GCSE Spanswegian?

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

I AM COMING TO GET YOU! HAHAHAHA!

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!

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

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?