OK, that was a test

By E | Posted on: January 6, 2010

but maybe blabla is the right commentary for this.

blabla

blabla

(Thanks to Chef Sandwich for this)

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Not with a bang but a pop

By E | Posted on: December 27, 2009

So Christmas dinner was delightfully simple this year – bit of gammon, cucumber salad, sweet and tangy mustard, followed by Lindt’s new Tiramisu chocolate (which tastes suspiciously of tiramisu).

Also, the whole thing didn’t take much longer than for us to pop a bottle of bubbles and empty its contents. (As far as I’m concerned, Christmas is over when you hit the sack on the 24th, but that’s not a “cut and dried” case, I gather).

All of which meant that we woke up well rested and neither over- or under-fed on the morning of the 25th. And with no leftover (or from scratch) lunches to fear, we headed off to Canal Walk. This would have been brave on any other holiday, given its reputation for being the biggest shopping mall south of the Sahara, and its inevitable swarms of silly shoppers (croutons, as the Philosophe affectionately calls them). But on Christmas Day, this place is DEAD. So dead, in fact, that we were lucky to find an open place for us to have breakfast and exhibit some (post-)Christmas cheer. The Cattle Baron it was.

(Here we are exhibiting (post-)Christmas cheer)

After that we subjected ourselves to three hours of wearing silly glasses for the not-unejoyable thrill of watching weird creatures from Avatar try to leap out of the screen at us. The story was Copenhagen-flavoured mega-cheese (for a useful plot summary, go here), but the pterodactyls were cool.

Now if you like cheese, I recommend you watch Invictus. It tells, as its website flogs it, ‘the inspiring true story of how Nelson Mandela (Morgan Freeman) joined forces with the captain of South Africa’s rugby team, Francois Pienaar (Matt Damon), to help unite their country.’  Yes. Where would we be without the rrrugby. Whatever. Matt Damon does a fair accent, and so does Morgan – when he doesn’t forget to – but beyond that, this is not just cheese. It’s fondue. Be advised.

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Who is the smushiest of them all?

By E | Posted on: December 23, 2009

Continuing the pretend theme, I forgot to mention that our smushi dinner the other night culminated in a rare sighting – and tasting – of a quartet of petit fours from the esteemed Fat Duck in Bray (that’s in INGLAN).

There was a playing card, which looked just like a Queen of Hearts, but which turned out to be two weh-feh thin layes of white chocolate separated by a layer of something fruity (!). There was something which looked like a toffee but which tasted like an entire mouthful of apple pie (!). There was something chocolaty, which didn’t survive the journey all to well, and so I don’t remember what it was pretending to be.

My own favourite was the “coconut baccie”, which looked like a not-so-distant relative of my own beloved Golden Virginia,

but which tasted (and still does) of coconut.

That Heston is quite a genius.

In other news, this just in from Swaziland (Google it):

“Due to the good rain and hot climate the Violin Spider is moving into
Houses.  It is often seen as a ‘Daddy longlegs’ spider and not the dangerous
Violin spider.
Please take note of this spider – it is very dangerous.
Please warn kids and send to everyone you know to alert them as well!
This spider is breeding at a rate of speed and is found in more and more
South-African houses!!!!”

So let’s all be thankful we’re not there this silly season (condolences to friends who are), and get on with the silliness in a good and responsible fashion. Good luck to you all.


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If Gollum were a popstar…

By E | Posted on: December 20, 2009

I think he would look something like Michael Jackson in This Is It. We finally watched this fascinating and bizarre film, and when I wasn’t happily grooving along to the beat (I loved this man as a teenager, and still think Billie Jean is one of the best songs EVAH), I was struck by how slimy it was for this 50 yr old man to be pretending to be Michael Jackson. The Philosophe’s description of him was, aptly, alien.

This was the only picture I could find (=poach) of this jacket he wears quite often. Unfortunately it doesn’t do justice to how truly weird it makes him look. But I guess we all knew that about him already. And also that he did have some serious groove.

(Un)relatedly, the Sunday Times today published a picture of Queen Elizabeth getting onto a train. The caption reads: “Disguised as a little old lady, Queen Elizabeth II boards a passenger train at King’s Cross Station in London from where she travelled to Norfolk for Christmas.” Disguised indeed. (See for yourself).

Well, we all like pretending, I suppose. Just a few nights ago we enjoyed an afternoon of creating, and then an evening of eating, smushi. (Danish open-faced sandwiches pretending to be sushi. Obviously).

On the left, rye bread with herring and quail egg (plus piece of Katjes herring liquorice), a little salmon rose with caviar, and the highlight: shrimp cocktail (the crisp is the clue).

Top left, quail confit (bound with some delicious hoisin sauce) with a litte egg and a little lollipop drumstick, starry bread with salami, remoulade and crispy onions, choux bun “hotdog” with chipolatas and most of “det hele“, and finally pariserbøf (genius really: a burger pattie fried with a slice of bread) – the radish slice is a good indication of the preparation implications of this stuff. An hour in the kitchen, a minute on the lips (as they say).

There was a cheese plate too, and a dessert plate, each of which was  delicious – as was the copious good wine, which made for copious merriment. In fact I’d say we were all as full and happy as this lump of marzipan pretending to be a pig.

(The pig was the prize for finding a whole almond in a spoonful of Danish rice pudding, so it is no longer in my care. I do not know if it still exists in its present form. But I can tell you that it had a good life, and produced very little methane.)

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A silly season of silly people

By E | Posted on: December 16, 2009

So the Philosophe and I took an afternoon walk yesterday to go collect his car after being serviced. Which means it was before 5pm, and the roads were full of people eager to get home, or to the beach, or wherever grumpy people go after work on the day before a public holiday in Cape Town (today the world has shut down in observance of “Day of Reconciliation”, whatever that is).

Soon, on our narrow pavement next to said cars, we were (not unusually) accosted by someone asking for money. But (unusually, thankfully), said beggar/gangster/dirty person threatened to be hiding a big knife in his sleeve pocket, and refused all the usual refusals of money (“no, not today”; “sorry, we can’t help you”, etc). As grumpy/complacent/pussy people drove by in their cars and watched the show, b/g/dp managed to threaten us into a state of fear and submission thick enough to walk away with all the money in the Philosophe’s wallet – R100 in this case, surely a bounty for b/g/dp with his maybe-maybe-not imaginary knife, and a small price to pay for our safety.

It’s a sobering kind of experience. Mostly because in the 15 years or so that I have lived in this country notorious for its high crime-rate and “unsaftey index”, this is the very first time that I have been that fearful. It doesn’t happen every day, and it’s very unlikely that it will happen again to me or to us again in the near future. (Besides, that stuff only happens to tourists, those easy targets!).

Still, now I don’t want to walk anywhere anymore. I know that life must go on as usual – and yesterday we faced that challenge valiently, it being the cocktail hour and all, soon to be followed by the dinner hour (which consisted of ostrich burgers laced with gin, juniper and dried apricots – not to mention a salad dressed with horseradish and caramelised celery. Yum).

Statistically, yes, life should go on as usual. But is that really the most efficient way to go about life? We listened to someone call into the radio today – the program featured some sort of laughing expert – it was a preacher calling to hear how he could teach himself to laugh after losing both his wife and his daughter. That’s fair and well, a laugh might be a good form of catharsis, but wanting to laugh in the face of tragedy also diminishes the value grief and (if applicable) remorse. I don’t think I’ve experienced a freakier thing than a Baptist memorial where NO ONE cried – all song and dance in “celebration” the deceased’s life. It was actually scary.

And if a friend betrays or hurts you? Should life go on as usual? If the friendship is over, then probably yes. But if not, it must be the duty of anyone who cares about that friendship to say something, and to do what they can to prevent life-as-usual, which can only be artificial from then on.

“Get over it” may sound like the harshest and most difficult of sentences, but being in it is actually the greater challenge. It takes courage to face that which truly sucks, whether it’s random or predictable.

In a parallel universe, I suppose we could have been killed or seriously injured, senselessly, yesterday. We didn’t, and life will go on. But it’s also worth paying attention to the fact that it feels really good that none of that happened. Life can be quite shit, but it can also be very worth living, if only to reminded of the urgency, once in a while, of knowing that you always did the best that you could.

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Green green grass

By E | Posted on: December 12, 2009

DSC01139

The grass was this green in Maryland two weeks ago when we were there. And it’s taken me almost that long to shake the grass-is-greener-over-there feeling that I often get when I return from long, cool trips.

Don’t get me wrong – I was glad to be home the moment we set foot in the door. I’m talking about that (mostly pleasant) travelling hangover that hits you when you regale friends with your adventures, especially in that “hmm” (“pensive”) moment after everyone has finished laughing about the absurdity of pretending to be from Djibou or about scary dinners. “Hmm,” you chuckle wisely, “those people are just weird.” And yet you wish you were still there.

I’m over that now. (I also  think we’ve run out of friends to bore with our Djibouti stories). Cape Town summer is upon us, and when it’s not horrible, it’s very nice (Doctor’s logic). I’ve even gotten over regretting not getting to Plato’s Palate in Bethesda – which I wouldn’t have been able to even if we’d tried, as it’s apparently closed. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about an ouzo burger since the Philosophe told me he once ate one there. (Meat that tastes like liqourice? My inner Viking was aroused).

Well, you don’t have to be in Vegas or Maryland to make fantasies come true. We had ouzo burgers for dinner last night. Armed only with my imagination, a little common sense, and the dregs of a ten-year old bottle of ouzo, I took on the curious task of reconstructing a taste I’d never experienced.

This made sense: Meat + generous slosh of ouzo + slosh of Worcestershire sauce + lots of garlic and pepper + less oreganum and hot English mustard.

Wisely (according to some, anyway – see below) salting the patties only before cooking, we fried those babies up and topped them with slices of Brie, crispy bacon and caramelized onions. I don’t know if they would live up to Plato’s Palate, but I do know they were fine, and it is a matter of a short time only before I start introducing the weird and wonderful contents of our liquor cabinet to much more meat. (It’s genius really, like Bloody Marys: food and drink in one).

20091211-salting-meat-salted-cs-unsalted-composite

This photograph is not mine, but comes from the always-entertaining A Hamburger Today, where KenjiGoodEater has yet again gone to some lengths to figure out what works (check out his post on the Blumenburger). His latest topic is salting – before, during, or after? – and he came up with these two pieces of evidence as to what happens when you salt the meat before grinding (right), and just before cooking.

I in fact did add a little salt just before I formed the patties, and some more in the pan. I also cooked the burgers well-done (as I do), but they were totally juicy, and if I do say so myself (it’s my blog), f**king delicious. The powers of alcohol!

And maybe some other random factors. Like the right appetite, the constant attentions of Mogwai (the cat), and the solid conviction, as I sat down and tucked into my ouzo burger, that there was no place in the world I would rather be. Yes, the grass is pretty darn green in Cape Town too.

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VHDTV

By E | Posted on: November 28, 2009

chickens

So I’ve just experienced my first Thanksgiving. Admittedly an untraditional one, as there was no turkey bird on the table. But we did feast on these two headless chickens after they perched on soda cans filled with beer (and other secret ingredients) for a good couple of hours on the barbie/bbq/braai (during which time they were basted liberally with porter/stout for that damn fine golden finish).

The birds were very good, and we enjoyed some fine wine with the meal. Less good was the broccoli casserole which was also on the table, and which I believe was my first taste of a truly American recipe – the kind that involves combining three or four ingredients out of cans (Google apple pie and at least one with give you this list of ingredients: one unbaked pie shell, one can of apple pie filling. You know the ones). This dish involved broccoli, mushy rice, two tins of mushroom soup, a box of Velveeta (what IS that stuff anyway?) and a box of Ritz crackers (to be crushed). Mix, mash, mush, bake in oven. Stodge. I guess we were the odd ones out, because 5/7 of the table company seemed to love it, and it was even hauled out and re-heated out the next day with the epithet “excellent.”

But each to their own. Whatever. It’s just a casserole.

Much freakier altogether was sitting at a table with a bunch of people who could fall under the category “family” or “friends” (used here very expansively) with fewer than seven degrees of separation – just a “step-” here, and an “-in-law” there. Yes, we dined with rednecks (used here with all respect: Leroy did grow up on a cattle farm, and probably had a sunburnt neck during summer too). And a TSA officer (in uniform) with a military wife.

Needless to say my joke about how annoying it is to have to take off shoes and belt when travelling wasn’t well received in that company. After that I decided to keep quiet, which was the best tactic anyhow, because these (scarily authentic) Americans SHOUT. They shouted about football. They shouted about how small the pepper mill was. They shouted about a whole lot of other stuff which I hardly understood a word of.

And then it occurred to me, sitting next to the Philosophe and his father and brother on our quiet side of the table, that this wasn’t like Reality TV. It was even worse, like being inside the television set by some giant geographical accident. This was Very High Definition Television, which is about as much fun as discovering that the Jaws movie you’re watching isn’t just 3D, but that you’re in the water, and a very real live shark is about to take a big chunk out of your person. Sit still and be quiet, and if you’re lucky, it’ll all soon be over.

Yes, I even begin to see the value in user guides:

DSC01099

So, I ate, I drank, I got scared. Perhaps an authentic Thanksgiving after all?

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More illusions of grandeur

By E | Posted on: November 19, 2009

Vegas is hard. Too much to do. Too little time. Too little money. Too little sleep. Too many (beloved, evil) slot machines. You have to keep up with a crazy city built on illusions, some of which come in the form of being constantly accosted on the streets by people trying to entice you with girls and “free” shows.

Well, we fell hard and fast for the latter, even in full knowledge of having to sit through a 90-minute presentation on time-share opportunities at the soon-to-open new Planet Hollywood Towers. But we thought what the hell – all we had to do was pretend we were from Djibouti (South Africans don’t qualify – don’t ask, I don’t know why) and listen to a schpiel before we would be rewarded with massively discounted tickets to a show featuring none other than the bimbo ex-Playgirl Holly Madison.

Of course we didn’t count on getting a salesman from Morocco when we decided to be from Djibouti, so there were one or two agonizing moments of having to answer questions about that country’s language and currency. Fortunately my guess at the Djibouti Franc was indeed correct, but there is no language called Djibouti (hey, for a country with an eponymous capital city, anything is possible). But Mr. Morocco-turned-American-citizen-now-selling-Planet-Hollywood-time-shares didn’t catch on, so we emerged relatively unscathed (2 hours later!), and happily claimed our Holly Madison tickets.

We planned to reward ourselves with lunch at Thomas Keller’s Bouchon, but that was closed, so we ended up back in the fake world of Venice, at Wolfgang Puck’s Postrio. It was very very good.

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The Philosophe’s burger was the kind that a lightweight shouldn’t mess with, and as it turned out, he is a (Vegas) lightweight. He was defeated by it. And so was I by my “light” selection of three house-made sausages (chicken and sundried tomato, black pepper and pistachio, and smoked kielbasa). But we were happily sated by fine fare and excellent service.

Much later, Holly Madison, alas, was much less to write home about. So no more about that here.

Lunch today: the legendary Fatburger.

IMG_1610

Look at that cute “Babyfat” (ie. small). It was the perfect size for this doctor. My gallant companion, however, was defeated once again by his bigger version. I don’t blame him though – everything here is TOO BIG. I couldn’t even finish my super-size breakfast apple this morning.

But at least the burgers here are real.

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Human again

By E | Posted on: November 15, 2009

There is a very particular kind of pleasure attached to arriving at a destination, particularly after sitting on your arse for thirty hours to get there. Imagine, then, that the destination is Las Vegas, and that the pleasure of being able to walk again is complemented by an arrival hall that makes no mistake about where you are:

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(Yes, for those who can’t wait for the strip, those are slots)

and

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Double bonus: our luggage arrived in the two pieces that we sent, so we could soon get on with getting to THE hotel (emphasis in the original),

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where we were happily upgraded to a bigger, better room. But here our luck stopped temporarily, because the bigger, better room wasn’t ready yet, so we were forced to spend three hours in the casino in our 30-hour outfits (including face, hair and addled brains): not a good state to be surrounded by that much bling.

But, resourceful people that we are, we accepted our new hostage situation with grace, and when we finally got the bigger, better room, the shower that awaited made it all worthwhile. How sweet the combination of hot water, soap, fluffy gowns and clean clothes in a bigger, better room in Vegas after now nearly 40 hours with too little sleep.

Of course we should have crawled straight into bed, which is the only thing the clean re-humanised body really craves. But Vegas is the city that never sleeps. And besides, it was only 4pm local time. So after an energising concoction of vodka and taurine, we hit the streets for a brisk 45 min walk (!!) to dinner at Mario Batali’s Enoteca.

The Venetian (like much of Vegas) is famed for its superior fakeness – this time fake Venice, of course, with canals and gondolas and a sun which really never sets.

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(That’s not the real sky. And the water in the canals looks clean enough to swim in. That’s fake Venice for you).

Two of our party of seven were late, so due to a ridiculous policy of not seating an incomplete party, we gave Enoteca THE finger (emphasis in the original), and relocated to Batali’s other eatery in the same establishment:

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It was a good evening. The fake Batali in the kitchen obviously knew his or her stuff, so we were rewarded with fine food and wine (Batali’s rabbit may even be as good as my own). Some time later we even found our way into a bigger, better bed and slept undisturbed by babies and swollen ankles and bad movies on little screens.

Up at 6am, I think the Rousseaus are back in action. Vegas, baby: beware.

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Game Plan

By E | Posted on: November 12, 2009

I was recently delighted to discover that the Caviar deli at the Waterfront sells duck fat – and at R10 for 250ml of the real stuff (self-packaged, presumably recycled from all their own duck business, as it should be)!.

I’ve also been on a bunny hunt ever since I saw this recipe for grilled rabbit confit (how could I not be, especially after the advice at the bottom of the page that rabbit confit makes the ‘best deep-fried rabbit you’ll ever have’?). So I finally paid a visit to my friendly German butcher Uwe, who indeed had a whole little rabbit for me. Since I was there, and since I was planning to melt copious amounts of fat anyway, I came home with a couple of duck legs too, and three other little birds who looked like they had died just for confit:

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(I’ve seen quail confit recipes that use just the “lollipop” drumsticks. But really, why not go the whole bird?).

But before I pressed on with the confit, I had to try some braised rabbit, which I’ve enjoyed once or twice but never made. So I floured, seasoned and seared half the bunny, added to some aromatics (chorizo, onion, rosemary, garlic, coriander seeds, a clove or two), deglazed with a bottle of wine, added a clump of frozen home-made chicken stock and a couple of tablespoons of sweet tangy mustard, returned the rabbit to the pot. After sitting in a low oven for a good number of hours, I de-boned the meat, added some vegetables, cooked some truffled polenta. Dinner was, I believe, a success:

mustard rabbit

In the meantime the rest of the birds and rabbit had been curing in the fridge, so the next morning I got on with

DSC00954(There’s nothing to see here but duck legs boiling in their own fat. Ah, but the smell!!)

and

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and of course the three little birds.

Cooked, cooled, submerged in fat, they all now sit in the fridge, and we wait (hoping for maturation rather than spoilage). Which is fine, as tomorrow the Philosophe and I begin our real game plan, which starts with four days in Las Vegas. No point in saying a word until I actually get there. I know what to expect and I don’t. But I do know that if the evil slot machines send me home a poor and bereft woman, I will at least be sucking on confit quail legs, or perhaps a slice of toasted baguette with rillettes while I ready the rabbit for the deep-fryer. The champagne is already chilling in the fridge.

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