. supremely confident or unquestionably stupid? Looking at the earnest yet blank look on his face, I wasn’t entirely sure.

I met FoodUrchin on a freezing cold December lunchtime at St Pancras. He handed over a rather impressive, heavy and bulging bag full of takeaway cartons, and I bought him some Churros from the conveniently placed window on the corner of the British Library by way of payment (see my latest post for details of those).

FoodUrchin informed me that as I’d recently returned from Nuremberg, he had been inspired to prepare a German feast for me, with an added WMPC connection – yes, it was Pork!

The contents were as follows…

Pork knuckle, braised in cider with caramelised onions.
Spiced red cabbage with apple
Potatoes layered with chestnut mushrooms and thyme.
Nigel Slater's recipe Christmas pudding
Impressive!

He also emailed me a rather comprehensive list of instructions for re-heating.

The smells coming from the bag as it sat on my desk that afternoon in the office made my stomach grumble…spicy, sweet. I couldn’t wait to get the contents home and into my frankly, rather svelte belly.

Arriving home in the evening, and practically bursting through the front door and running upstairs – I unpacked the contents of the bag and for the first time realised how much effort had gone into this. A hell of a lot of cartons were stacked up on my worktop.

Following the re-heating instructions meticulously, It was with bated breath that I finally served up two straining plates of FoodUrchin’s grub, the smell was gorgeous –like Christmas in Germany actually.

I’d love to say it was inedible. I’d love to say that FoodUrchin couldn’t cook for toffee. (He recently beat me at the Bisol Prosecco food matching competition; his smug grin still haunts my nightmares).

But, no.

This was superb.

The Pork Knuckle was beautifully cooked and moist, the accompanying cider and onion sauce was lovely. The spiced red cabbage with apple, a perfect choice to eat alongside the pork, smelt and tasted incredible.

Now, I promised FoodUrchin I’d be honest, so the potatoes layered with chestnut mushrooms and thyme didn’t live up to their promise…. they were nice, and I scoffed the lot, but they tasted like they’d been ‘re-heated’ this dish probably being something which just doesn’t respond well to being allowed to cool and then warmed up again. But this is but a small gripe.

Finally – the addition, which surprised and delighted me the most, a homemade Christmas pudding! Doing it the justice it deserved, I set light to it with some Brandy and dug in.Wow!

I love Christmas pudding, and over the years I’ve spent ages poring over reviews and tracking down noteworthy examples.
FoodUrchin’s is hands down the best I’ve ever tasted, rich, and decadent – bloody gorgeous basically. I was beyond impressed. I’d happily hand over money for another one.

So there you have it WMPC readers, FoodUrchin irritatingly, put his money where his mouth is and delivered the goods. His cooking is a treat…seriously; I ALWAYS cook and I loved the idea of someone cooking for me for a change, that it was all so well made was just icing on the cake.

Well done FoodUrchin…(you git).

Dan - Essex Eating

*Disclaimer – this statement may, or may not be true.

OK first of all I would like to say that no money, stolen goods or bodily fluids were exchanged for this lovely review so thanks Dan.

Secondly Dan, I really really appreciate your honesty and I am always up for some constructive criticsm but seriously, diss my facking pototoes like that again and I'm going to come around and burn your facking house down you slaaaag.

And thirdly, yes folks, not content with eating your food, I now want you to write my posts for me so if you are interested in a bit of reverse WMPC action (oo-er) then drop me a line. This is truly what the project is all about, swapping meals and swapping stories.

Danny - Food Urchin

Join Us

2010-02-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

I have to say, it has been very quiet on the ol' western front with regards to Where's My Pork Choppage. At one point it seemed that people were practically queuing up outside my door, begging to participate but over the last couple of months, the offers have all but dried up. This has unnerved me greatly, leading to sleepless nights, loss of weight and a profound sense of paranoia. What have I done? What have I done? I haven't slagged off any cooking yet and why would I, the contributions so far have been wonderful. Mostly. No I have sung from the tree tops, waxed lyrical, rambled nonsensical, wibbled fantastical and spouted by and large a complete load of horlicks that has very little relation to the actual meals that my fellow bloggers have sweated over for me.

Ah, is that the problem?

Actually, I don't think so. No, after writing up my little irreverent reviews, everyone has been quite pleased and said they enjoyed reading them. Mostly. However, I did see some signs of discord in early January after my last post. Some antipodean upstart started to enquire as to when they, the bloggers, would get to sample a taste of my own cooking. Of course this was discussed on Twitter and one by one the filthy peasants started to revolt. Worried that the banging on my door would now be accompanied by flaming torches, scythes and rakes, I decided to pacify them. I'm not going to tell you exactly how but everyone who has contributed to WMPC thus far have been invited to join a special club. I don't want to go down the route of the Masons with initiation ceremonies involving nipple tweaking and half-rolled trouser legs. Let's just say that the only way you will get to find out the inner secrets of this newly formed sect is if you sign up to WMPC and cook me a bloody dinner.

No doubt half the blogging community already know what I am going on about because those who are in on it are a complete bunch of blabbermouths but there you go. This is the carrot on the end of the stick. It's not just about cooking me a meal anymore. Oh no. It's about being part of something that is bigger and greater than you can possibly imagine. Oh yes.

So let's welcome Sister Jassy of Gin and Crumpets into the group, the first blogger to contribute to WMPC in 2010. Hallelujah and praise be to the Great Pork Chop in the Sky.

I met Jassy on Monday, on the corner of Covent Garden station at noon. It was extremely cold and I began to regret turning up 15 minutes early but no matter, it was a pleasure to see her bright smiling face. I say it was a pleasure until she pointed out her adjacent office with windows giving full view of the corner that I had been standing on. It did run through my mind that Jassy could have quite easily spied the idiot in the hat and come down earlier but decided to leave me freezing my nuts off. But I let it go. Like I said, I have been pretty paranoid lately. Due to the temperature, we only had the briefest of chats but it was heartening to hear that she was looking forward to a sabbatical in the spring. Jassy is off to Ballymaloe Cookery School in the emerald isle and hats off to her, I wish it was something I could do. We made the swap and I had to apologise as I had promised to make her a 'bum sandwich' (for further explanation read this). The reason for not providing this delectable lunch offering was down to the fact that Mrs FU vetoed it. When I asked my missus why, she said "well, you haven't even given me a bum sandwich yet" which caused me to raise an eyebrow and a smile and for that I got a large stickle brick thrown at my head and called a "dirty sod". So instead I handed over to Jas, a bottle of finest Pirate Pinot Noir. We bid each other adieu and off I toddled to work. Toddling because I was trying to get some blood circulating in my system.

As I walked back, I had a butchers at the menu Jassy had printed off. Her offering had a distinctive ye olde worlde theme which pleased me to no end, it all looked like an excellent kick start to the proceedings. Medieval Spiced Beef Stew, Buttered 'Worts', Wholemeal Bread and Rice Pudding with Elderberry Jam. Lovely. Yet when I got the food home later that evening, modernity rose it's ugly head and it did look like everything was going to go belly up. Like all WMPCers before hand, Jassy provided everything in tupperware containers so I popped the stew in the microwave, left it to cook through thoroughly and went about the business of sweating the "worts" or spring greens as they also known in a pan. After 3 minutes or so the ping went off and I paid no attention until I started hearing strange creaking noises. So I opened the microwave door and pulled the box out to find that a vacuum had been created during the heating process. The golden rule when heating food in a container in a microwave is to remove the lid and place back loosely. If you don't then the lid will suck down and hold steadfast with the strength of 12 horses. After hearing 5 minutes of panting and swearing as I tried desperately to prise the thing apart with my bare hands, my good wife came in, told me to put the box down before I burnt myself and to stab the lid with a knife as that was the only way forward to release the pressure. Which I did, with the zest and zeal of Sir Lancelot. And the lid popped open.

So after a slightly stressful start, I was finally about to settled down to Jassy's stew. And yes verily it was very good. I must admit I had some reservations to the stew as some medieval variations of meat dishes can be quite sweet such as mincemeat pies when made to an original recipe but this had a nice balance of cinnamon, cloves and mace. Not too overpowering. The beef itself was fantastic, full of flavour and braised enough so that it held shape yet melt in the mouth tender. I have a nasty habit of over doing it so that the meat turns to mush but this was just right. The 'worts' were a vibrant, healthy accompaniment and the wholemeal bread was as authentic as could be. I had no idea that Marks and Spencer dated back to the 15th century. The big star was the pudding and at the risk of sounding Greg "IT JUST GETS HARDER AND HARDER" Wallace, I do love rice pudding. On Jassy's advice I heated it up, this time loosening the lid, and spooned over a dollop of rich Jersey cream that she also very generously supplied. It was great with subtle hints of vanilla and nutmeg, totally soothing and comforting, bringing back memories of childhood. The Peckham elderberry jam which I am presuming Jassy made via a spot of foraging had just the right amount of tartness to cut through. Delicious.

So thank you Jassy, for getting the ball rolling again and thank you for a gorgeous supper. I was stuffed.

PS I owe you a new tupperware box and 'a bum sandwich'

No. Verily. I. Can't. Remove. Oh. Bollocks

There's been a stabbin' (must be from Peckham)

Medieval Spiced Beef Stew with Buttered Worts and Markes and Spinsters Bread

Puuuuudding

The Menu and Sir Lancelots Sword

Eat Your Heart Out Heston

2010-01-05T02:11:00.000-08:00

It happened again last night. The recurring dream. Or nightmare as the case may be. I am back in school, walking down the main corridor next to the refectory and slowly but surely, the other pupils start to point and laugh. I can't understand why so I just hold my head up high and carry on walking, trying to get to my class on time. But the jeering and hysterics reach an unbearable crescendo. Even teachers passing by erupt into spasms of laughter. It feels like everybody has their eyes on me and the pressure of this claustrophobia is immense. My head feels like it's going to cave in. And then it hits me, the realisation that I am stark bollock naked. And there's nothing I can do about it except run. Or wake up in a cold sweat.

Psychoanalysts would probably have a field day with the significance of this but I think it basically boils down to a nagging feeling that I could have done better at school. Don't get me wrong, I loved school but in some lessons, I should have paid more attention and perhaps not been so mischievous. Take science for instance, I ran riot. I shall never forget Mr Carthy's face turn ashen when I explained that I had just stuck the tip of a thermometer into the bunsen burner and that poisonous mercury had sprayed all over the ceiling of the classroom (Alan Kwok put me up to that). He turned apoplectic when he found out that I had 'accidentally' set alight to his makeshift greenhouse at the back of the classroom. Well it had been crudely constructed out of cling film and garden canes, anyone wondering around with a lit splint could have done it. I do however feel pangs of guilt when I think about poor old Dr Goswami and the stress we put her thorough. Originally from Bangladesh, she had rather a strong Bengali accent which to us mean-spirited kids was a source of great amusement. During one lesson, Dr Goswami was instructing us through an experiment, telling the class to make sure that we kept our thumbs on the test tube whilst gently shaking it. Unfortunately her pronunciation of "thumb" sounded like "tongue" so cue 30 idiots sticking their flappy, pink dorsums over the top of said test tubes and wiggling their heads back and forth. She very nearly burst into tears as she screamed over and over again "No look! Use your tongue! YOUR TONGUE!". Like I said, children can be cruel so Dr Goswami I would dearly like to apologise for our actions that day. And thank you for resisting the temptation to repeat the experiment later that week with potassium chloride.

As a result of all this tomfoolery, I'd say that my appreciation of science is limited and narrow-minded. And if we delve further into the realms of food science, my understanding is positively luddite. So when Alexis of LexEat, outside Barbican tube station handed over a suspicious looking, brown paper wrapped package (pieced together with skull and cross bone sticky tape I may add) and a card with a long winded formula written down, I was immediately gripped by the fear. After walking away, I even had to double check that I had my clothes on.

In the emails leading up to our exchange, Alexis formed the opinion that I had been having it far too easy with all this WMPC malarky and that I would have to do some cooking for a change. Which I thought was pretty cheeky actually. It's not easy having to eat all this food you know which at the end of the day is for the purposes of critically evaluating the food blogging community at large. A lot of people may talk the talk but do they walk the walk? Credentials need to be tested and erm, that's what I am doing.......(cue long pause and tumbleweed rolling past).

So OK, after Alexis' jibing, for this particular swop I did expect to have to do a little bit more than zap my meal in a microwave but I didn't expect to have to follow a set of algebraic instructions, which went as follows:

1. Boil H20

2. Pour H20 over X (already seasoned), stir, cover

3. Reheat C

4. When X has absorbed H2O (approx 2-3 mins) stir through

5. Place X & Y on plate, add C, top with B

6. Eat

7. For dessert, sprinkle N on M

8. Inhale

I spent a good half hour on google back in the office, trying to decipher what the hell H2O was and what X and Y could be but kept getting links to skin care products and Chris bloody Martin. In the end I gave up the ghost and decided to take the package back home that evening where my better half took hold of the instructions and proceeded to berate me.

"Look you just have to boil some water and pour it over the cous cous (X), heat up the slow cooked lamb (C), when the cous cous is ready stir in the pistachios, sultanas and pomegranates (Y) and top the whole lot with the Greek yoghurt, cucumber, mint and cumin mix (B). (M) is a chocolate pot with smashed Maltesers (N). Plonker".

I didn't hear that last insult, I was far too busy having my Eureka moment. I'd seen the light, finally knowing how Archimedes felt after scrubbing his back with a loofah but did this meal, which Alexis had quite obviously taken time to prepare and put together, bring culinary enlightenment? Well yes it did, it was very good indeed. Although not an entirely new one on me and I must take this as a sign to get my WMPC posts done quicker, the slow roasted lamb which came with butternut squash was wonderful. The lamb was very tender, packed with middle eastern flavours, cumin, garlic, coriander. The smell was certainly evocative of Moroccan cuisine. The cous cous was a lovely surprise as I can find it a bit uninspiring but I have never tried mixing it with fruit and nuts before. Combining ruby flecks of pomegranate sweetness with the nutty textures, this cous cous was gorgeous to eat and light and fluffy too (but was that down to my deft touch of boiling water and fork fluffing wrist action?). The yoghurt and mint provided a fresh lift that countered the richness of the meat. I am not entirely sure if I was meant to snort the crushed maltesers as per Alexis' instruction, that would have taken the experimental nature of this swop too far but mixed in with the chocolate pot, her thick indulgent mousse provided a very decadent end to the meal. Superb effort Alexis.

I should add at this part of the post that unfortunately our timings meant that we didn't have much opportunity to have a chat as Alexis was on her way to Sheen Suppers the night we met but I am very grateful that she came out of her way to bring me my dinner, which I swapped for a bottle of Australian Chardonnay. I do know this about her though, she is another lawyer who secretly harbours a desire to become a food stylist. After this effort I would certainly endorse her to go ahead with this dream. However Alexis, one thing I don't understand is how can you not find Eddie Izzard funny?

I should also apologise for taking so long to write this frigging post. I seemed to have lost my blogging mojo over the last month and over the Christmas break. I found it eventually, at the back of the fridge next to some out of date cottage cheese.

I blame Alan Kwok for my lack of scientific knowledge

The Magic Formula

What does it all mean?

Slow Cooked Lamb with Butternut Squash, Pistachio, Sultana and Pomegranate Cous Cous and Greek Yoghurt with Mint, Cucumber and Cumin

Dem Bones Dem Bones....

2009-12-06T11:33:00.000-08:00

Now as a rule I don't normally do horror movies. Mainly for reasons of self preservation, personal integrity and to save having to remove stubborn stains from my underwear. I am a big, sniveling, girlie wuss you see. I can't count the number of times that I've embarrassed myself in a cinema (or theatre for that matter). It's not so much the gore and violence that bothers me, it's those quick, shock jumps that come out of nowhere. My first reaction is often to scream out some expletive, lift my buttocks several inches in the air and throw my popcorn over some poor unsuspecting soul in front of me. Worst case scenario happened during The Others (erm the one with Nicole Kidman in it) when my antics caused the stranger sitting next to me to laugh in my face continually for the rest of the film. Mind you, that was just one person. I think I had an entire audience of the Fortune Theatre pissing themselves during A Woman In Black. Sod the horror...the horror! It was a case of oh the shame...the shame. So when MiMi of Meemalee's Kitchen made the offer of a meal for WMPC in exchange for a donation to charity and a copy of "Pure Evil: The House of Unnatural Darkness Part II", a full length feature that MiMi, her hubby and friends have made, I must admit I had my reservations. Don't get me wrong, I'll gladly give to a worthy cause. It was the shitting my pants part I didn't fancy.

When our scheduled appointment to meet up came around a couple of weeks ago, alarm bells sounded off further still as MiMi dropped me a line and said "I hope you like bones!". This was all starting to sound just a touch macabre and ever so worrying as I've also seen photos of her on t'internet with blood pouring from her eyes. Sensing whiffs of danger, the occult and possibly devil worship, I decided that it would be best to get seats by the window in The Hat and Tun where we were to have lunch together. I got there first and when the barmaid came over, I ordered a pint of London Pride and asked that she keep a lookout out for me. Looking puzzled, she simply replied "sure" and walked off with a frown. I nervously took a sip with eyes hooked towards the door before looking down at the menu, trying to focus on the words, trying to put myself at ease. When I looked up again she was standing there in front of me, arms to the side, face blank and without expression. Then she tilted her head to one side and in a sickly sweet, sing song voice, uttered "Hello Daniel" which caused me to shriek and fall off of my stool and recoil in terror with my arms over my face because well, that's my name. And.....and......and I'm getting carried away here because I've bloody met MiMi before, albeit once and she's sweet as pie. Lets ditch the melodramatics shall we.

Lunch in The Hat and Tun was very good actually, it was the first time I had been there as well as MiMi and we were both impressed with the food although disappointed that their scotch egg was off the menu as it has garnered good reviews. The kitchen had been moved downstairs and set up within the bar area yet health and safety prevented deep frying so close to a public space. Or something like that, I couldn't really understand what the puzzled waitress was telling us. MiMi went for a roast pork doorstep sandwich (slow roast Essex Saddleback) which she daintily went at with knife and fork despite my encouragement to go at with hands and teeth. I went for the Ploughmans which came with two massive hulks of Keen's Cheddar. It was a bit of a dairy overload really but I ploughed on through, probably looking considerably less dainty then MiMi in the process. It was also nice to have a chat, particularly about her adventures in Burma where her folks come from. I was a little bit taken aback though by her reaction after regaling a story to her concerning a minor indiscretion in my yoof. Not that she was appalled or outraged or anything, she merely said that as a lawyer, she always had to keep a clean sheet. And I was simply flipped by the fact that I have met yet another food blogger who works in law. MiMi is about the 8th or 9th one now, what gives? Are all lawyers wannabe chefs? This a question that must be answered at a later date.

As always, it was soon time to depart but not before MiMi gave me the run down on that evenings supper which was to be Neck of Lamb Stew with Butternut Squash, Ficelle from Paul, Peanut Caramels from Hotel Chocolat and persimmons from random street vendor. A fantastic haul and as I took hold of the goodies, it suddenly dawned on me what MiMi was going on about with regards to the bones. She instructed that I should pour a couple of tablespoons of water over the stew when reheating and with that we went our separate ways.

Despite the cheesathon I had at lunch, come 7pm, I was fairly "Hank Marvin" as they say in certain parts of the world so I whacked the stew in the microwave for 4 minutes, with my stomach grumbling and growling all the while. It was interesting but in the container, the portion that MiMi gave looked to be a regular size yet once I poured it onto the plate it seemed to have doubled allowing me a mental clap of joy. Admittedly, it didn't look that pretty but the smell alone unleashed the berserker carnivore in me. The lamb was wonderfully tender with a hint of warm spice in the background which contrasted well with the sweetness of the squash. Neck is a particularly flavoursome cut and of course the best part is gnawing in between the bones and sucking scraps of meat. I know my colleague was doing his best to ignore Captain Caveman on the other side of the room but it couldn't have been easy listening in. I thought about offering him some of the bread and letting him have a go at soaking up some of the delish, glistening, fatty gravy but then thought the better of it. Ah such is the cruel nature of this project, eating in the office whilst others make do with sandwiches from Tescos. I did however share out some of the delicious peanut caramels from Hotel Chocolate so I am not all that bad. The persimmons were a new one on me, having never tried them before but because I had gorged myself to oblivion I took them home to eat the next day. They were quite the revelation and I find it hard to put my finger on describing them but a cross between mango, melon and tomatoes comes to mind, with a subtle floral note. The Simpsons kitchen towel used to wrap them in was also a nice touch (see my twitter bio for further explanation http://twitter.com/FoodUrchin).

I've bought some more since and they've become a household fave so thanks for the introduction MiMi and thank you for your gorgeous stew.

Before

During

After

Hmm caramel.....do you want to try? hmm no you can't it's mine, hehehehe........

Persimmons

Aha you thought I wasn't going to mention it didn't you! But of course, we need to talk about the film, starring MiMi, along with her hubby who wrote and directed plus a very funny and able cast. Initially I thought about going all Jonathan Woss with an in depth critique but this is a food blog and I probably wouldn't do justice to the concept (or should that be conceptual) that is Pure Evil. Set in house that contains 8 artists whose personalities range from the highly strung, droll and downright mysterious, it is by turns hilarious, bizarre, and absurdly whacked out. There is some great improvisation going on which I think impressed me the most, along with the continuity (!) and MiMi's amazing performing pig tails. Oh and the soundtrack is pretty cool too. If I had to be critical I would say that its a little bit too long but there are some super silly moments to look out for throughout, like the word association game between the actors. But most importantly, it wasn't scary at all. If you fancy some surreal fun and giving some money to Save The Children then pop over here: http://www.justgiving.com/pe2dvd

Keeping The Faith

2009-11-30T12:19:00.000-08:00

"You have never tried pie and mash?! Then, my girl you have never lived!"

And so these were my thoughts after making arrangements with Carla of Can Be Bribed With Food for a WMPC swop. I've been preaching about the goodness and greatness of P&M for many years now to anyone who would care to listen. In my opinion, this age old East End speciality is truly manna from heaven, a gift from the cockney gods to the people of London taaan. I grew up on it and I'll eat it once a week if I can. It is fantastic. And this was a perfect opportunity to add another number to the flock.

In order to describe this unsung wonder of the culinary world, just think of a pie that is mainly constituted of minced meat from an unspecified source. Don't bother asking about its provenance because nobody knows, which adds a certain mystique. The pie will be often constructed with pastry that is pale, soggy and flaccid. Unless it's been burnt, then the crust will shatter over your jumper and carbon will stain your tongue. You don't normally get anything in between. If you are lucky enough to get gravy, it will be pretty watery and tasteless. The mash though is often wonderfully woolly and dense. The responsibility of it's creation is usually down to an old lady called Doris who works in the back of the shop, pouring industrial sized boxes of Smash into cavernous vats. She gets paid tuppance an hour and has to shakily scale very tall ladders but she loves her job. The green liquor is the by-product of a thousand eels that have been boiled in water until their flesh turns to mush. The eels, bones and all, are removed and chopped parsley and flour are thrown in and the stock is reduced until it forms a gluey sauce which is poured all over. Once placed at the table, it is then to be smothered with malt vinegar and white pepper. This is your basic plate of pie and mash.

Having just described this beautiful meal in such a manner, I am of course doing it a supreme disservice. But I had a problem you see. All of a sudden, my credibility was at stake. Given all my shouting from the roof tops, I suddenly became worried that Carla wouldn't enjoy it and overzealously started to deconstruct my beloved P&M. OK I went overboard with the paragraph above but given it's simplicity, would Carla understand my passion for the stuff? I was also mindful of the fact that she had lived by Lake Garda in Italy (via Panama) for the majority of her life. After organising our meeting, I got an inkling that she would also be introducing something from her childhood and believing that Carla's Italian food heritage was far richer than mine, I started to panic. It was really strange but in my head, I really was beginning to run it down. How could my boys own staple compare to anything that Carla would have eaten as a little girl casa posteriore*? Talk about sleepless nights. However, I should have kept the faith because as far as I am aware, Carla thoroughly enjoyed her first visit to Clarkes of Exmouth Market. She did comment that the liquor didn't really taste of anything to which I responded "that's what the vinegar is for!". The only minor snag was the fact that Carla seemed to have trouble keeping hold of her cutlery. I was worried that I was going to leave the cafe with a fork embedded in my forehead at one point, such was her gesticulating during conversation but it was all in keeping with her Latin spirit.

Despite the danger of flying objects, it was great having a chat with Carla over lunch, which of course is part and parcel of the WMPC project and I was thrilled to hear stories of her growing up. By the sounds of it, she was quite the handful in her yoof. Like the time she went shopping with her Daddy and upon seeing a dolly demanded to have it on the spot. Upon having her request denied, there was much stamping and screaming until her Dad picked her up, plonked her in the car and drove home with Carla creating all the way. Once home, he picked her back up, calmly walked into the house and into the bathroom, plonked her under the shower and turned the cold tap on. Apparently a lesson was soon learned. Given that I have two little 'uns that are slowing evolving tempestuous personalities of their own, this was valuable information. Soon it was time to go back to our offices but not before Carla gave me the run down on the food she had made me. Which was Italian Sausages on a bed of Puy Lentils and Pink Peppercorns to be served with bread and dollop of homemade Salsa Verde (from a nice large jar of the stuff) . For dessert she had made me a crostata, an Italian baked tart that's normally reserved for birthdays. I felt honoured and was very impressed with the careful instructions she gave me for heating up and serving the salsa verde. "Make sure you take it out of the fridge at least 20 minutes before you want to eat so it gets to room temperature". I could tell that Carla was obviously passionate about her food and dare I say it, slightly nervous that I would enjoy it although I doubt that she put herself through the mill like I did.

So later that evening in the office, following Carla's word to the tee, I drizzled some of the olive oil that covered her salsa over the lentils and with the sausages, heated it through in the microwave. And oh ye, it was good. Very good. Just hovering my nose over this rustic looking dish as I trotted over to my desk got me salivating to the point of distraction. Not my distraction mind, my work mate',s who pointed out that I had dribbled on my shirt. The sausages which came from Le Marche, central Italy had a wonderful warm spiciness with possibly a hint of nutmeg and were quite coarse in texture. There were also quite salty but as Carla had gone easy on the seasoning, everything balanced out evenly. The lentils had a nice subtle flavour of red wine vinegar with the peppercorns creating lovely fragrant pops of heat as I chewed my way through. The bread was soft and fresh, fantastic for mopping up but the real star was the salsa verde. I do like a good SV and I've made it a few times myself to serve up with fish and chicken but I can honestly say that this was far better than any of my previous efforts. It really punched through with a strong zest or tang rather and complemented the sausages perfectly. I found myself smearing it over the remaining bread after like an ravenous giggling hyena and had to show some restraint as I knew that Mrs FU would like to try it too. So with a heavy heart I placed the jar in my bag (it lasted one more day). The crostata with it's pretty criss-cross finished off my meal just right. The pastry was light and flaky with the apricot jam filing adding a sweet, fruity touch.

Thanks Carla, I shall be putting in my order for some more Salsa Verde soon, it really was the "business"

*This translation for “back home” came from Babelfish and is therefore, entirely unreliable.

Italian Sausages on a Bed of Puy Lentils with Salsa Verde

Apricot Crostata

I'll Get You My Pretty

2009-11-23T00:00:00.000-08:00

Heartbroken. That's probably the best way I can sum up my feelings when you pulled out of our WMPC swop. I've been a fervent admirer for quite some time now and when you agreed to finally take part after some badgering on my part, I was, well chuffed to bits. I mean, here was a local girl who was obviously passionate about food (I constantly check your website) and you certainly talk the talk on twitter (hell you're on there all the time). So I was certain that you would be able to er...walk the walk. Maybe it was inappropriate for me to say that I would love to get my hands on your chestnuts, did that scare you off? Your autumnal recipes looked delicious that's all I meant to say. I was even willing to source a decent Alsace Pinot Gris or Gewurztaminer for you to go with a curry, which I know you like. I know it's not your fault, events conspire against us, I understand. Nevermind that it was a pint and packet of crisps for dinner that night. Please don't feel guilty. The big question is, did you get your money and did you use that big stick like I suggested? More importantly I haven't forgotten about you, I shall be in touch soon to arrange another date. In the meantime, to create an curious aura of anonymity, you shall be known as Delia. You know who you are.

I'll get you my pretty and your little dog Toto too! Hahahahahahaha!

101 Things that you didn't know about Delia - 64. She is rather fond of pipes

They Call Me Mr Creosote

2009-11-20T12:02:00.000-08:00

I have been a fully paid up member of the Gluttons Club for many years now and there have been occasions when my capacity for scoffing has bordered on the obscene. I have actually been kicked out of a Pizza Hut before, along with another avaricious companion, after managing to get through about 20 slices of pizza each. We argued that the offer said "unlimited buffet" but the manager told us in no uncertain terms to "piss off" because we were taking the Michael. Another time springs to mind when I was invited over to the parents of a good friend of mine for a celebratory chinese takeaway. Masses of food had been ordered for our party of 8 and one by one they fell by the wayside. Except for me, I just kept ploughing on through. Once I had polished off the contents from the last plastic tray, my mate's Dad just stared at me and said "still hungry?" Seeing the twinkle in his eye, I replied "yeah I could eat more" and what followed was, well pretty disgusting really. Cheese, pate, pork pies, leftover turkey, pickled onions were brought out of the fridge and placed in front of me and well I kept going (actually it must have been around Christmas time) to the astonishment of the rest of the group. Eventually my good lady told me to stop showing off and pack it in before I burst all over the dining room. Could this capacity for hogging massive amounts of food be seen as admirable trait? Well no not really but still there have been times when my voracious appetite has got the better of me. When my eyes get far too big for my belly. It happened after my last WMPC exchange and it was a little red box what done it your honor.

Ever since I started this little project, I have been trying to pin down a date with Kavey of Kavey Eats. Not that she's been elusive or anything, just trying to co-ordinate our diaries has been difficult as she's obviously a busy little bee so I was pleased as punch when we finally sorted it out. It's interesting but she is someone that I used to follow on the BBC's very own food message board, a long time before the advent of twitter and I always enjoyed her posts on the forum. My username on there was toadydan which I mentioned to Kavey on one of the occasions that I have met her but she couldn't remember me so my posts on the BBC must have been really memorable! Still it seems that Kavey has the name Daisy fixated in her mind for me anyway (long story). But that's all neither here nor there, I was looking forward to eating Kavey's grub simply because she was one of the first foodies that I encountered on the internet. Plus she is the daughter of Mamta Gupta whose website Mamta's Kitchen is one of the best recipe resources on the net for Indian cuisine. And so I was really hoping that she was going to cook me a curry. A phone call the night before our meet-up confirmed this, although I was slightly disheartened to hear that she couldn't be effed to make me nan bread, I mean come on!

We met at Waterloo during the brunch hour and confident that I knew where I was going after the debacle for my last WMPC swop, I took Kavey to Canteen. Again taking the lead from my last visit, I recommended the Eggs Florentine (OK they weren't really my choice from the last time but hell, I'm taking the credit for it this time) and so we settled down for a nice leisurely chat before I had to get into the office for some power point hell. Topics of conversation were varied ranging from photography to the very exciting up and coming Blaggers' Banquet (which has now past, my posting on this particular WMPC has been very tardy I'm afraid). Anyway, we must have been enjoying our chat and were probably getting quite animated as at one point we were asked to keep quiet by some uptight chap in tight chinos. It seemed that there was also a film crew in the restaurant who were trying to finish one last take and we were ruining it for them. Kavey's response was very sympathetic and polite yet once squeaky arse walked off, she uttered under her breath "how rude, I'll be buggered if I lower my voice now". And so I mentally punched the air and we carried on talking, taking the volume to 11.

Alas, the hour soon was over and I had to upsticks and make it into the office. Kavey gave me the quick run through of dinner which was Shahi Paneer and Egg Curry with basmati rice and coriander. She also gave me a small red box containing 8 individual Indian sweets which looked really enticing and sent me on a trip down memory lane. I used to live in Forest Gate, East London and we had a newsagent on the corner of our road that sold them. I'll be honest and say that as a kid, I was more interested in gobstoppers and rhubarb and custard so I hadn't actually tried them before but just opening the box induced a flashback and a kind of pavlovian response. The strange sweets on the counter that I was too scared to try but really really wanted to. So I gave my thanks, kisses and thumbs up to Kavey and was on my way.

Work was on the quiet front that evening so there was no eating at the desk for this episode of WMPC although I did snaffle a green pistachio flavoured sweet in the afternoon. I soon discovered that sweet was the operative word and to be honest, I didn't really enjoy it that much, I found it intensely saccharine but nevertheless I gulped it down, the glutton that I am. When I got home later that evening, I divided up the food for myself and Mrs Food Urchin, poured out some beer and settled down and it was pretty much how I expected, superb. The paneer in particular was very good. Kavey professed that she doesn't go in for hot dishes but the cheese curry had a nice chilli kick which cut through the overall creamy richness of the dish. The egg curry, which was an unusual approach for me, was milder and gave a nice fruity balance with its tomato sauce with warm spice notes. The basmati rice was light and fluffy and as the sprinkled coriander leaves warmed up over the heated dish they gave off a lovely perfume. A fantastic effort Kavey.

What happened next though was slightly daft really. And I say next but I should say much later that evening and after much consumption of beer. Initially it was decided that the sweeties in the magic red box should be left alone in the fridge as we were quite full but Mrs Food Urchin went to bed leaving Mr FU to his own devices. So I am left sat in front of the tv and after a period I think "oh sod it, I fancy one of those sweeties now" and so I grab the box and place it on the arm of the sofa. And then I grab a pad to make notes. And then I proceed to eat through the whole lot whilst making notes. They read as follows (including spelling):

(form ealier) green - pistachoi - nice, no too sweet !!!
yellow - very - too sweet
pink - fruity, barry, very nice !!
sliver with pistach? more nutty delicate, delciate marzipan (smooth soft texture, slight meticalbolic, very good)
lemon - v good, rich and unctious
orange - fruity coconut carrot, flake pistachio
turkish delight - floral, rosewater, alomonds,vanilla
donut ball - almond, bready puppy seed, bready

Mrs FU found me on the sofa at 2AM, tossing, turning and moaning, clutching my tummy, the tv still on and with an empty red box on the floor. Like I said I'm a glutton but thanks Kavey for introducing me to the delights of barfi, mithai, halva and laddoo but maybe one at a time next time round eh?

The green one goes first!

Shahi Paneer and Egg Curry with basmati rice and coriander

The silver "meticalbolic"one

The scribblings of a drunk, mad, glutton

Where's the A to Z?

2009-10-31T12:02:00.000-07:00

I have a profoundly inaccurate sense of direction. Stop and ask me the way to the Liverpool Street and it is highly likely that you'll end up in Uxbridge. Alright, that last statement might be a little over the top but there have been a couple of occasions when I've sent a tourist on their merry way and thought afterwards "oh no I meant to say right". This is terrible but I have actually bumped into a fellow pedestrian who recognised me and stopped to remonstrate the fact that I'd given them the wrong instructions a few days previous. I, in no uncertain terms, argued that I had never seen him before in my life, called him an "idiot" and stormed off before he could register that my beetroot-red face and smell the faint involuntary flatulence emitting from my posterior. He was a big hairy scaffolder and scaffolders can be scary blokes you know. So, the moral of this tale is never listen to or accept advice from me when lost. Ask a community police officer for directions, that's all they're good for anyway.

Also, should you ever arrange to meet me for a WMPC swop, don't expect me to know where Canteen is either. Even if I do suggest that it would be a good place to go and that I would buy you breakfast in there. As Mia from The Urban Foodie found to her cost last week. Although I was off work for the week, using up holiday to do some DIY around the house, I didn't want to cancel our appointment so I suggested that we meet early in the morning. That way I could get back home and still have the rest of day to stand in my front room to scratch my head and ponder. You know, I never did get any painting done. So I met Mia at our designated spot, Embankment at 8:45 sharp and with great strides and purpose, walked across Waterloo Bridge to take her to breakfast, having a good natter along the way. When we reach the other side, Mia then turns to me and says "so whereabouts is it? to which I reply "well it's around here somewhere". Actually all I really knew was that I'd heard they had a branch on South Bank, somewhere. Most likely a geezer in the pub told me. Desperate not to let on that I didn't have a clue where we were going, I decided that the best policy would be to run around like a headless chicken, dragging poor Mia left, right, upstairs and down the myriad of steps, byways and walkways around Royal Festival Hall.

After a short while, Mia decided that perhaps she should get directions off her iPhone. "Bloody hell, marvelous idea" I thought, "I should really get myself one of those". Once she found the Canteen website with a map she then handed it over to me. Which was a mistake. Perhaps Mia was trying to do me the good favour of letting me feel as though I was still in charge of the situation but I am dyslexic when it comes to maps. Hence, the poor directional skills. I am sure alarm bells went ringing off as I pointed at the small screen and asked "what do you think that big blue wavy line is?". She didn't have to tell me it was the Thames, the look she gave was enough. In the end, I admitted defeat and had to go into an Eat establishment to ask where the hell Canteen was. And of course, it was just around the corner. 20 minutes faffing about, running up a puff and it was just behind the bloody Royal Festival Hall. Still, nothing like a bit of exercise to build up an appetite.

Once we finally got in there, I have to say that breakfast in Canteen was very pleasant, despite being served by a waiter who clearly wore a string vest under his shirt. Mia plumped for Eggs Florentine and I had Eggs, Bacon and Bubble n Squeak and it was great to sit there having a chat with an absolute stranger. Even if I had to concede that she made the better choice and sat there quite jealous. It's OK she gave me a little bit of poached egg. But as I was saying, most of the contributors to WMPC I have met before but the only lines of communication I've had with Mia were via email and Twitter so it was nice to meet the face behind the blog. And what a blog too. OK, The Urban Foodie is the product of a MA in Web Design so as a food blog it does go beyond the realms, well compared to mine anyway! I'm not sure but I think the blog is relatively new, it certainly is very comprehensive with lots of information with reviews and recipes, you should check it out. And after spending 45 mins talking with Mia, it was clear that here beats the heart of a true epicurean with a lovely sense of humour. But then she'd have to after putting up with the initial farce of trying to find the place.

So what did Mia give me in exchange for brekkie? Sausages, that's what. Casseroled with butter beans, tomatoes, onion and fennel (you can find the recipe here) and it was fantastic, a super winter warmer. You could tell that the snags were of good quality, very meaty with a slight hint of pepper. The beans were soft and yielding and Mia had cut up the onion into fairly large chunks which had been gently caramelised, nice and sweet. Personally, I think that fennel seed is a great addition to any sausage dish adding a lovely hint of aniseed and frequently pair them up at home so Mia was onto a winner here anyway. She also supplied a side salad which I was very impressed with as the leaves, cucumber and tomato had been produced in Hackney, supplied by Growing Communities' scheme. Mia lives in the area and gets a box from them once a week. There were various leaves in the salad but the mizuna in particular was packed with mustard flavour which went down well with Mia's balsamic dressing. An excellent supper.

Thanks a million Mia and next time, you decide where we go, I'll just follow!

Sausage and Butter Bean Casserole

Autumn Salad from Hackney

Hell is a place called Power Point

2009-10-27T11:58:00.000-07:00

OK, rewind. It is a Friday and I am stuck at my desk and because I have decided last minute to take a week off, I have to tie things up. You know brief colleagues, clear email, tidy my pen holder, that kind of thing. It shouldn't have been any bother at all really. As I've mentioned before you could dress a chimp up in a shirt and tie and sit him at my desk. He'd do just fine in my absence. But there was also the small matter of sorting out a request from a client. Something that I had been putting off for days which was the task of touching up a power point presentation. Throughout the week, I would open the file and audibly groan whilst flicking through the slides, mainly because I had no remit and therefore no idea what to do with it. Mr T had simply plonked it on my lap and said "See what ye cun do w'this, wants tartin' up". So midday, I finally call the client to try and get some input and get told that because of branding that I can't change the format too much, the colours, the font, the images. Oh and the graphs should really be left alone. So feeling frustrated and just a tad impetuous, I ask "what exactly do you want us to do with it?"

"Well we thought you could jazz it up a little".

"Aha, yes of course jazz it up a little, why didn't you say! Well, what if I were to take a picture of my hairy bollocks, animate them and have them dance across the bottom of the screen at regular intervals? That would certainly liven up your AGM next week wouldn't it!"

I didn't say that of course but it would have been fun to hear their response. No I simply sighed and said that I would see what I could do and then naturally buried it in the vain hope that it would be picked up by someone else in the office whilst I was away. It was a Friday for gawds sake, I was about to go on holiday, I was finishing early for a change and I had to meet Euwen of A Rather Unusual Chinaman for WMPC.

This was going to be an interesting meet for the plain reason that Euwen (who will readily admit this) rarely cooks. If you have a look at his blog, it's obvious that he is a gourmand and eats out a fair bit, prompting some serious restaurant envy so I was quite pleased that I press ganged him into this little project and got him behind the stove for a change. I had originally planned another jaunt down Whitecross Street Market for lunch but the power point debacle held me back so it was decided that Euwen and I would meet at Moorgate when I finished at 2:30 and I would grab him a bottle of something for his efforts. As I walked down to meet him, I could feel an aching for a sunshine drink so I was mightily pleased that he had time to join me for a pint of the black stuff in The Globe. Which of course turned into two and could have carried on into three or four, had Mrs Food Urchin not rang and told me to get my drunken bum back home as my parents had popped by to visit. A shame really as we had a great chat that afternoon, shooting the breeze, talking mainly about food and our personal histories, I could have quite happily carried on. And I have to say that I am starting to find the social aspect of WMPC just as gratifying as scoffing the grub I receive. I found an interesting quote the other day by James Beard and I have to admit that knowing nothing else about him but still he said that "food is our common ground, a universal experience". If I wanted to form a base for the idea behind this project, it would be just that. Bring a meal to the table and conversation will follow, and then friendship, marriage, kids, who knows! (Don't worry Euwen this is not a proposal, I am just trying to make a comment on the unifying nature of food, albeit in a very cack-handed manner).

So what did Euwen sweat and slave over and what was the verdict? And further more, will he ever get his sister to clean the kitchen? As I understand it, after some panic and deliberation, Euwen went for recreating his mum's Chicken Rice recipe which can be found here. He also threw in a spring roll for good measure and some sweeties purchased on a recent trip to the States. Euwen need not have worried as the rice was very good indeed, full of meaty, savoury goodness. I feel tempted to use the buzzword 'umami' here when describing the flavours but can only hear in my head, Vic Reeves' rendition of 'uvavu' bounce about so I won't. But still the rice was lovely and tender and extremely moreish. Euwen, your mother would be proud. The chicken drumstick did suffer slightly from a nuking in the microwave, still the spring roll though was pretty good, although I am unsure whether he made this or not. And then we come to the Yankee Doodle Dandy confection which consisted of Twizzlers, Jolly Rogers and Hershey Chocolate. I have to say that I am not used to American sweets but jesus, they were sweet! In fact, they were all a bit too much to be honest, I felt like I had to go to the bathroom after each one to scrub the coating from my teeth. And not to mention the fact that they sent me hyper, buzzing with the artificial flavours and sugar load. Seriously, you could go raving on these sweets. Euwen, does your mother know you eat this crap?

For this swap, I grabbed a bottle of Rioja from Marks and Sparks when we left the pub. Thank you Mr Teh, top stuff.

Mum's Chicken Rice

Hallucinogens disguised as sweeties

Going back to Romford shouting "Lager Lager Lager"

Can I Play With Madness?

2009-10-23T11:10:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been in the scenario when you're sitting on a bus with an empty seat next to you? There you are happily going about your own business, reading a book, listening to music or simply staring out the window daydreaming. But then you come to a request stop and another passenger gets on, a passenger who at first glace you know straight away isn't quite right. It's the way they bounce onto the bus and thrust their money violently at the driver before making some bird-like chirp, a whistle and then launch off down the gangway with eyes has wide as saucers. Invariably their trousers are too short, the hair is severely clipped at the side with a plume of madness on top and they carry a blue plastic shopping bag crammed with newspapers and other detritus by their side. You crane your head and look out the window, square on and you are thinking "oh please, oh no, please please don't sit next to me." Naturally, just by emitting that very thought, you become a magnet. The person whips their neck around, focuses, jerks their head to one side, barks and move towards you with great big strides. They plonk right down next to you and introduce themself, saying something like "I've got Bisto in my pants, it makes my bum itchy". Oh dearest headcase, out on day release, why do you aways find me?

I was thinking these same thoughts after I bought Sarah from finger and toes lunch from Whitecross Street market a couple of weeks ago for WMPC. But first some background. As the market has become quite a bustling centre for the local lunchtime crowd, I thought it would be nice to take Sarah down there and sample some of the finest street food that this city has to offer. Funny concept that though, street food, in London or the UK for that matter. Even funnier is the fact that there has been a lot of song and dance recently about the burgeoning pavement catering scene that seems to be developing across the land. Some mad hatter has even come up with the British Street Food Awards which was launched at Whitecross Street a few weeks ago, fully endorsed by Messrs Pierre-White and Worrell-Thompson. Brilliant. Except if you take a walk down this otherwise unassuming street in EC1 on market day, the food varies from Thai to Indian, Italian to Greek, Mexican to Brazilian and is hardly British at all. Let alone street. And what is British street food anyway? Hot chestnuts are all I can think of.

Of course, I am ranting here. Excuse me but I am finding all this hoohah slightly confusing. Nevertheless, Whitecross Street is still a great place to get grub and I left it to Sarah to decide where we should go for lunch. She settled for one of the Thai stalls going for ginger tofu and rice and I took a plastic tray of chicken massaman curry. There is quite a nice pub called The Two Brewers, the proprietors of which let you bring in your food from the market as long as you buy a pint but alas it was rather busy so we had to make do with the adjacent park. No matter, we soon found a bench with table and settled down, having a good chat as we ate. We were then joined by another luncher however, who asked if he could sit with us. Sure no problem. But shortly after getting his tupperware box out which seemed to contain nothing but dark cabbage leaves, he proceeded to start pad out a rhythm with his hands on the table surface. The alarm bells started ringing when he picked up a stick from the floor and asked "is this your stick?" and began to drum with it whilst throwing chunks of green matter into his mouth. His mobile then rang which he answered and had a conversation that went along the lines of "yeah I feel so much calmer today, the sun is shining, I don't feel angry at all". At this point, becoming slightly paranoid that I was sat opposite Jeffrey Dahmer, I started to wolf my massaman down with brute force. I don't know if Sarah was really aware of the guy sitting with us and what he was doing but I had a bad feeling about the situation so I ate my food quickly and wanted to get the hell out of there. To cover things up, I explained that the speed eating was a family thing which she accepted with good grace. Call me shallow, call me a coward, call me idiotic. I don't care, I have had my fair share of nutters on the bus so sorry Sarah if you felt that lunch was rushed somewhat, I did what I had to do. Still I bet I got your blood boiling at the start of the second paragraph though eh! ; )

Thankfully come dinner time, the office was devoid of madmen as my boss was off for the day so I was able to enjoy my meal in peace and quiet. Sarah's contribution of leek quiche with lentils went down a treat. Although Sarah had misgivings about the pastry, I felt that it looked and tasted fine. The leeks were lovely and sweet which were surrounded by a luxuriant cheesy cardigan but I must admit that the pink facon (fake bacon) didn't fool me. Not a bad substitute but not quite the same for this carnivore I'm afraid. The lentils were also very good, with creamy goats cheese, sweet roasted peppers and parsley to give them extra lift. And the balsamic vinegar still hit the spot! A really good combination.

Thanks Sarah.

Leek Quiche and Lentils with Goats Cheese, Peppers and Parsley

Fin

Food Terrorists

2009-10-09T07:55:00.000-07:00

I'm beginning to think that regular normal folk might not be ready for WMPC yet. Of course, all great ideas take time to filter through into the mainstream before they accepted, I realise that. And I expected some some set backs along the way but I never considered to be met with with such a ferocious level of incredulity, confusion and mistrust. I now know how the likes of Darwin, Einstein and Emo Phillips must have felt. Genius is often misunderstood at first. However, I must stay true to the cause. People will eventually see the light. We were rumbled you see, Biggest Jim and I that is. Our exchange of food goods was witnessed in the cold light of day.

GASP! SHOCK! HORROR!

I suppose the scene was fairly innocuous at first. Two blokes sitting there by East India Dock DLR, having a coffee and a chat. We could have been work colleagues on a break. Of course, we then delve into our bags and start explaining to each other what we had brought for the exchange. The look on the third bloke's face sitting on the table next to us was a picture. OK maybe ferocious incredulity is taking it a bit too far but as he looked over blankly, with a paper cup poised just below his open mouth, you could tell that he was definitely having a "what the f....?" moment. It was even funnier when I handed over Vivienne, the fourth daughter of Veronica and said to Jim "be careful when you open the lid, it may explode". As he switched from perplexed frown to nervous glare, you could tell that the poor chap really didn't know what to make of it all. I very nearly went all Michael Winner on him, saying "calm down dear, this just a commercial" but thought better of it. It was far better to have him think that we were some kind of epicurean splinter cell getting ready to terrorise London with sourdough starters and hazelnut biscuits than tell him the truth. So we just got up and left confused guy there. Jim walked off with a variety of spuds from my allotment and the aforementioned Vivienne and I jumped back on the DLR with a tub of jambalaya and said nutty treats.

When it came down to tucking into Jim's cajun speciality in the evening, I very nearly got rumbled again, this time by my boss. As I have made mention on here before I am trying to keep this project under the radar so to speak, primarily as it would just create hassle and I wouldn't be able to speak as freely as I like. So when Mr T (no relation to "ain'tgettingnoplanefoo") came bowling in at 8PM after his usual evening preprandials, I was just setting up the plate on my desk to take some shots. Fortunately for me, he's a four bottles of wine a day man and was pretty oblivious to what I was doing, so I snuck the plate back into the kitchen in the corner of the office. Also Mr T had bigger things on his mind like the fact that the office telephone system had gone up the swanny that day and with alcoholic bravado, was bellowing down his mobile to BT. So from the safety of the kitchen I was able to tuck into my jambalaya without recourse. Just as long as I kept popping my head out and shouting things like "you tell 'em!", "damn right!" and "boy, aren't BT bastards!" with rice spraying out my mouth with each exclamation.

So what was James' jambalaya like? Well, despite the fact that I was wolfing it down as fast I could and spitting half of it back out, goading my boss on, I thought it was very good. With moist pieces of chicken thigh, plump prawns and chunks of spicy chorizo, it was certainly filling. The peppers and onions had been softened thoroughly and took on a delectable caramel sweetness which worked well against the chilli. Saying that, maybe Jim could have been a bit braver and slung some more heat into the mix but that's personal preference speaking out here. He had been worried that the rice, now a day old wasn't up to scratch but the technique of sprinkling some water over the grains before warming back up in the microwave, perked them up just fine. And whilst we're on the subject, the whole nuking of meals in the microwave really hasn't been too bad so far. A lot of contributors have expressed concern before with this method of reheating but I think that's down to memories sticking in the mind of supermarket ready-meals perhaps? If you want my opinion, proper home-made grub doesn't really suffer in the same way as mass produced trays of slop in the ping machine. Just a bit of food for thought there. I had Jim's hazelnut and sesame biscuits once Mr T thundered off for the night and they were also very good too. I could even get the hint of sherry that he added, ususual but still very good.

Thanks big fella, lets hope that the flying squad doesn't come swooping in when you go out for a coffee in the near future.

Biggest Jim's recipe for Jamabalaya can be found here.

Biggest Jim's Jamabalaya (snarfed in the kitchen)

Hazelnut and Sesame biscuit (with a hint of sherry)

The Breakfast Club

2009-09-30T11:16:00.000-07:00

I often get asked what I do for a living and my response of "print monkey" often elicits non-plussed expressions of bemusement. To provide further explanation, I will often say that I work vaguely in the field of digital print where the most taxing of my tasks involves the pressing of a button to set things in motion. In short, a chimpanzee could do my job. Hmm maybe I'm selling myself a bit short here. I do have to keep a sharp eye for detail, I have to be organised and I have to work to deadlines. There are times when I get to be a little creative even. "Hey Dan, that idea for using little televisions as bullet points worked great, just what we needed for our pitch!". There's no escaping it though, life as a print monkey is mind numbingly boring. In the past I've tried to dress it up but have often fallen flat on my arse as a consequence. Once, I bumped into Claire Bristow, an old face from school. She was working behind the bar, I was ordering and being an arrogant twat presumed I had some kind of higher ground.

"How long have you worked here then Claire?"

"Oh about 2 years, what do you do anyway Dan?

"Oh I work in I.T, it's pretty complicated"

"Really? I'm just finishing my Masters on managing information systems, what code do you use?"

With that I just smiled weakly, took a gulp of my pint, placed it back down and ran straight out the bar, screaming. What a prick.

Anyway, I am detracting slightly here with this rant so lets get back to the thread of explaining an aspect of my job that is particularly annoying, having to work late into the night. Whilst everyone else is out there gallivanting across town, I am stuck behind my desk waiting for some PR bod or lawyer to get back from the pub and sign off a press release or some M&A document. Now please do not weep and put your tiny violin and hankerchief away, as over the last few months, I have at least had the good fortune to eat very well when I work in the evenings. And this is all down to a little project called Where's My Pork Chop? Meeting up with different people and getting to sample their food has been fantastic. I am having a ball with it.

However last week, I was incensed beyond belief as I was left in the lurch to...- THIS PART OF THE POST HAS BEEN EDITED OUT AS IT GOES OFF TANGENT, IS FULL OF SELF PITY AND GOES ON AND ON ABOUT BANAL OFFICE POLITICS - ...needless to say I was very busy and didn't get time to eat the very wonderful spread that Naomi aka The Ginger Gourmand had prepared for me for that evening. I was so looking forward to her sumptuous vegetarian feast too, entitled "A Last Taste Of Summer". Instead I spent a cab journey home at 2AM, feeling angry, starved and faintly ridiculous with a large froufie Bonne Maman bag on my lap. As the car picked its way through the quiet streets, I formulated a plan, I would have her picnic for breakfast instead.

Six hours later, I found myself in the kitchen getting ready to get stuck into a full on three course meal which was quite unusual. In the morning, I'm normally a mug of tea and couple slices of toast kinda guy. But as the saying goes breakfast like king, lunch like a prince and dine like a pauper. Although I don't think I looked particularly regal slouching at the table in an old, moth ridden t-shirt and boxer shorts, I was bloody hungry, I can tell you that.

So what did Naomi serve up? Well the menu went like this:

Gazpacho

Leek & Gruyère Tart with Puy Lentil Tabbouleh and Lollo Rosso Salad (with Mustard Dressing)

Lemon Drizzle Cake and All Butter Shortbread

In other words, there was rather a lot.

As this was the first meal of the day, the gazpacho was a perfect start to kick off proceedings, a nice light chilled soup full of vitamin C goodness. Vibrant in colour and with peppery undertones, this Spanish speciality certainly perked up the grey matter. Naomi's tart combined nutty cheese flavours with soft caramelised leeks which worked really well although the pastry itself seemed unusually sweet to me. I later asked her about the recipe and Naomi replied that she had used a simple all butter shortcrust for the tart, seasoned with salt and pepper making me wonder whether perceptions of taste differ at certain times of the day. Any food scientists care to answer? I've coveted Naomi's tabbouleh in the past and having finally tried some, it was certainly good, although perhaps the puy lentils were a little too earthy for this dish. The salad leaves amazingly enough didn't suffer overnight and was still crisp and crunchy with the dressing adding just a gentle touch of mustard heat. As for the lemon drizzle cake, well Naomi provided a massive bar and I am supremely grateful that she did because it was heavenly. Moist and soft with a sugary, citrus crust. The little people who gathered around the table were very impressed with it too. Utterly delicious and destroyed in minutes. I was so full by this point that the biscuits ended getting divvied up between the twins. Probably not the best of ideas as they launched into sucrose overdrive shortly afterwards and went spinning about the house for about an hour.

For the exchange, I gave Naomi some John Doe potatoes from the allotment, named so because I can't remember the variety I planted but they're great for roasties. She also took charge of Verity, the third daughter of Veronica and some bottles of Duvel as I had gathered from her tweets on Twitter that she was rather fond of the stuff. When I met her at the Monument for the swap, I found out that she had in fact lived in Belgium for a period of time. With brews as strong as 8.5%, I was surprised she could even remember.

Thanks for breakfast Naomi and thanks for making me walk through the city with the most frou-frou bag you could find. I don't think I shall return it you now. I think it rather suits me.

Welcome to The Breakfast Club

Gazpacho

Leek & Gruyère Tart with Puy Lentil Tabbouleh and Lollo Rosso Salad (with Mustard Dressing)

Lemon Drizzle Cake

The problem with breakfasting is that you have to share it with the little people

Breville, Be Gone!

2009-09-28T12:26:00.000-07:00

There have been plenty of surreal moments in my life, with images and scenes that will stay in my mind forever. For instance, at a student party I will never forget walking into the living room at 2am and confronting the sight of some strange bloke playing the guitar very badly whilst the sofa behind him was on fire. Then there was the time when I found myself at G-A-Y, busting some serious moves and getting spun around the dance floor by a 6'7 drag queen. This was particularly bizarre as I was under the illusion at the time that it was indie night at The Astoria. And more recently, I was completely thrown when sitting on the floor with the twins one morning. We were watching an engrossing episode of Balamory you see when all of a sudden, who should pop up in Suzy Sweet's kitchen but none other than Keith Floyd himself. I had only just heard about his passing on the news earlier so it was quite unnerving to watch Floyd bounce about the place, throwing meatballs in the air to the beat of Suzie's Cookin'. Perhaps CBeebies saw fit to air that particular episode as a glowing tribute to the great man but it freaked me out I can tell you. The weirdness that day didn't stop there though.

I had arranged to meet Mr Jonathan Brown of Around Britain With A Paunch at St Paul's Cathedral in the afternoon and was running quite late. Once my fellow colleagues finally sauntered back from their lunches, I made a mad dash from the office in the pouring rain, getting thoroughly soaked in the process. When I finally clambered up the slippery steps to the entrance, I found a very dapper and dry Browners standing there grinning from ear to ear with a box under his arm. A box that from it's outside appearance would have originally contained an iron.

"Hi Danny, here's your supper!" he said, still beaming, manically even. I expressed my thanks and then excitedly flipped open the box to inspect it's contents.

The box did in fact contain an iron. I looked up at Jonathan and then back at the iron and then back at Jonathan who by now resembled the proverbial Cheshire Cat. I just looked confused.

Sensing my befuddlement, Jonathan went on to explain "well seeing as you're a fan of Stefan Gates and his gastronaught style of cooking, I thought you could have some fun making a cheese toastie. There's a sandwich in the box wrapped in foil with some pretty good Montgomery Cheddar".

And that's when the penny dropped, my mission was to use the iron as an alternative to the Breville Toaster. Excellent. I should have known better really that the sandwichist would have come up with something like this though. He had also supplied a jar of apple and apricot chutney and a jar of chilli and crab apple jelly, both homemade along with some plums and pears from his garden. For the exchange I took him over to Apostrophe for lunch (where else could it have been really) and caught a quick half hour chatting about the merits of blogging and 'freebies'.

After bidding Mr Brown farewell, I got back to the office, placed the box under my desk and got on with the rest of the day. Yet as evening approached, it was soon time again to start thinking about getting the iron out to cook my toastie and at this point I did start to have some worries. In the end I decided that I would try the experiment at home, partly because I am trying to keep this project under wraps at work and partly because I didn't want my work mates to think I'd gone completely hatstand.

So did it work? Well Jonathan had slathered a fair amount of butter on both sides of the bread as you normally would when making a cheese toastie for a Breville. But I don't think he factored in that I would be making my first attempt at grilling with the iron turned up to full blast. This had near disastrous consequences. As I placed the Hinari Toasty Special down on the bread, there was an immediate loud pop and hiss which just didn't sound right. So I picked the iron up again only to find the sandwich stuck steadfast to the element. My natural reaction was to try and peel the damn thing off and naturally I burned my fingers. So after much profanity and waving of hand in the air, I grabbed a fish slice and managed to wrestle the bread away from the plate. Luckily it wasn't burnt. Much. I then figured that more butter was in order and that the heat should be turned down. I tentatively placed the iron back down and then waited for about a minute. I then picked it up and all looked well, the bread was starting to brown ever so slightly. And so I carried on this process for about 15 minutes, flipping the sandwich over to do the other side and over again and over again. Never before have I paid such attention to 2 slices of bread. In fact, it was quite laborious really. But once I decided that this toastie had reached its zenith, I cut it in two and placed it on a plate and the cheese oozed satisfyingly out. And yes it tasted good, the cheese was indeed nice and mature but unfortunately, my throbbing fingers detracted my attention somewhat. Luckily I had bought a fine bottle of red to raise a glass to Mr Floyd so wasn't in pain for too long.

I will definitely give the Hinari Toasty Special another crack in the future, it just needs some fine tuning methinks. Thanks Jonathan for introducing the 'iron-method' and for the other goodies. Your chutney by the way really hits the spot. Cheers!

Introducing the All New Hinari Toastie Special

Snap, Crackle and Pop

Raising a glass to the finest of television chefs, Mr Floyd

Psst Mate Want Some er.......Herbs?

2009-09-20T12:54:00.000-07:00

Many nights ago, I was sitting at the dinner table with my laptop beavering away at solitaire, googling recipes for bum sandwiches and talking rubbish online when a message popped up, a DM or direct message in Twitter parlance. It said "just did a massive veg harvest b4 going away for a few days, it's yours if you can collect in next 15 hours!". I stared back at the screen wide-eyed and simply whispered out the word "woah", you know just like Keanu Reeves does at the start of The Matrix. And then I thought "Wow, maybe this whole idea of WMPC becoming an underground food movement is starting to take seed. After all, why else should I be getting messages popping up out of the blue like that. No people are starting to understand. They are putting their hands up. They want to feed me. They get the deal. And through this I can show how we can all feed each other. We can all achieve social harmony and peace by exchanging radishes for pasta dishes. We don't need Tescos. This is going to be big. Bigger than bloody Noel Edmunds that's for sure!"

Then my wife came into the kitchen and told me to sit down, shut up and stop shouting or else I would wake the kids. She then peered over my shoulder and said "you know, this Celia Brooks Brown might just want to off-load her extra veg rather than let it go to waste. I bet she couldn't care less about the bloody manifesto behind your who's my pork chop!"

"It's WHERE'S My Pork Chop"

"Whatever, just keep it down"

I had to agree, my wife had a point but nevertheless, after a further exchange on Twitter with Celia, I had decided that this opportunity should be part of my WMPC project. Whether it was in her game plan to meet me at The Rake near Borough Market the next day, I'm not entirely sure. She had asked if I could come and collect remember. Celia also ended up making me tomato soup and gave me some of her allotment chutney as well as carting over said homegrown veg which consisted of tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, beetroot and some very pungent African Blue Basil. Given that she must be up to her eyeballs - she was giving one of her gastrotours around the market later that afternoon - I felt very grateful for our impromptu meeting. Not to mention slightly smug because I had managed to snaffle some food for that evening's shift at the last minute. Oh and cheeky, very cheeky because I got all of this for the price of a beer, a pint of Veltins for Celia and an Essex Boys Bitter for myself.

It was great to while away half an hour with Celia especially when I should have been at work, chatting about allotments, cooking and whatnot. When it came inspecting the bounty though, I must admit I was rather perplexed by the aforementioned herb which came sealed in a clear plastic bag. What the hell was Celia growing on her plot? The good shit? And when I opened the bag the smell hit me like a hammer, it was really heady stuff. So I raised my eyebrows and smiled conspiratorially at Celia and then asked "so what do I use this for?"

"Well it's basil, you might want to chop a little up and sprinkle some on the soup or use it in a salad?" she said, looking a bit confused at my gurning.

"Yes, of course!" I replied, blushing "Basil and tomatoes, marriage made in heaven!"

And with that I made my excuses and dashed back to office, hoping that I wouldn't have to explain why it took me an hour to get some money out of the cash machine. I had the soup later that evening with a bread roll and it was very good indeed, simple, fresh and fruity with a nice background hint of garlic. I smeared some of the chutney on the bread and found it a little too sweet for my liking, but after successive tastings at home it does compliment a good mature cheddar. And as for the basil, well this variety is definitely a herb to be used sparingly, I bit a off large leaf and my tongue was throbbing for hours afterwards. Still it worked well in a tomato and mozzarella salad I made the next day. All in all a great haul.

Thanks Celia.

Celia Brooks Brown and her tomatoes

The bounty with remaining soup, photo taken at home (basil added for decorative effect)

Meals On Wheels

2009-09-07T02:58:00.000-07:00

Autumn is now upon us, my favourite time of year. The corn will be soon harvested, the trees will shed their leaves, the nights will draw in and the air will turn cool. And so through some symbiotic process, I shall dust off my slippers, slip a thick cardie on and proceed to shuffle around the house farting, eating soup cold out of the tin until Christmas. Yeah I love this season, gives me the perfect excuse to act like a miserable old git. I've lost the hair and the teeth are soon to follow if the pain in my jaw is anything to go by (lest we forget the hemorrhoids). I know I'm only 34 but why shouldn't I revel in this new sweet smell of death and decay in the air that surrounds us, meergh!

OK, I'm waffling on like a complete prat here, I'm not that morose a person, no not at all but there is something about this time of year that makes me contemplate the future and wonder what will happen when I reach my autumn years. I've made mention before that I want a change. I want to do something in the grand arena that is food, whatever it may encompass. Like hosting my own television series called "Come Dine On The Farm With Me During An Economic Crisis" for instance. Will I succeed? Who knows. I'm still trying to figure it all out. But whatever happens when I retire, with fortune or not, as long as there is someone like Jan from The Ample Cook to provide me with meals on wheels then I shall be a happy old man.

I was very excited when Jan contacted me to participate in a WMPC swop as she was the first person outside of London to do so, living as she does in Rochford and I'm very keen for this project to include foodies outside the M25. After an email exchange to work out logistics, I was even more enthralled at Jan's suggestion that her hubby, who shall be known as "Tiny", would be happy to courier the grub on his motorbike to my house the afternoon before my late shift. Fantastic! This is exactly what the rest of you lazy blogging buggers should be thinking about. Why the hell should I be racing around town collecting dinner from the likes of you? I mean, don't you know who I am?!* And better still, Jan decided in the end to accompany Tiny to my gaff which was great as the main aim of WMPC is to meet the faces behind the blogs. And for the record they came down the A127 by car, Jan didn't have to ride pillion.

I was little bit late for our meeting which was a couple of weeks ago now (I've been a bit lax writing this report up too) but when I finally made it home, my eyes zeroed in on the massive cool box that lay in the middle of the kitchen before I could turn and say hello to our guests. I've neglected to say so far that Jan also runs her own catering business Feast Direct, and it looked like she had indeed provided a feast. I can tell you, once we had got everything out of the box, I wasn't sure if Jan had taken me to be some glutinous greedy pig and felt that this was the least she should provide without recourse. Who had she been talking to on twitter I wonder? I'm kidding of course but she was generous in the extreme and I felt quite measly handing over some potatoes, leeks, two cobs of corn and some very old runner beans. For this I received, and wait for this:

3 hefty slices of turkey, pork and bacon pie
potato, spring onion and chive salad
tomato, red onion and basil salad
roasted vegetable cous cous
homemade coleslaw
courgette pickle
plum jam
plum chutney
bramley apple cake
conundrum cupcakes (which I couldn't work out - Chomp Whores Perky maybe?)

This in fact fed the family for a couple of days and for that I am very grateful Jan, the twins loved the cupcakes. When I took some portions to work the next day, I felt like a regular Yogi Bear with this pickernick on my desk with my colleagues snooping over my shoulder like Park Ranger Smith. For my money, the turkey pie and courgette pickle were the main stars. Although already sliced, the construction of pie had that artisan quality, it looked just perfect with firm yet moist pastry and big chunks of succulent meat surrounded by jelly. Combined with the tart pickle it was a taste sensation. Really good. The potato salad was luxuriously creamy with nice mild bites of spring onion and the coleslaw also delivered a satisfying crunch. The cous cous was light and fluffy and flavoured well with the roast vegetable but unfortunately the tomato salad suffered overnight having turned quite soggy and listless, if I had eaten it when it was fresh straight from the cool box I am sure it would have been delicious and fresh. The apple pie rounded off my picnic in the office superbly though I would like to try it again with some cream in future. Hmm, if I keep doling out these utterances then any image of myself as a greedy bastard will be justified methinks. The plum jam and plum chutney still reside in my cupboard unopened I'm ashamed to admit but they will plundered soon.

I have to say it was great to meet Jan and her hubby Tiny, despite having to strain my neck to look up at him. Meeting fellow foodies is never a chore and we already have plans to meet up again at the Rochford Beer Festival later this year. Hopefully there will be some more pies on offer then, nudge nudge, wink wink. But in the meantime Jan you've done enough to keep me going, thanks!

The Ample Cook and Food Urchin

"Hello, Mr. Ranger, sir!"

I still don't get that conundrum

Where's the cream?

* Oh you don't?..............shit.

Christina Aguilera's Dirty Knickers (and other related on-line searches)

2009-08-23T12:23:00.000-07:00

There's no denying it, the Internet is a wonderful place but it can also be a strange place where even stranger people lurk. I have recently installed Google Analytics software on this blog site and on Food Urchin, as apparently this is an enterprise-class web analytics solution that gives you rich insights into your website traffic and marketing effectiveness. Zippity doo dah! I can now see if anyone is actually interested in what I am writing about or at least discover how they stumbled across my blog in the first place. So when I analysed the most recent report this morning over a bowl of cornflakes, I was fascinated to learn that someone in outer echelons of the 'net' had been directed to WMPC because they had typed "nipple tweak tube" into the search bar. I say fascinated but I was also slightly disturbed as personally I couldn't find any good reason as to why someone should be looking for such a thing. Maybe I'm naive and should get out some more. Still, such a request does highlight the fact that there are some very odd folks out there. And with that in mind, you do have to feel for Catherine from The Catty Life. After all she had put herself in the precarious position of agreeing to feed some nutter she hardly knew from off the web and meet him in Paternoster Square, outside Itsu. What was she thinking for frack's sake?!

And by all accounts, these were precisely the sentiments of Catherine's (or rather Catty's) friends when she bumped into them last week whilst waiting for yours truly to turn up. You can just imagine it can't you:

"You're doing what? Meeting some guy you've never met before off the Internet and feeding him?"

"Erm, yes?"

"You're crazy, what does he look like?"

"Well he says he looks like a cross between Ade Edmondson and Heston Blumenthal"

"What like that guy over there? With the baggy shorts and hairy knees?"

"Hey yes I think that's him!"

"OK, we'll wait around the corner. Scream if he even breathes on you"

Gladly there was no such ensuing drama, it was just really cool to spend 15 minutes or so, idly chatting with Catty about food, her background and about blogging in general. And this is precisely what the project is about, to get to know the faces behind the blogs. And to eat their food of course and after talking about her Malaysian heritage, I was pretty excited about what kind of meal Catty had cooked. I was however left fairly stumped by her description of "dirty, dirty, dirty fried rice". What, had she gone and served supper up in a filthy ashtray? Even worse, could it be that she is in fact the weirdo off the net and not me? What the hell was in the paper bag she was clutching? My look of concern prompted Catty to explain further that she had been born in Australia and had lived there most of her life. "Dirty" was just an Aussie expression of "full on" and that was the way she liked to cook and flavour her rice. "Strewth", I thought "thank god for that!".

Catty's rice was indeed packed with substance and spice and reinforced a notion I've had in my head for some time that good Eastern style home cooked food takes some beating. Her tip of sprinkling water over the rice before cooking to prevent drying out worked a treat and the smell once it was heated up was mouth-watering. The rice itself was extremely moreish with peppery tones rather than chilli heat and there were plenty of lovely morsels of bbq pork and juicy plump prawns. No sorry, not morsels, more like dirty fat chunks. The strips of egg may have suffered slightly at the hand of the microwave, I did give them just the shortest of blasts separately but unfortunately they turned a bit rubbery. Still no matter, it didn't stop me from wolfing them down with the rest like a greedy pig. The recipe isn't on her blog but she was kind enough to let me post it on WMPC which you'll find at the bottom. The chrysanthemum tea was a new one on me and once I got used it's subtle sweet taste, I found that I really liked it and in a funny way, it married up well with Catty's dish. She also provided some wrapped sweeties for afters, a kind of coconut truffle that was snaffled up straight away. Alas little piggy here neglected to note the brand but they were very nice (oink oink).

For the exchange I bought lunch for Catty in the shape of sushi and fresh fruit salad from Itsu. She did say that it wasn't the best in the city by far and prefers Ribbon for a lunchtime bento box but I suspect that she had plans to be sneak back in for some frozen yoghurt once I departed. And why not, we all have our own little deviant secrets don't we but I would sooner meet up with Catty than Mr Nipple Tweak Tube any day of the week.

Thanks a lot Catty!

'How Catty Likes Her Own Fried Rice'

Yeo's Chrysanthemum Tea

Catty's Dirty Fried Rice

3 cups of jasmine rice
4 eggs
1 takeaway box of BBQ pork with sauce
400 grams prawns
200 green beans, diced
1 large onion, diced
Oyster sauce
Light soy sauce
Chilli flakes to taste
Cracked pepper to taste
Olive oil

1. Cook the rice and refrigerate overnight (fried rice cooks best with dry, cooked rice - you can try it with rice you've just cooked but it may turn out a little gooey).
2. Beat the eggs in a bowl, add a touch of soy sauce and cracked pepper. Separate into two bowls.
3. Heat some olive oil in a pan and when very hot, add a small amount of egg from one bowl to make a thin film. As it cooks (and it only takes seconds) flip over and lightly cook the other side. Remove from heat. Repeat until egg from one bowl is all used up. Cut the thin egg sheets into strips and set aside - this is for the egg 'strips' which top off the fried rice.
4. Heat some more olive oil and add the other bowl of egg. Lightly fry on each side and using the spatula/wooden spoon/whatever you cook with, shred the egg into small pieces. Remove from heat and put aside - this is to mix with the fried rice in step 9.
5. Heat the pan again with olive oil, and add onions. Fry until they are just starting to brown then add the beans.
6. Fry until beans are starting to soften, then add the prawns.
7. Once the prawns are cooked, add the rice. Add a decent dollop(s) of oyster sauce and a good dash of soy, and stir stir stir!
8. On a low heat, keep stirring and frying, making sure you have no 'white rice'. Everything should be saucy ;)
9. Add the BBQ pork (and all its sauce) and the egg (not the strips), continue stirring.
10. Add cracked pepper and chilli flakes to taste.
11. Once cooked, top with strips of egg and serve immediately.

Serves 4.

Help Wanted, Apply Within

2009-08-13T14:07:00.001-07:00

I was a bit miffed about the last WMPC exchange. Some people really need to get their arses into gear you know and organise the time they've got and make sure that they get the ingredients they need in time for the swap. Otherwise the whole exchange is a bit pointless and you end up handing something over that is obviously a last minute gesture, which in turn makes you look a bit lame. My meeting with Lizzie of Hollowlegs at Oxford Circus felt exactly like that and as I walked away with this horrible empty feeling, the best I could do to console myself was to think "well at least I got Violet over to her, that marrow will have to wait until next time, I can't believe I forgot it and the bloody camera too".

Ah you thought I was slagging off Lizzie for a second then, didn't you? No she came up trumps, I'm just being hard on myself for not getting down to the allotment in the morning. I had found out that she was quite a fan of marrow you see, so I left one of my courgettes alone for the last couple of weeks and it was shaping up to be a real whopper. Like something Captain Caveman would wield. And then come Wednesday, amidst the howls of a chaotic morning, I couldn't find the key for the allotment gate. It had just disappeared. I could have run down there and tried to shout up to the patrol tower to be let in but Arthur who was on duty that morning is deaf and would have probably been asleep anyway. Yes they take security very seriously down Norfolk Road Allotment. So I left the house and on the way to the station, I bombed into M&S to pick up the first bottle of sauvignon blanc I could find (I hate M&S but was now in a rush). Then when I was on the train travelling in I looked into my bag and realised that I left the camera at home, so wouldn't be able to take photos of Lizzie's offering in the office. Naturally after this revelation I threw some violent jerky shapes in my seat whilst cursing under my breath which I believe perturbed my fellow passengers a fair bit. So I decided to calm down and look out of the window with just the smallest of ticks flicking under my eye. "Still at least I remembered to take along Violet" I thought, the second born daughter of Veronica, my sourdough starter of nearly 6 months now "Lizzie should be happy with that at least."

Prior to meeting Ms Hollowlegs, I was intrigued as to what she was going to do. We had bumped into each other earlier in the week at the BPR Summit and in the pub after the word "Spam" was getting bandied about a lot, leaving me a little apprehensive. A love of marrow, although watery and tasteless to some, I could appreciate. Spam on the other hand, I really do find hard to get excited about. Memories of the stuff, greasy and battered, plague me from my student days when we lived two doors down from a chippy/kebab shop and would regularly chow down on Spam patties. I suspect that Lizzie is a bit of Spam connoisseur and when she noticed my reaction to the mere mention of the word, she shot me a look that said "you'll get what you're given pal!". Perhaps she had been pulling my leg all along because when I met her a couple of days later, she produced a massive lunchbox containing Baby Octopus and Aubergine Pasta with no Spam in sight. And for this I was extremely grateful. Even better was the fact that I didn't have to work too late that night and was able to take it home to photographise her work before scoffing it down. It wouldn't have done to put up a picture of an empty lunchbox now*.

The great thing about this pasta (which I ate cold later in the evening) was it's simplicity. Sometimes it can be tempting to throw everything in but the kitchen sink when making a sauce. I do it all the time but Lizzie's tomato sauce was just right, giving the penne an even coating with a nice fresh zing. This meant that octopus and aubergine stood out rightly on their own. I love aubergine and the juicy, smokey flavours from the slices worked well against the light, tender pieces of baby octopus, delicious. I was pretty amazed to find out that the octopus had previously been frozen and would like to know where Lizzie gets her supply from. In the outer reaches of Essex, like in Sainsburys, Hornchurch High St, I've only really seen it in jars of brine, not the same at all. And lastly, I'd just like to say I was fairly staggered with the amount of food that she had made. If this is an average portion size then Lizzie really does have hollow legs.

Cheers Lizzie and thanks for providing the recipe (which I have posted below). I'll try to get that marrow to you once I find the key or when I finally get the attention of Arthur, whatever comes first.

Baby Octopus and Aubergine Pasta

Baby Octopus and Aubergine Pasta

200gr penne

2 cloves of garlic

2 shallots

1 can of cherry tomatoes (or just chopped) in juice

A glug of sherry (or a pinch of sugar)

A large pinch of chilli flakes

8 baby octopus, defrosted if frozen

1 aubergine

A handful of parsley Slice the aubergine thickly. in a non-stick pan, heat up some oil and fry the slices until browned on both sides. Remove and leave on kitchen paper. Heat up some more oil and fry the shallots with the garlic and chilli on a low heat. Slice the octopus in half if they're big and then add them to the pan. Fry them until they start to curl a little, then add the glug of sherry and simmer until reduced. Then add the aubergine slices and the can of tomatoes. Season generously with salt and pepper and simmer for 30 minutes, until thickened. The sauce should be quite thick, so do stir it now and again so it doesn't stick to the bottom. Meanwhile, cook the pasta to al dente. When the sauce is sufficiently thickened, mix with the pasta and scatter the parsley, finely chopped, into the pasta.

*Speaking of empty lunchboxes and other food carrying receptacles, I have now accumulated a large amount which is taking up valuable space in my cupboard. Please let me know if you want yours back and I will get my secretary to post them to you as soon as possible.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

2009-08-05T23:21:00.000-07:00

I'd never really thought about this before but after walking away from a recent WMPC exchange with Charlie of Eatmynels, it suddenly occurred to me that to the uninformed observer, what had just happened might seem....well slightly odd. And since I've started this little project, it's obviously happened a few times now. These episodes of oddness I mean. Picture the scene. One bloke (curly hair, athletic type) turns up to Farringdon Station on his bike, hops off and inspects the contents of his Freitag. Another bloke (bald with glasses but still curiously handsome) comes walking down the street, lugging a heavy rucksack. Baldy Bloke approaches Bike Bloke and they shake hands. Bike Bloke pulls out a carrier bag from his courier bag and Baldy Bloke looks in, looks back up, smiles and give the big thumbs up. Baldy Bloke then pulls a great big fat marrow out of his rucksack and hands it over to Bike Bloke who smiles and gives the big thumbs up back. They then put the respective swapped goods into their own bags, shake hands again and leave the scene, going off in opposite directions.

Now if I had been viewing this transaction from outside The Castle, the pub across the road whilst supping a beer, my furtive imagination would have come up with all kinds of conclusions. I'd definitely be thinking "what the bloody hell is going on there then?". Particularly if I had seen Charlie beaming the way he did when he was holding said marrow in his hands. But it's funny isn't it. In this frantic, heaving, belching sprawl of a city, where it's head down, plough forward, it's highly unlikely that any passer-by would have noticed the exchange. Wouldn't it be thrilling though if you actually stopped for a minute and took a close look around you. What if you spied someone dropping a loaf of sourdough into the lap of a customer at a coffee shop before disappearing out into the street. Or if you noticed a passenger on the tube slip a leek from out of their newspaper and hand it to the person sitting next to you before jumping off at the next stop. Or say if you saw two people sit down at a park bench each placing a paper bag on the floor between them, which they surreptitiously switch before suddenly walking off. Ha! Wouldn't that be great? OK, maybe I'm getting a bit carried away but keep your eyes peeled, it is quite possible that I am not alone and that food exchanges are happening all over the place. You never know.

After all that pontificating I better get down to the business of talking about Charlie's contribution to WMPC which was well worth the price of that big fat marrow, plus some runner beans, french beans and Desiree potatoes. These potatoes by the way are a revelation, not only for their taste but for the fact that we had completely forgotten that we'd planted them in the first place. When I first dug them up at the weekend, I shouted "Bloody hell, we've got red ones!". I'm waffling again, onto Charlie's mexican feast. I vaguely recall when I first met him at the Catavino Wine and Food Bloggers get together a few months ago, that he had been professionally trained and spent some time working as a chef proper. So I was looking forward to seeing what he'd rustle up when I got his name in the diary. Even more so when he told me that he would be providing his Chilli con Carne which won the People's Choice Award at the recent chilli cook-off at All Star Lanes. And plus Charlie had even committed to cooking the rice just before we would meet, talk about ticking all the boxes! But did his chilli meet this heightened level of expectation?

Charlie con Chilli

Well of course it did. Much as I am aware that this exercise is becoming a bit of a lovefest for other blogger's cooking, Charlie's chilli really hit the spot. I don't claim to be an expert but this meal carried a real air of authenticity as he also provided two types of salsa, crème fraîche and cheese to accompany. The Chilli con Carne itself gave just the right kick, hot but not too over bearing (the addition of a scotch bonnet for decoration did worry me for a second) with lovely warm undertones of cumin and smoky paprika. The chunky meat was a nice change from the usual mincemeat texture and absorbed all the flavours well. The salsas were great, nice fresh flavours with the tomato pushing in just bit more heat whereas the sweetcorn with coriander cooled the tastebuds down and I swear there was beer in it but maybe I was just hankering after a Corona. The rice was fluffy, clean and tender having just been cooked and I was very intrigued by the little spheres in the crème fraîche, pink peppercorns Charlie? A very worthy champion indeed.

Cheers Charlie and apologies for alluding to you having inappropriate ideas about the marrow but you did say that you were going to "stuff the shit out of it"!

Sweetcorn Salsa

Charley Says.......

2009-08-03T02:39:00.001-07:00

Ever remember your parents telling you never to accept sweeties from strangers? Well despite having that mantra drummed into me constantly as a kid, it seems that all that effort has gone to waste as I found myself last Friday at noon by the Monument waiting for exactly that, sweeties from a stranger. OK so perhaps Lara wasn't completely unknown to me as we have been exchanging tweets for some time now but she is the first person to contribute to WMPC who I haven't met in person. And plus Lara doesn't blog so prior to meeting her, I had no point of reference. I didn't know what kind of food she liked, I had no pretty pictures to look at and (dare I say it) I couldn't be absolutely sure that she was good cook! Remember, it was time spent drooling over fellow foodie's posts that kick started this idea in the first place so this was really a leap into the unknown, expectation wise. Of course, I was overlooking the one simple fact that this girl has started running one of those 'home' restaurants you just might have heard about, in leafy East Sheen appropriately named "Sheen Suppers". If Lara was opening her doors to indulge punters in a spot of underground cuisine, then surely she must know her stuff?

I'd got to the Monument fairly early and was musing upon this particular aspect (along with calculating how far I could run up the 311 steps before collapsing - about fifty I reckon under current conditions) when I spied Lara, who came bombing out of the tube station, talking on the phone. As Lara came towards me, I did that thing of standing stiff and waving and smiling awkwardly like you do when meeting someone for the first time. Or is that just me? So anyway when she whizzed straight past, I felt even more awkward. Don't worry, I soon regained my cool by pretending to swat an imaginary fly. But when she disappeared around one corner of the Monument, I began to panic, where was she going? That was her wasn't it? The short blond hair as sported on her Twitter avatar was unmistakable. I thought about following her but then thought against it, we could end up running circles around the base of the Monument for hours trying to find each other. No I decided to stand still and hoped to catch her should she came speeding around the other side. Luckily she did and I was able to get her attention by waving both my arms up and down like a lunatic. And so after some relief it was indeed the Lara that I waved down, we got down to exchanging handshakes, pleasantries and food goodies.

For Friday's exchange I had brought some charlotte potatoes, broad beans, runner beans, french beans, loadsabeans in fact and a spring cabbage. Lara in return had brought along some Thai Spiced Chicken, a Thai Flavoured Risotto with Peas and a Ginger Blondie with White Chocolate and Ginger Truffles. Lara explained further that the risotto idea was formed from leftover ingredients for that night's Sheen Supper, casually adding that she was "serving up Arancini with this spicy coconut monkfish fusion type dish you see". Naturally I could only nod back at her, open-mouthed and dumbstruck because a) I was mightly impressed and b) being the idiot I am, I didn't have a clue what Arancini was. And to think that I had the temerity to consider she might not be up to the WMPC challenge, she was starting up a restaurant in her own house for gawd's sake, of course she could bloody cook! You may have to be slightly mad to go ahead with such a venture but you should certainly be confident of your own ability in the kitchen and Lara definitely seemed so. Confident that is, not mad. So after shaking hands and wishing good luck, I bade her farewell and raced back to the office to google "arancini".

Fried rice balls! Why didn't she say so!

It was another evening were work was thin on the ground so I was able leave at a reasonable hour and take Lara's dinner home with me to sample with my good wife. I must admit I did find the idea of a Thai risotto quite unconventional but after heating it through and taking a few mouthfuls, I was pleasantly surprised. Combining Thai flavours such as chilli, coriander, lemongrass and lime with the indulgently oozy texture of the rice worked really well. I did wonder if she had made this with coconut milk but apparently not, just cream, mascarpone and parmesan. In any case it highlighted the fact that a good basic risotto can really be a blank canvas. The spicy chicken was very good too, well seasoned and still fairly moist, providing a delicious meaty accompaniment to the rice. And as for the Blondie, well that went down a real storm between the pair of us, rich and decadent with small flakes of fiery ginger, a real sweet tooth lover's delight. We ate it cold but I suspect it would taste even better just slightly warmed up and I'll test this theory out as Lara was gracious enough to let me have the recipe to post on here. Psst, I've put it at the bottom. The truffles by the way were little bites of naughtiness and equally delightful.

I believe Lara's next date for Sheen Suppers is 4th September, so if you fancy something slightly off the wall then you can make a booking by emailing her at: sheensuppers@googlemail.com. Alas, I shall be up in Newcastle on a stag-do sampling the culinary delights of kebabs and Newky Brown but will be sure to get down to south-west London for the next one.

Thanks Lara (and don't tell my mum what I've done).

Thai Spiced Chicken and Thai Flavoured Risotto with Peas

Ginger Blondie with White Chocolate and Ginger Truffles

Ginger Blondies, Ginger Cream and White Chocolate & Ginger Truffles

The Blondie recipe makes about 16-18 small Blondies, 12 large ones, less if you trim the edges off to make them neater (I personally don't like the crusty edge of any cake!). Basically, a tin 18cm x 32cm or the equivalent size in a different shaped tin.

Ginger Blondies
300g good quality white choc (chopped into very small bits)
150g unsalted butter (cubed)
1 level tbsp of grated fresh ginger - microplane grated is best (no fibres)
I vanilla pod
300g soft brown sugar
3 medium eggs (size is important in this case)
175g plain flour

In a large bowl, beat together eggs, sugar and vanilla pod scrapings.
Use a bain mairie to carefully melt together 200g of the choc and butter on a low heat. Cool for 5 minutes so you don't scramble the eggs and add to the egg/sugar mixture.
When well mixed, add the flour - don't beat the life out of it but do carefully make sure it's properly mixed.
Mix in the ginger and taste. It should be there but should not overpower the fudgy flavour of the choc. Stir in remaining chocolate bits and pour into the tray (they need to be small so they melt quickly and don't sink). Tap the tin a couple of times to get rid of big bubbles. Cook for 35 minutes in a pre-heated oven (180/gas 4 - I use the conventional rather than the fan setting). Test at 30 minutes. They are ready when an inserted skewer is cleanish - some stickiness is fine and in fact, desired.

Ginger Cream
The amounts for the cream entirely depend on how many people you wish to serve (obviously).
For a pint of double cream, add 4 tbsp of Golden Syrup and 1 level tbsp of Ground Ginger and whip to desired thickness.

Truffle
250g good quality white choc (small bits)
150g good quality white choc (finely grated)
60ml of double cream
50g unsalted butter
1 tsp of ground ginger
Pinch nutmeg
Crystallised ginger for decoration

In a pan and carefully, on a low heat, melt 250g of the choc with all other ingredients (except the crystallised ginger). Cool in a covered tray in the fridge for anything from 2 to 12 hours (I often leave overnight). It's ready for the next stage when it's firm and you can scoop out a truffle shape with a spoon, melon baller etc. but it still has some stickiness. Roll the truffle shapes (you'll get 20 ish small truffles from this recipe but you can make them whatever size you want). Roll them in the grated choc, add a little strip of crystallised ginger to the top and sit on greaseproof paper in a sealed container in a nice cold fridge to set further.

Lara Newman
25.5.09

Atischoo! Atischoo! We All Fall Down!

2009-07-27T09:11:00.000-07:00

There's nothing more I love in life than a good old fashioned dare. You have to be careful though, some dares can get you into trouble, such as running through the streets of Romford wearing nothing but a pair of Dr Martins. The police gave me a thorough ticking off for that one. Some dares can even be quite dangerous such as abseiling down the side of a Parisian hotel using just bedsheets tied together for rope which were attached to a radiator in my room four floors up. The gendarmerie, my rugby coach and my parents gave me an absolute bollocking for that one I can tell you. However, these are the excesses of an exuberant youth, I've calmed down a hell of a lot these days, I'm a family man looking to live the quiet life now. But still, its good to buck the trend once in a while and revisit the dare especially in the face of hysteria. I blame Rejina from Gastrogeek for the latest one of course, she put the seed inside my head prior to meeting up for today's episode of WMPC.

When organising a time and date to meet Rejina through a plethora of emails, I discovered that she worked right next door to Borough Market and so I expressed that she was really "jammy" to be so close to such a foodie mecca. Her response was "not jammy, just infinitely more likely to catch swine flu!" which gave me food for thought. In this current age of panic, should I really be transversing the capital's byways and public transport system all for the sake of a meal? Should I really be putting myself at risk like this just so I can type out some witty gems and stake my claim in the world of food writing? Furthermore, I could inadvertently become a carrier and wipe out the food blogging community forever, they are a sickly lot at the best of time, the alcohol consumption weakens the immune system you see. Still at least that way I could scoop up all the blogging awards that are up for grabs. I seriously thought that at the very least I should get one of the surgical masks just to be careful. But then I got a grip of myself and told myself not to be so stupid, there's no way I'm going to get one of those awards*

Of course when we did meet this morning, I reminded Rejina of the swine flu comment and said "hey wouldn't it be funny if we did this exchange wearing masks!" and her eyes lit up. "That is a fantastic idea!" she beamed back and before I knew it we where in the outpatients department at Kings College Hospital where she works, with the bestest of straight faces trying to snaffle some from a nurse. Rejina did all the talking whilst I lurked in the corridor (had I met a 'dare' connoisseur I wonder?) and before long she came skipping out clutching two. And so from there we nipped around the corner to the main entrance of the hospital and collared some poor decorator on his lunch break to take some snaps.

"I'm not going to get into trouble for this am I?", he asked with a slight look of apprehension on his face.

"No, no, no, you be just fine, just take loads of photos. And quickly. And make sure you get the hospital sign in the background!", I rattled back.

Can you spot the old lady in the background? She wasn't impressed.

To say it was slightly surreal would be an understatement especially with the amount of people gawping at us walking through the busy thoroughfare but as Mr Painter was snapping away, I felt a gleeful joy. It was like being that naughty college boy on rugby tour again. Alas I think it was too much for Rejina who quickly ran back into the hospital after exchanging bags proper, giggling her head off probably thinking "bloody hell I hope my colleagues didn't see me" (so maybe not the connoisseur after all). And so I slowly meandered back to the office, chuckling to myself, carrying a tub of chicken casserole, with the mask perched at a jaunty angle on my head.

The casserole was a perfect example of good home made grub that Rejina says she simply threw together. It was tasty and filling with lovely moist chicken, potatoes and carrots. The peas in particular were very good having remained fairly sweet and the one herb dumpling served up was utterly delicious. I say one because I found out that her fiance had nicked the other one that Rejina intended for me when packing the meal. I feel quite pained by this and have told her to pass on the message I wish to challenge him to a duel on Blackheath Common this coming Friday, 6AM. Tickets will be available. And yes I'll admit to licking the plate clean making the best of the yummy gravy, well there was no-one else in the office so who cares.

For this wonderful dinner I exchanged a bottle of Matahiwi Sauvignon Blanc, a fine gooseberry smacked bit of glug from Malborough, New Zealand.

Excellent dinner and daring-do Rejina!

Chicken Casserole with NHS issue swine flu mask

*After all this flippancy, I'm bound to get the dreaded pig lurgy now.....oops.

Piggy Heaven

2009-07-23T13:51:00.001-07:00

When I first came up with the idea of Where's My Pork Chop? I wasn't entirely sure whether it would take off. The concept may be quite simple, at its heart the message is basically "I tell you what, feed me some of your lovely grub and I'll give you something in return". Slightly cheeky? Well maybe but since I've started posting about my adventures, I've been taken aback by the number of people who have contacted me saying they're are up for it, asking when can they cook for me. The amount of goodwill out there is really heartwarming but after my latest exchange with Linda of With Knife and Fork at Cafe Nero, Chancery Lane, I was knocked sideways on two counts. Not only did she provide an enormous feast for my consumption but she also gave me half an hour of her time, taking on the role of careers advisor (talk about food acting as a conduit!).

To explain further, I am standing at a kind of crossroads in my life at the moment. It's the usual scenario, I hate my job, I want to change, I want to do something I really enjoy. Mid-life crisis is not the domain of the forty something anymore so here I am, scrambling about, desperately trying to think about what I can do about it. Linda caught wind of this via my whinging on twitter and said that she would be happy to have a chat about it with me, as in her own words "she's been there and is also a professional studier" so perhaps she could give me a few pointers. And blimey did she give me a few pointers. I'll be honest and say at times during the conversation I was completely bamboozled and I suspect that Linda noticed this as I stared gormlessly back at her with the Magic Roundabout theme tune playing in my head. But the underlying advice that she gave me was very helpful and I left the café with a renewed purpose and vigour in my step.

As such it wasn't until I got back to the office that I bothered to look into the very heavy bag that Linda had given me and take out the menu she had printed off entitled "Pork five ways - an experiment in porcine cooking". Yes she had made 5 little piggy dishes, all individually wrapped and labelled, for me to try out. Now I know she likes studying but Linda had approached this project with all the zeal of Hermione Granger! Not that I'm ungrateful, no this little piggy was extremely happy of course and ran wee wee all the way home later that evening to share the meal with his wife because for once, he didn't have to work late in the office. So what was on the menu?

Amuse

Spiced Pork Crackling

Starter

Hammy Pea Soup with White Sourdough Bread
Main

Pork Rillettes

Chicken Liver and Pork Pate

Deconstructed Piccalilli with White Sourdough Bread

Dessert

Spanish style Lard Cookies

By Linda's own admission the spiced crackling didn't come out as planned (and I make her right!) but the rest of the food was absolutely delicious. The pea soup had a luscious, velvet consistency and was beautifully green in colour. The chicken liver and pork pate was airy and delicate, almost mousse-like in texture and we lapped up the deconstructed piccalilli, a lighter, fresher version of it's cousin which was nice and clean on the palate. Her Spanish style cookies wouldn't go amiss on Christmas Eve with their sweet, cinnamon bite but the stars of the feast had to be the pork rillettes and sourdough bread. It may not have been the healthiest of options but the rillette really was manna from heaven, truly indulgent with shredded pork, fat and a background flavour of mace or nutmeg. Mrs Food Urchin had to take the jar off me by force (but later I snuck it back into my rucksack for lunch the next day). And spending a day with Mr Dan Lepard has certainly paid dividends on the sourdough, again I had to be physically stopped by my wife from shovelling the lot down my throat so that she could get a look in. I maybe starting to sound like a proper pig here but I'm not used to sharing my WMPC you see. (Well that's my story and I'm sticking by it).

For the swap, I picked some curly kale, french beans and 4 courgette flowers along with some charlotte potatoes which in light of what Linda had come up (along with the free consultation) my contribution seems quite meagre now so perhaps I should try and send a bottle of sloe gin her way. I'm afraid that I can't link the recipes here as Linda took this as an opportunity to try out dishes that she's meaning to do for ages but credited Jennifer McLagan, Gary Rhodes, the aforementioned Dan Lepard, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Fergus Henderson and her mum. If her mum was responsible for the rillette recipe then I would like to pass on a big smacker on the lips but if it was Hugh's.......well go on then.

Cheers Linda, oink oink!

It was just like Christmas it was!

Oink Oink!

Lots more porky photos can be found here.

You Know What Really Gets My Goat?

2009-07-16T03:08:00.001-07:00

I so very nearly blew my top with this one.

Seriously.

Just imagine, there I was preparing myself yesterday morning, getting psyched up and ready for the arduous journey ahead. I got tooled up with the biggest marrow I could find down the allotment for protection, I strap a secret wallet around my waist to hide valuables and lace up my biggest pair of bovver boots. I then spend a good half hour staring in the mirror repeating "You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? Then who the hell else are you talking... you talking to me?!" over and over again. And then Helen of Food Stories texts me in a panic and says that she's left the Curry Goat at home, leaving me thinking that this week's WMPC was off. I mean look, didn't she know how difficult it was going to be for me to go south of the river, especially to Camberwell of all places? It was just as well that she lived down the road from where she worked and could nip back home to collect my dinner otherwise there would have been hell to pay.

I jest of course, I had no problem at all with jumping on the train to meet Helen in Sarf London, it's all part of the great adventure that is WMPC. Actually I like to think it highlights my commitment to the cause. Make the offer of a good meal and I will always go the extra mile (Penge being the exception, I will never go to Penge). And speaking of which, I was very grateful that Helen went the extra mile because her curry was absolutely knockout.

I've eaten a few Jamaican staples plenty of times before such as Ackee and Saltfish and Jerk Chicken but this was the first time I've ever had Curry Goat. By her own admission, Helen wasn't entirely sure that it was goat but quite possibly mutton, as by all accounts it is often sold as a substitute in the butchers i.e. "mutton for goat". Still, that was ok as I don't think I've tried mutton before either. The meat was fairly strong in flavour like lamb but didn't actually taste of lamb, if that makes any sense and it was fantastically tender, it really did melt in the mouth. This was obviously a dish that Helen took her time over. The best part though was the spicy hot rich sauce. You know I said that I nearly blew my top, well in fact I did, in the most pleasurable way possible. With the scotch bonnet chillies pushing up the barometer on the scoville scale, it did test my capacity for hotness somewhat, causing the old bonce to sweat a bit but I made it through. Given the intensity of heat, there was a healthy whack of lime in the background which added a certain tang and the peas and rice with the addition of coconut milk gave a nice cool contrast.

Wicked!

For the exchange I handed over an unfeasibly large marrow, the one that I planned to use for self-protection, a bag of peas and a small pot of jam (strawberry, raspberry and blackcurrant made by my father) all produced from the allotment. I get the impression that Helen plans to make some rum with the marrow through some strange alchemic process, a gin-soaked idea if ever I've heard one but if she's successful, I for one will not be handing out any more marrows for WMPC.

It'll be Food Urchin's Own "Mount Gay" and Curry Goat all the way for me I can tell you.

Before

After (phew!)

Sexual "Zucchini" Healing

2009-07-01T02:46:00.000-07:00

For the lastest installment of WMPC, when Kerri of Dinner Diary tweeted me and asked whether I had a toaster in the kitchen at work, alarm bells started ringing, because a) we don't have one and b) it left me thinking, "She's gone and bought me Pop Tarts, that's no bloody dinner!"

Of course I should have known better as I have been scouring Kerri's food blog, which is also co-written by her fiancé Stephen, for some time now. To say it's comprehensive would be an understatement, so to assume they were ducking out by providing some sickly sweet 80's cardboard snack would have been insulting on my part. When I met Kerri at Embankment tube station yesterday morning, she said herself "I bet you thought I was bringing you some Pop Tarts!". Little did she know that my nervous giggle was in fact hiding a huge sigh of relief as she handed a lunch bag containing a much coveted portion of Two Bean Chilli, along with some grated cheese and sesame roll (if I had the toaster it would have been pitta bread - "ah so now I see")

For the exchange, I siphoned off a small portion of Veronica, my sourdough starter of 5 months, into a jam jar and named the offspring "Velma". I can only hope that she does her mother proud. I also went down to the allotment to pick a few spuds, some curly kale, a couple of courgettes and some of the pretty flowers that grow from them. I must admit cutting the flowers off did leave me with some trepidation as there had been an online discussion in the week with KaveyF and hollowlegs on twitter regarding what flowers to pick and pollenation. Take too many of the boy flowers away and you could leave the plant sterile. So I tentatively cut just two off yesterday morning. It is my plan though to go down to the plot this afternoon, place a bottle of wine and some Marvin Gaye playing extra loud on my iPod by the courgette plants and leave the bees to do the rest. Just to make sure, you know.

So how was the Two Bean Chilli? Well like I said before, Kerri and Stephen obviously cook a lot and this dish really showed off their talents. Sometimes this dish can be fairly one dimensional, it's served up in the pub across the road from where I work and it is just full on fiery, nothing else but this effort had lots of nuances and subtleties flowing through it. It had a nice amount of heat and you really could taste lots of individual spice flavours and I think the fact that there was no meat in it to dominate helped. I'm forever buying tins of beans and pulses and then leaving them in the cupboard gathering dust so will definitely be making this at home in the future.

I'm always a fan of cheese on chilli so thanks also for providing that Kerri, I know you were a little short on time so how you baked that sesame roll first thing is beyond me! ; )

Fantástico!

Two Bean Chilli

Hot In The City

2009-06-27T02:15:00.000-07:00

The recent hot and muggy weather this week has really got on my nerves. I'm fed up of walking out of the house, cool and fresh from a shower yet by the time I get into work I'm a sweaty scummy mess. I don't know what it is but when it's hot, the city of London seems to envelope you in this film of grime and grease. I recently heard the expression "I got totally KFC'd taking a walk this lunchtime" and I know exactly what they mean.

So yesterday when I took a 5 minute sauna, sorry journey, on the tube to meet Niamh of Eatlikeagirl who was contributing a meal for the second installment of WMPC and had been very secretive about it, the last thing I had on my mind was curry.

And yet of course that's what she had made me, a curry.

Now don't get me wrong, I love a curry, hot ones too but the prospect of plowing and perspiring through a fiery dish on a day like yesterday did unnerve me a little and wishing that I brought a spare shirt. But don't worry Niamh, your Prawn Curry came through just fine and if it meant stripping down to my pants to have a second helping then I would have gladly done so! (Now there's an image to torment the soul!)

The great thing about this curry was the equal combination of tomato and coconut milk, giving a nice balance of fruit and cream. The blend of spices was delicate and the chilli gave away just the right amount of heat with the coriander sprinkled on top adding some freshness. So this was more of a flavoursome curry rather than the full on 'burn your bum in the morning' type one I was worried about. The cardamom rice was also delicious and the prawns were still still sweet and tender, I did wonder how they would fair in the microwave. Super effort.

For this delectable dish, I swapped two tickets for the Taste of London that had come my way gratis, though after reading blogs about the event, I don't think I'll do that again, some of the food looked great. So sorry Niamh, if you take part in WMPC again, you'll have to make do with a turnip from the allotment.

Prawn Curry

Tonight's dinner Matthew, comes from........

2009-06-20T03:35:00.000-07:00

Somebody answered the call! Somebody answered the call! Yes, it looks like WMPC is going to get off the ground! Woop Woop!

erm

OK, I'm not quite telling the truth here. I did in fact email a couple of food bloggers that I've met before and asked directly whether they would like to take part in this little project and to my joy they all said yes. So for the next four weeks at least, I am going to be well fed, I am so happy about this.

So first up is Dan of Essex Eating who provided his very delicious Chickpea and Chorizo Stew for last night's desk dinner in exchange for lunch which was double pie and mash at Clarks in Exmouth Market. This was Dan's meal from the night before and of course, one of the great things about stew is that it always tastes better the day after you made it. After a blast in the microwave, this one definitely ticked all the boxes. The sauce was nicely picante and very moorish with lovely big chunks of chorizo and little nibbles of pancetta throughout. Dan also provided some boiled potatoes dressed in olive oil, great for mashing and moping up (so yes I had mash twice yesterday). All in all, very filling and very appetising.

I do have one small problem though, after oggling every morsel going to my mouth, my work colleague wanted to know where I got the 'ready-meal' from. "Not Tescos surely?" And with that I wondered, should I let him know what I'm up to and go down the route of sharing the food that others are already sharing with me? Was he ready for such concept? Would he get it?

"Nah", I thought, taking the last mouthful, let him stew.