I have been a supporter of Prague Food Festival from its humble yet ambitious beginnings, having been blown away by its debut back in 2007. The event was truly a revelation. I was 20 and had only just moved out of my parents’ house the year before to go to university and fend for myself, at which point I embarked on my food adventure. Me and my parents never ate out at swanky places in Prague as to do so was deemed obscenely expensive and unnecessarily extravagant. Yet here we were, me and my mother, sampling miniature dishes from Prague’s best kitchens against the stunningly green backdrop of Slovansky Ostrov island. We both got our souvenir Prague Food Festival engraved forks to keep and with full tummies and full of unknown flavour experiences we vowed to be back.

And so we were. Over the course of the years I have only missed one event. This year I was back again and saw the festival has really come a long way. For 500 Czk (£15) you still get festival entry and 10 Grands (tokens used instead of cash, clearly exchanged later for cash at a less favourable rate so that the festival makes a profit not only on stall subscription  but also every single dish sold). Moved to more glamorous settings of Prague Castle gardens amongst the imposingly majestic trees and 16th century architecture to accommodate larger numbers of exhibitors and visitors, they have sadly done away with the souvenir forks. Unexpected food discoveries however are very much here to stay.

Expat Gourmet meets the Czech equivalent of Jamie Oliver… slash half of the Jamie Oliver equivalent duo. Too complicated, so let’s just say I coerced a famous chef into posing for a slightly awkward fan shot. Their ‘Kluci v akci’ programme started back in the early 2000s and was a great a revelation and a massive departure from the then so popular ‘actor or singer gets 5 minutes in a Sunday DIY programme to cook their ‘twist’ on Wiener schnitzel whilst telling funny stories from backstage’ type programme that was the only way to tackle the topic on TV until then. The programme has gone down the pan slightly since then, still here we are.

And so on to food. We started off with ceviche at U Emmy Destinnove, one of Prague’s best fish restaurants (if they do say so themselves). I have never had ceviche before as it clearly proves a problem to obtain fresh enough fish in the landlocked Sheffield. This ceviche was made of yellow fin tuna, yellow pepper and and ginger, coconut and lime dressing and it was yummy, if quite unsightly. The minuscule portion was gone in two mouthfuls, probably for the best as we ended up sampling quite a lot. We frittered away our 20 initial Grands quite quickly and I ended up buying 20 more.

More celebrity spotting, rainbow macaroons and chocolate shots courtesy of the bald headed Roman Paulus, the resident celebrity chef of Alcron, a legendary Prague restaurant since the 1930s and recently awarded a Michelin star.

It’s not all about food… though the artwork was strictly food themed. The organisers should be praised for offering additional activities as well as lots of stuff to keep the little ones entertained.

Gorgeous grilled beef and ground poppy seed cake, Czech classics with a modern twist courtesy of Le Grill Kempinski. We resisted the tempting aroma (for some time anyway) and headed to Bellevue, where we splashed out on their set menu. We had grilled tiger prawns (a tiger prawn) with cucumber, yogurt, mint and green tea salad, slow roast rabbit roulade with parmesan polenta and wild garlic sauce and vanilla mascarpone with strawberry coulis, pepper and balsamic glaze. The polenta especially was gorgeous, whilst the cucumber salad with its clashing flavours left a lot to be desired.

Mandarin Oriental Hotel presented their food technology menu assembled with tweezers into what seemed to be some kind of lab dish. We did not try these but we stayed a while to watch the assembly process, which was fun. I particularly liked the ‘soil bed’ of pearl barley and lentils.We then moved on to Le Patio, where we again went for the set menu (by this time I had to purchase another packet of those Grands). We went for grilled squid with caramellised chilli sauce, baby spinach and sesame seeds, organic beef slow cooked Indonesian style with turmeric and kaffir lime leaf rice and beetroot and sticky toffee pudding with clotted cream. In a country that doesn’t know clotted cream everybody raved about the sticky toffee pudding, I was like yeah right. No really, it was a pretty good pud.  My brother requested that we bring him some treats, so we headed over to Yasmin Hotel Noodles who, bizarrely, offered a spit roast suckling pig with really quite good saurkraut and pearl barley. On the sly under the table we tipped this into a Tupperware box, but to stop us from feeling embarrassed we also bought some sticky rice, coconut milk and mango pudding. Needless to say by this time we were pretty full, but still had 2 Grands on our hands. To do away with them we got some parmesan and fig ice cream from Angelato and chicken pate with morelles and foie gras on homemade bread from Mozaika. And then we really couldn’t take any more.

There really was little to fault the day. Certain areas of the exhibition space proved to be a bottleneck though – whoever thought placing stalls in narrow walkways was a good idea? This was only a small niggle and more than outweighed by the gorgeously warm weather, the stunning and airy surroundings of the castle gardens and the stall choice just on the right side of overwhelming. I’ll say I will be back, but that’s simply stating the obvious.

]]> http://expatgourmet.wordpress.com/2012/07/29/prague-food-festival-2012/feed/ 1 expatgourmet IMG_7430 IMG_7479 IMG_7480 IMG_7455 IMG_7448 IMG_7471 IMG_7521 IMG_7434 IMG_7441 IMG_7435 IMG_7436 IMG_7438 IMG_7437 IMG_7439 IMG_7440 IMG_7443 IMG_7444 IMG_7445 IMG_7447 IMG_7451 IMG_7453 IMG_7457 IMG_7466 IMG_7460 IMG_7464 IMG_7493 IMG_7487 IMG_7488 IMG_7503 IMG_7505 http://expatgourmet.wordpress.com/2012/06/20/flavour-of-liverpool/ http://expatgourmet.wordpress.com/2012/06/20/flavour-of-liverpool/#comments Wed, 20 Jun 2012 11:55:56 +0000 Expat Gourmet http://expatgourmet.wordpress.com/?p=796 Continue reading →]]> Here’s the deal. I’m still slowly getting used to the idea of living in Liverpool. I’m taking my time, but then I’m not one for instant gratification. Even so, over time I found places I like, places that gradually make this town feel like my new home. Places like Bold St Coffee, where I’m a weekend regular, and their baby brother offshoot, Duke St Espresso Bar. There will always be need for places where knocking back a £1 shot of espresso can remedy even the vilest of states. In an age of overpriced lattes Duke St Espresso is a refreshingly minimalist affair – in a room the size of our entrance hall coffee, tea and toast and accomps are on offer. No indecisive dithering and hold ups at the till. The unforgiving efficiency only slows down, and the punters get a chance to sit back and look around, when the coffee’s begins its drip feed filtering process. All we can do then is wait for physics and chemistry to do its thing.

There is no doubt that the Bold Street Coffee folk are doing something right. To lend further support to that statement they have decided to hold monthly gourmet soirees with the aim of showcasing local produce and culinary talent. Flavour of Liverpool kicked off last month with Liverpool Cheese Company, and I was there. How could I not be!

Coffee and cheese is an odd couple. I even have a quasi-kosher approach to coffee and separate my coffee from dairy – or, if you prefer straight talking, I take my coffee black. My initial skepticism was dispelled when I saw how conducive the intimate atmosphere of the tiny Duke Street outlet was to achieving the goal of the evening – to get a group of people bound by a common love of cheese together for a chilled evening of cheese appreciation and geekery. Having failed to get a date for the evening I was slightly worried, however the love of cheese was just as well shared with complete strangers. It was fun to enjoy the coffee themed cocktails and observe everybody trying not to touch the cheese platters, as though waiting for a signal that it’s okay to get stuck in.

For a tenner per head Liverpool Cheese company provided a cornucopia of different cheeses, crackers and, most importantly, the expert knowledge of Vickie Anderson and Ian Tomlinson who run the Woolton-based company. Their passion shone through when Vickie introduced each cheese on offer and provided some interesting facts and cracker recommendations. In line with the premise of the event most cheeses on offer were of local origin, including Lancashire of course. The guests were taken on quite a cheese journey from the only French cheese of the night, sweet and creamy mold rinded Delice de Cremiers through fresh tasting goats cheese, an apple flavoured number (not my favourite but a good palate cleanser), Manchego complete with quince paste, Scrumpy Sussex flavoured with wild garlic, devilishly strong cheddar and a blue cheese from Shropshire. There were charcoal, lavender and orange crackers and olive bread to pair up with the cheese as well as membrillo (quince paste) and chilli jam and cider to wash it all down.

Stuffed with delicious cheeses we then moved on to the cheese quiz! This was more guesswork than anything else, but I did learn more about British cheeses, the process of cheese making, the different chemicals that make cheese what it is and useful information on how to best store cheese.

As I was leaving the cafe I couldn’t help thinking this was the best £10 I’ve ever spent. I will definitely keep an eye out for future events – next up is Tequila from El Bandito.

(I stole the photos from Duke St’s Facebook page. Sorry and thanks.)

After a week in Nusa Tenggara we flew back to spend a few days at Ubud, the arty heart of inland Bali. Thankfully Ubud is still today less busy and noisy than the seaside resorts, however my grandparents swear that it has changed beyond recognition over the last 10 years. Where there were a few art shops there are now hundreds, offering paintings in the traditional Balinese style as well as, unfortunately, dreadful Western-style portraiture (a 2x2m portrait of the Obamas to adorn your sitting room with, anyone?) and poster-style works. These workshops co-exist side by side with hundreds of shops selling batik and ikat fabrics – and thousands of people offering transport. I never want to hear ‘Transport?’ again in my life. Everybody rides a motorbike here so the idea of wanting to walk places must be so alien to the locals – that’s my only explanation for having to decline dozens of offers of ‘taksi’ just on the short walk to the market. When I did eventually need to jump onto a scooter to get back into town I caused minor scandal involving a pencil skirt and upper thighs. Those Europeans… Even in the bustling heart of Ubud we managed to find a peaceful haven away from the noise, surrounded with all kinds of greenery and flowers under a canopy of imposing trees.My first night and day in Ubud saw a trip to climb Bali’s highest peak, the volcano Gunung Agung (3031m) to watch sunrise over Lombok, Bali’s neighbour island. Gunung Rinjani (3726m) is only just discernible right of this claw feature of the volcano rim. Rinjani cannot be scaled overnight like Agung, five days are required to reach the summit and return safely back, so must remain a goal for a future trip to Lombok.This fella was grateful to get his paws on the chocolate bun given to us by our guides. I was disinclined to eat the bun being a Nutella hater – but the fact remains that South East Asia simply cannot do savoury pastry. They don’t add salt to dough when making bread etc., resulting in an unpleasantly sweet aftertaste.Having safely descended Agung we stopped at an organic coffee and tea farm, Pineh Colada. Agrotourism is a big deal in North Bali, with farms upon farms offering stays, tours and various produce including coffee, ginger coffee and tea and special, expensive civet coffee for sale.This little fella is a civet and by eating and pooping he produces the delectable luwak beans used for making civet coffee – or luwak as it’s locally known. He didn’t seem very happy in his tiny cage, pacing back and forth and back and forth behind the wires with a sad look on his face – but that might just be me.Here’s coffee being roasted here the traditional way.I’ve never had tomarillos before and was completely taken by their refreshing flavour – a mix between tomato and peach. Inside is a thin layer of flesh, shielding its centre of what looks like mini pomegranate seeds. These grew in a lush garden along with coffee bushes, cinnamon trees, pomelo trees, melons and cocoa (middle), and we walked on paths under a canopy of all of that greenness.Eventually our trip to the coffee farm turned into a classic  holiday experience of being shown around a workshop/farm/resort and given snacks – and of course the expectation then is that you have been guilt tripped into making a purchase. However, unlike being coaxed into buying Turkish carpets, Nigerian futures or Majorcan villas (I still remember the look on my poor dad’s face when the penny finally dropped and he realised that no in fact doesn’t mean no to estate agents), perhaps because I was being sold products that I actually wanted I felt quite comfortable with this gentle cajoling and purchased some organic ginseng coffee (the one that looks like milky coffee), Bali coffee and ginger tea. Indonesians love to drink their coffee heart-stoppingly strong and sweet – those little beakers will have at least a tablespoon of sugar dissolved in them. Indonesian coffee is ground very finely and prepared as Turkish coffee – coffee powder is put directly into the mug and water poured over it, resulting in a muddy sediment at the bottom of your mug.My favourite place to eat in Ubud was Ibu Oka – a warung serving the traditional Balinese babi guling – roast suckling pig. Thankfuly the Hindu Bali is the only haven in Muslim Indonesia where I can get my swine fix (other than Chinese outlets – but why would you want to eat Chinese food in Indonesia?). My apologies for the blurry photo, but I absolutely had to share it since this was by far my favourite thing to eat in all of Indonesia – pitting banana fritters to the crown only closely. Babi guling at Ibu Oka warung comes as pork in many guises – there is tender pulled meat, sticky ribs, you can only just make out a slice of black pudding that looks like it came from Bury – until you taste it, with its fiery, gingery heat. There is lawar, the red lump in the photo – a mix of vegetables, spices and coconut held together with pigs blood and fried in patties. As with many things that doesn’t sound particularly appetising – until you try it of course. To top it all there was the crackling so crispy it puts the crispiest crackling there is in England to shame (crispiest crackling found in roast pork sandwiches at Made by Jonty in Sheffield – scientifically proven). The meat is accompanied, as always, with rice, a hot mixture of chilli, ginger and lemongrass and steamed green beans with lemongrass. I purchased some giant prawn crackers – krupuk – as well. Look at the size of it! I thoroughly enjoyed this different take on roast pig – so much so I came back the following day. 

The day after my Agung trek I was almost completely immobilised, however this didn’t stop me from going to see a traditional legong dance performance. I saw Ramayana, a Hindu classic of true love and obstacles.  Before the performance we stopped at Sjaki Warung, where I ate some delicious fired tofu capcay (steamed vegetables), washed down with freshly made watermelon juice (and most of grandad’s passionfruit juice as well).

I then went and finished the evening off with an amazing ice cream from the gelato place I went to every day whilst in Ubud. I tried rosewater, lemongrass, dragonfruit and pumpkin and hazelnut flavours, and the scoops were more than generous.The place we stayed at was a bit on the pricy side for our pensioners&backpackers budget, but it was well worth it. Where else in central Ubud would we have found such a green sanctuary complete with our own bungalow and a lovely swimming pool? Every morning we ate breakfast of traditional black rice pudding (sadly the photo turned out not that appetising but imagine a runny rice pudding made of black rice and bananas) and fruit out on the porch. This sure is a life style I could get used to – and I’m not alone. The bungalow next to ours was occupied by an Australian man who rents it long term with a view to eventually rent land in Ubud to build a house. That’s right, rent! You’d be hard pressed to find land for sale around here, only long term lets or 15 years or so. Why you’d want to build a house on land you eventually lose and your property is then pocketed by your landlord is anyone’s guess; still the construction business for foreign customers in and around Ubud is flourishing.

Animals of Ubud: The ugliest dog I ever did see, and members of a cute cat family living in our bungalow compound.

On my last day in Ubud I visited the Neka art gallery which has its ups and downs – Balinese art really only appeals when it shakes off its heavy Western influence. As we were just emerging out of the other end of monsoon at the end of March we’d still get caught in the occasional downpour – I was trapped in one of the gallery pavilions for half an hour. In the evening we went for another walk around Ubud and wandered to the Water Palace which now serves as one of Ubud’s many dance theatres. There I took my beautiful photos of lotuses and jewel-like water drops.

In the name of adventure we decided to try the infamous durian. The lovely man who was selling them from his moped-based makeshift stall opened its hard, spiky skin with a machete – and wrapped it tightly in a plastic bag. Despite the precautions the smell of it followed us wherever we went. I’m not convinced I am a fan. When it comes to eating the fruit you strip it of its shell and separate the segments as you would an orange. The segments have an unfortunate sticky, muddy texture – like a banana that’s been sat on the shelf for a few weeks too long. The stench is overpowering, imagine something between vomit and rotting fruit (or flesh, depending on how queasy you are). Every time I took a bit it took a lot of deliberation – as the immediate flavour is, frankly, disgusting and tastes just as it smells, is it worth biting into that? Yes it is. Durian has a subtly nutty aftertaste which only develops after a few seconds in your mouth. Not exactly everybody’s cup of tea I understand, but everything ought to be tried at least once.

And so we came to the end of our stay in Ubud. There was still time in the morning for a walk around the rice fields, stop at Sari Organik cafe (bellow) where I sampled some coconut water, and a quick trip to the marketplace. I purchased some mango and passionfruit jam at the pretentious, upmarket Kou Cuisine shop, which sells tiny jars of jam and salt to wealthy tourists at jaw dropping prices – with every intention to copy their recipes at home.

In the afternoon I made my way back to Kuta, as I needed to be close to the airport to catch my first-thing-in-the-morning flight. I spent the afternoon lying on the beach, quite literally sat on top of my handbag and DSLR, since my cheapo accommodation didn’t offer safe lockers. In the evening I popped to Warung Indonesia, where I made my second culinary blunder of the day and ordered a la carte, not noticing the amazing buffet offering a cornucopia of Indonesian fare – anything from fried squid through curried quails eggs and steamed veg. Ah well, at least I got to eat this preposterously shaped nasi goreng (fried rice) and chicken sate, washed down with some tomarillo juice.

In the morning I boarded my Singapore-bound flight to board an Airbus A380 there – this is the world’s largest passenger aircraft, and the most fuel efficient. I have never seen a machine that big. As far as airplane food goes the food on board of Singapore airlines was one of the best I’ve had. Here’s a picture of Hindukush range, taken as we flew over Afghanistan.

And that was my Indonesian holiday. I managed to get a bit of a tan, bought two pairs of fake Ray Bans (one of which broke promptly), ate everything on Lonely Planet’s challenge list except B2 (dog) and still avoided Delhi belly. Food wise, my only regret is that I didn’t get to try much of the Dutch-influenced cuisine here – the rijstaffel (rice and nibbles platter) tend to cost a fortune. I’ll miss banana fritters, avocado juice (and indeed all the other outlandish fruit juices) and that roast pig and rice at breakfast, lunch and tea. On the other hand I will not miss all that rice, amazing as it was I did end up eating my weight in carbs several times over. Neither will I miss the heat and the locals’ friendliness, very frequently only exhibitied in anticipation of a monetary return. As much as I was shocked at first at the local poverty I came to appreciate the wealth that Western tourists undoubtedly bring to the area – and, unfortunately, its side effects, too. It’s all good though, I did enjoy my first venture to the Southern hemisphere thoroughly and would love to be back one day, perhaps as a volunteer on one of the numerous development projects in the area.

Flores island. Stunning sunset over the Labuhan Bajo bay, as observed from Treetop Restaurant where we sat waiting for our tuna sate. The fish was, as you’d expect, freshly caught on the day. Here it is, we watched the chef grill his catch on a makeshift barbecue in the street. Labuhan Bajo will forever be the place where I first encountered heartbreaking poverty alongside prosperity – contrasts that have long since been weeded out in Bali (with the poor probably not getting much out of the bargain). I will never forget the sight of those ramshackle huts tucked away under the porch of the posh restaurant where we were sat eating our dinner – next to the beach littered with garbage where young ones played football in the dirt. I had to turn away in shame. However I much preferred the wild, unspoiled environment of Flores – and not a tourist resort in sight!Leaving Labuhan Bajo for the islands of Rinca and Komodo. We will sleep and eat on the boat – and some feasts those were!

It was on the boat that we first got to enjoy the Indonesian staple of steamed veg under various guises. Spinach, pak choi, green beans and potatoes feature most frequently. Rice never tasted so good, and there was a generous amount of fish and tempeh every day. Vegan alert: Indonesians love their tempeh, which is so much easier to come by here than in Europe.

A group of Komodo dragons demonstrating the meaning of the words ‘prostrate’ and ‘lazy’. These are supposedly some of the most dangerous animals there are.The tiny island of Komodo also boasts a wealth of natural beauty, from its rugged mountain ranges that seem to rise immediately from the sea, to stunningly varied coral reefs complete with its cheerfully colourful reef fish inhabitants to the fauna and flora of the island itself. Vocal monkeys and birds accompanied our every step, and I spotted a few cockatoos and even some birds of paradise.

The boat then dropped us off at Seraya, an uninhabited island secreted away among the other desert islands just off the West coast of Flores. Uninhabited save for a very grumpy hotel owner and his posse, the island only stopped short of being a true paradise by the crappy food we were served there. I suppose there’s only so much you can do if you only have electricity and fresh water available for 3 hours in the evening. If we weren’t woken up by the beating of waves on our private white sand beach, and weren’t lulled to sleep by the songs of cicadas we would not have spent such a long time there. However, the view from the bungalow being what it was, and thankfully fresh fish on offer every evening we stayed for 6 days.Our next stop was an exploration of West Flores and it was here that we first glimpsed the ubiquitous feature of Indonesian landscape: terraced rice paddies. Rice fields shape the landscape and it seems that rice shapes people’s lives with a rice dish eaten at every meal. Rice can be harvested three times a year, making it an ideal cheap foodstuff to feed the world’s fourth most populous nation.

Wherever there is the tiniest amount of free space between the road and rice fields, there is roadside rice drying with harvested grains spread on tarp sheets. This, along with narrow country roads and notorious Indonesian disregard for the rules of one lane, one vehicle often leads to all kinds of trouble. These are cooking bananas. I miss banana fritters and banana and cassava flour pancakes, our staple breakfast.Back in Labuhan Bajo we treat ourselves to supper at the fantastic Pesona Bali fish restaurant. I had Indonesian curry, grandma and grandad tried their take on nasi goreng (fried rice) with mixed seafood. We loved it so much we came back the following evening for some steamed fish with Balinese sauce (don’t ask me what that is but both this sauce and my Indonesian curry were quite dry and ginger and turmeric were the main detectable flavours).  Cooking and serving food in banana leaves not only looks swanky but, in less upmarket places has the added benefit of providing a hygienic alternative to plates. I washed the food down with an avocado shake – my new favourite beverage. Avocado and chocolate, who would have thought!That night I slept in fear of boarding yet another dodgy plane. But it would bring me to Bali and further adventures – see next post. Laters.

When I first moved to Liverpool I was unsure how to go about meeting new people outside the rigid bounds of forced socialisation at university. I found a climbing partner on the internet and took up knitting so that I could go to knitting circle. Knitting circle meets up at Cuthbert’s Bakehouse, a new-ish kid on the block among Liverpool’s numerous cafes and delis. On Thursday 8th March I attended Cuthbert’s Pudding Club with my climbing partner, thus neatly closing the circle of the handful of people I know and places I frequent.

Pudding Club is an event for people who seriously love cake. The premise is somewhat surreal, indulging the childish fantasy to be able to eat cake before dinner or skip the tedium of dinner altogether to get straight to business (i.e. cake). I am a salt fiend. I enjoy eating dinner more than anything and my idea of great dessert is a cheese platter. Which is a compromising step away from my ideal dessert, charcuterie platter. I have over the years learned how to deal with the blank stares and scratching of heads which ensues when I propose such a course of action at dinner parties. No wonder the following exchange took place:

‘But you don’t even like pudding, what’s wrong with you!’ cried my friends incredulously when I, excitedly, outlined my plans.

‘I am now an investigative journalist you see, I have to go. What is a small personal sacrifice compared to the enlightenment I will provide!’ And so, with an open mind, I plunged myself into the unknown.

I did feel like a bit of a prat when, after being unable to pay for our tickets in advance or even put down a deposit and turning up late for the event I produced my camera and my friend kindly provided a notepad to furiously scribble down my impressions. This embarrassment must be excused as my brain alone would not have been able to contain the connection between the visual imagery and the wealth of flavours and textures I experienced that night.

The idea is simple. For a fixed fee (£15) you are fed six different puddings plus ‘finale’ (more pudding) and receive a complimentary glass of wine. We attended the second, French-themed installment, which meant all courses and drinks served that night had  a connection, however tenuous, to the greatest tradition in baking. Drinks such as French wines, kir royal and crème de cassis were served to complement the French theme. To spice things up score sheets were handed out and punters are invited to rate the puddings a mark out of 5 and provide constructive criticism interspersed with amusing, sour or downright bitchy comments. Like the X Factor, only a bit nicer. My main worry was that by second course I would be K.O.d, however this worry was dispelled by reasonably small portions and enough time to catch my breath between courses. I am told portion sizes have decreased since the first Pudding Club. Still I was thankful to have skipped tea that day.

The first course, Month Blanc, arrived at the same time as my complimentary glass of decent French house wine. Our guess turned out correct and Mont Blanc did consist of a meringue with some chestnut puree and a spritz of whipped cream and a fairly unnecessary glacée cherry perched on top. I enjoyed the marriage of flavours in the crispy sweet meringue and fresh, flavourful puree, but was loath to give out marks yet lest I overshoot.

Mont Blanc was followed by ice apple souflée which was, unfortunately, by and large a letdown. More of a sorbet than a souflée, and a rather nice sorbet at that, the promising combination of the flavours of caramelised apple, cider and crème fraîche ended up being suppressed by an overwhelming lemon flavour.  The presentation of the sorbet in a little flower pot produced giggles initially (‘It looks like a little pint of lager’), however soon we realised that the portion was too large for us to enjoy this course completely. I did not dislike it so I did not award the lowest mark, however our expectations were not met.

Cuthbert’s promptly turned the situation around with the next course of citron crêpe cake. My friend loves crêpes and the only thing that could possibly top a crêpe on her list of culinary delights is a stack of crêpes. Which was, incidentally, what we were served now, along with a fruit salad and a scoop of mint ice cream. It was the little things that grabbed us here: the zingy lemon butter holding together the individual sheets in this elaborate gateau, the freshness of the ice cream. ‘What is the meaning of the mark 5, perfect or the best of the night?’ we wondered to ourselves.

Do we have to be forcefully brought down from heights of culinary greatness by a decidedly unexciting course to follow it? The lavender crème brulée – burnt cream – that followed again failed to deliver on its potential. The cream was lovely, not overwhelmingly sweet, however the lavender flavour was less then subtle – and the crust more than desirably, and quite literally, brulée.

The champagne jelly we were served next was a revelation to me. Alice, the lady who masterminded the menu, described this course thus: ‘We like champagne therefore we put it in a jelly’. I don’t like champagne, I don’t like jelly but I liked this. I thoroughly enjoyed the pleasant bitterness of the jelly combined with the syllabub cream, and I decided to steal the idea of frosted grapes for a tea party of mine.

By now I was quite worried what would follow this great course, but croquembouche cupcake broke the spell. Here we had a tasty but completely unnecessary cupcake topped with a stack of delightful homemade profiteroles – a far cry from my sole previous experience of profiterole which was a giant beast of a cream ball, defrosted and still slightly icy in the centre, served in halls of residence in my first year of university at our slightly rubbish Christmas meal.

I am palpitating and I feel a bit sick. Will I be able to sleep, I wonder to myself.

We are now given Napoleon coffee: a shot of espresso with some brandy topped with whipped cream. Perhaps we looked like we were not buzzing enough from all the sugar circulating in our veins, and coffee was deemed necessary. Whatever does not kill me makes me stronger, and I finished someone else’s as well.

The grand finale, along with the declaration of the winner, came in the form of chocolate and rosewater macaroons. I have never had a good macaroon in my life, believe me I have tried. The gooiness of these little cakes completely blew me away. The hotly tipped citron crêpe cake was announced as the winner of the night and, after we pilfered the macaroon pyramid (‘One for each of my housemates!’), we headed home.

Verdict: yes. I would go again. For the food, for the fun, for the atmosphere, for the people we met. The best kind of a club is one united by a common love of food, be it savoury or sweet. I’m in.

It is always a good idea to prepare yourself carefully in anticipation of any kind of extreme. To fortify yourself against the forces of nature. To dress well in the winter. To take physical excercise ahead of opulent feasting. That is what common sense tells me anyway. I fully intended to go for an intense climbing session before pudding club and only stopped feeling like a failure when I realised that no amount of excercise would have offset this kind of excess. Lesson learned: when life gives you cake eat it (metaphorically or literally).  Pudding Club is only on once a month anyway.

During the early years of Pekařství Kopecký, when things looked less than rosy, the whole extended family would get involved. Believe it or not I still remember those sleepless nights as a four-year-old, weeping my eyes out whilst holding a vigil for my mother at the window. I disliked being left alone even if I was not left alone – my two years old brother could not count as company. Out of my observatory station on the windowsill I could see the whole stretch of our street next to the train tracks. I would see my mother emerge from around the corner, on her way from the evening shift, perched on her screechy folding bicycle and drenched in sweat from the stifling heat of the ovens. The moment I saw her there on the road I jumped back into bed and pretended to be asleep – why should I, the eldest, cry for mummy?

Over the years the bakery became a runaway success, and the wider family became involved as buyers, not workers – other than my brother who loves his weekly bread night shift. We have been buying loaves of bread of various kinds, bread rolls, baguettes, ciabatta, knotted buns and a plethora of sweet produce, some of it traditional Czech (buchty), others a fashionable novelty (ground poppyseed swirls) to name but a few. My mum stops at the bakery every day, and when I still lived with at my parents’ house I ate fresh bread every day. Bread was, and still is, my go-to indulgence, with grilled cheese toasts on top of the list of naughty treats, only to be taken on days so sinful they may as well be written off. Unfortunately eating lovely bread at almost every meal was not good for my waistline, or my eating habits. It was, however, only too easy to kick my bread habit when I moved to England. Back home we would refer to even the fanciest bread money can buy here as ‘toastie bread’, because that is the kind of bread you only buy about twice a year when in firm grip of cheese toastie cravings. I used to be able to buy sliced sourdough bread at Waitrose, but those days are gone.

So I gave up bread on a daily basis, an event which ushered in a new era: bread as an occasional treat. As I cannot find a satisfactory supplier my own skills will have to do*.  In short, I must reclaim my bakery girl roots. (*This is no longer true, since I moved out of Sheffield the fantastic Seven Hills Bakery has set up shop on Sharrow Vale Road. Just my luck. On the wrong side of the Pennines Liverpool based French Corner bakery is doing rather well.)

Following extensive research of both traditional and online media I decided to embark on an activity that may seem intimidating and time consuming – baking sourdough bread. Sourdough bread, or artisan baking as they call it in London has swept the culinary scene by storm. I have not one, not two but three books offering sourdough recipes, and am aware of many more. Prominent foodies have blogged about their love of the stuff: Diana Henry, Rose Prince and Claire Ptak to name but a few. (I usually follow Hugh F-W’s recipe as experimentation with different quantities has previously ended in disaster and tears). The fact that sourdough got a mention on the very mediocre Great British Food Revival on BBC2 last year, as well as Channel 4′s River Cottage Everyday is testament to the current popularity of continental baking. In the past you would have been able to count independent bakeries providing sourdough or German style bread on the fingers of one hand, these days you’d have to grow a few extra hands to be able to do so. Dense, sour bread is all the rage – no wonder when the squares of airy white cotton wool we’ve had to get used to over the years simply cannot begin to compare.

And so I scoured the internet for information before, overwhelmed by just how much there is out there, I turned to good old cookbook. It turns out that you must first make a starter, then the sponge, then the dough, and some 24 hours later you might have bread – that is if your starter is 10 days or older. I imagine this seems a bit much but please don’t stop reading now! Some people add honey to the starter, mine consists of whole grain flour and water, nothing else. I keep my starter in a lidded container and feed it daily – that is if I remember. My starter is now several months old and survived multiple famines and an ice age (when I went away at Christmas and, worried about its welfare and survival I put it in the freezer…). In short, it is a hardy creature – yes, that thick paste of fermented yeast is indeed a living thing. And it smells delightful, fruity and boozy, enticing me to bake. I could detect a tinge of shock in my grandmother’s voice  even as it was carried across the crackly, jumpy Skype connection when, bursting with pride, I related my baking exploits to her. ‘You keep your starter for days, weeks even? But it will be sour!’ Sourness in bread was always the greatest undesirable at Pekařství Kopecký, yet, ashamedly, I was always drawn to the competitors’ sour concoction. And it is kind of the point, too – as your starter gets older you will notice a more profoundly sour, stronger taste. And there are some very old starters out there. Diana Henry’s starter even has a name – indeed many people think of their starter as a pet. Just… no. I would much prefer a kitten to floury gloop.

When your starter has reached maturity you will be able to finally bake with it. You should not expect your first creation to be an astonishing success. However, your second loaf will be tastier, and the ones after it will turn out even better. If you are willing to put in the time you cannot, and will not fail. Thankfully, most of the prep time you can leave the mixture to happily do its thing unsupervised – start making the sponge in the evening, add more flour and knead in the morning and knock back and shape it for second rising after work, then bake in the evening again. Unless you live on your own you might be able to get through a loaf every day, and this circle of rising, kneading and baking could become a pleasant domestic routine. Not to mention that long-risen bread simply tastes better. I have added a personal touch to Hugh’s recipe with the addition of caraway seeds, an ingredient that is traditionally used in Czech bread, and is a staple in my uncle’s bakery. Eating my bread, the aromatic flavour of caraway transplants me back home and to my childhood. I only bake bread once a month or so – my starter happily lives in the utility room (the warmest place in the house – don’t ask), ready to spring into action when required. My superhero.

And what do I do with it, I hear you cry! Well, you will still need cotton wool bread for grilled cheese toasts as they’re just not the same made with sourdough. However, any soup will be improved by the addition of a slice of sourdough bread, toasted or not. Make my borscht, eat it with soudrough and then try arguing against this. Sourdough loaf can be used to make cracking pastrami sandwiches, with the addition of mustard and gherkins. Stale sourdough makes fantastic croutons. My grandad, mum and brother spread lard on their bread, but I would strongly advise against this. And finally, and most simply, a warm slice of sourdough with a generous smear of butter and a sprinkling of salt is a pleasure I can never deny myself. And neither should you.

Scroll down for Hugh F-W’s fail-safe recipe and my photographic bread chronicle.

The Starter
100g whole grain strong bread flour + more to feed
water

Mix the flour with enough water to make a thick batter. For a week or 10 days, every day discard half and stir in about 100g more flour. You will be able to tell when the starter becomes ‘alive’ – the lovely odour and bubbles will give it away. After 10 days you will be able to bake with it.

The Sponge
100ml starter
250g strong bread flour of your preference (I alternate between white and whole grain and mixture of both)
275ml warm water

This is best done in the evening. Mix the flour thoroughly with the water, then cover with cling film and leave to do its thing overnight. Warning: if the sponge does not rise do not bake with it: the bread will not rise either and will be dense and unpleasant to eat.  I speak from experience. Discard the failed sponge, feed the starter for a few more days then try again. Well risen sponge should look like this:

The Bread (makes 1 loaf)
300g strong bread flour (as above)
1 tbsp rapeseed or vegetable oil
10g salt
1tbsp caraway seeds

It is the morning now and time to knead. Mix the sponge with the above ingredients. You are aiming for the right texture, and what that means will only be revealed with practice. However, the dough should be neither too dry nor too sticky. It should absorb all the flour and be manageable whilst kneading – which is what you’ll now do for 10 minutes on a floured surface. Not only does this stretch the gluten molecules in the flour, but it also immediately improves the dough’s texture so easy with the additional water or flour!

Grease the bowl with a splash of oil and pop the dough back in. Cover with cling film again and off to work. All this should take no longer than 15 minutes.

On your return you will find that the dough has doubled in size. Now is the time to think of your irritating boss or ex, or an annoying task that needs to be tackled. Or an unpaid parking fine. Because now you need to punch the bread. Several times. This will knock the air out of it and prepare it for its second rising. This time use a bowl or dish of a desired shape as you need to sculpt your loaf. I use an oval baking dish, lined with a tea towel dusted with flour. Cover your loaf with cling film again and leave to rise in a warm place for 1.5-3 hours.

When the loaf has risen again preheat the oven to as high as it goes. Place your baking tray in it to heat up as well. Working briskly, flour the baking tray, pop your loaf onto it, dust it with flour and slash fun shapes in its surface. And into the oven it goes. Boil around 500ml water in the kettle and pour into a loaf tin. This needs to go on to the bottom of your oven and will provide a humid environment for the bread. After 15 minutes, reduce the temperature to 200 (or sooner if feel your bread might burn). Bake for a further 25 to 30 minutes. When you tap the baked bread it should sound hollow.

Leave to cool at least a little bit before slicing up. I like to eat my first slice quite warm and simply just buttered and salted. The pleasure is all mine.

First ever loaf. It’s wonky but it’s mine.

Sometimes, when the loaf bakes too rapidly, there forms a hole. Non-holey bread is an exact science, my brother tells me.

When I embarked on the noble quest of making my own ketchup last summer I realised I never again wanted to clog my entrails with something that has a longer (and often similar sounding) list of ingredients than bubble bath. The squeezy HP stuff has a lot going for it: its viscosity, smooth pourable texture and, mainly, its familiar flavour and odour. Take away those and you’re left with just a sauce. Which can easily be replaced with another sauce – especially one made along similar lines at home where you are completely in control! This act of reasserting your control in the kitchen and over the tasks you once delegated to Heinz and their friends is so empowering that if making brown sauce were a social theory it would be feminism. If you are a woman and make brown sauce by informed choice that is. I’m reading Caitlin Moran’s How to Be a Woman. Suddenly, I view every smallest event in my life through feminism goggles.

Of course I’m not going to compare making brown sauce to women’s struggle for equality. That would be just silly: making brown sauce is not a struggle, it is a labour of love, as is any related preserving, potting or bottling activity. The kind of project on which you happily spend your whole Sunday mid-morning, spurred on by anticipation of all those future Sunday mid-mornings that you spend not making brown sauce but lazily savouring a bacon (sausage/egg/grilled veg) butty or a proper fry-up, wearing your dressing gown because now is not the time to get dressed. Unless you have to pop round the shops to get beans, orange juice or the papers. Please get dressed then.

If you asked me a couple of months ago I would not have been able to tell you what goes into brown sauce. This is less outrageous than teenagers claiming that corn comes from corn dogs or 8-year-olds not being able to recognise and name a tomato (no word of a lie – just watch Jamie’s American Food Revolution). However, as a self-proclaimed foodie, I am still ashamed – I should know my stuff. I was actually surprised to find that brown sauce contains dates  and tamarind paste as some of its main ingredients. That’s nature’s own sweet and sour right there and the unsubtle flavours you can recognise in HP without trying too hard.

And so I embarked on my quest to enhance my pantry with another savoury sauce. The recipe yet again comes courtesy of Leon, my favourite eatery the wrong side of Watford Gap. Consider yourself warned: this is a spoon-able, not pourable sauce and  you will probably never achieve the kind of smooth, slick texture and consistency of HP, not unless you are willing to spend hours experimenting with water and cornflour. I would not bother. Instead, I would use jars to house the sauce. That way you will bypass consistency issues and be able to spoon out that last smidgen of sauce at the end of your brief but loving relationship. I know I used pretty bottles for the first batch, which is what you can see in the photos, but believe me I would not do that again. Do yourself a favour and save your bottles for flavoured liquours.

I’m sure no suggestions of usage for the sauce are really necessary. Apply liberally.

Brown Sauce (3x250ml)
60ml olive oil
500g onions, diced
150g celery, diced
a blade of mace
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
1 tsp coriander seeds
1/2 tsp celery salt (I used celery salt because it’s a bit rank and I have no other use for it. Feel free to use normal salt)
1 tin of chopped tomatoes
130g chopped stoned dates
2 bay leaves
80g fructose
3 tbsp tamarind paste
180ml malt vinegar
2 tbsp groundnut or vegetable oil
pepper

Heat the olive oil in a large pan. Sautee the onions and celery for 20 minutes on high heat until browned (but not burned). Add the spices and salt and cook for 5 more minutes.
Add the tomatoes, dates, bay leaves, fructose, half the tamarind, 2/3 of the vinegar and 200ml water. Bring to the boil and simmer for about 30 minutes. By then the ingredients should break down and combine. In the meantime sterilise your jars.

Season well and blitz in a food processor or using a stick blender to your desired consistency before adding the groundnut oil and the rest of the tamarind and vinegar. This will add more kick to the sauce.

Spoon the sauce into warm sterilised jars and keep in the fridge after opening.

]]> http://expatgourmet.wordpress.com/2012/02/20/brown-sauce/feed/ 2 expatgourmet IMG_4667 IMG_4595 IMG_4604 IMG_4666 IMG_4668 http://expatgourmet.wordpress.com/2012/02/08/my-new-kitchen-companions/ http://expatgourmet.wordpress.com/2012/02/08/my-new-kitchen-companions/#comments Wed, 08 Feb 2012 16:02:08 +0000 Expat Gourmet http://expatgourmet.wordpress.com/?p=599 Continue reading →]]> ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever‘, said someone down the pub the other night. Keats and I agree.

This Christmas I requested ‘I don’t know, something beautiful’. The genius that is my mother who knows me like the back of her hand managed to interpret that statement in the context of my love of culinary items and my rather Howard Roark-esque hate of ornament. This hate does not apply universally; I will wear jewellery if it passes the test of my strict standards of simplicity. And so white and grey are my favourite colours, lines must be straight and Cath Kidston is my arch enemy.

It breaks my heart to reflect on the state of my life at the minute. With 24 more months of my ‘prison sentence’ to serve among other little daily horrors happiness seems incredibly elusive, and being alone only with my thoughts for company does not help any. What do you do when you are so unwell on the inside that the only thing you can do is to overcompensate with outward appearance in the hope that some of it rubs off? I no longer recognise this desperate person who hopes that white porcelain bowls and crisp jacquard sheets will put everything in order again. Nevertheless I have decided to surround myself with beautiful things. And so I sleep in a beautiful new solid oak bed, my collection of Le Creuset crockery is experiencing a steady growth and I feel a teeny bit better every time cast my eyes on my worldly possessions. However the very fact I own these fine things still serves as painful reminder of the reason why everything unravelled for me. Such are the joys of high flying modern life.

That is the background information on why I buy yet more utensils and crockery when I have everything I could possibly ever want. I came across this beautiful porcelain ginger grater in Abbot’s Cookshop on Abbeydale Road in Sheffield whilst shopping for a birthday present for Lily. The present was eventually sourced from The Old Sweet Shop, as I deemed cycling inspired art far superior to a kitchen utility item – to which I treated myself. The grater is a lethal weapon, its spikes sharp as knives cut my fingertips every time I use it. The vitreous enamel utensils and porcelain noodle bowls were a gift from my mother. I have wanted an enamel skimmer for years out of a sentimental longing to recreate something of Czech countryside living in my own kitchen. Painted enamel pots are all the rage in Prague, sold to tourists at extortionate prices and intended as purely decorative items as enamel has an annoying habit of chipping off and, subsequently, the exposed metal corrodes. Enamel kitchen tools are impractical for that reason, hence impossible to find. Unless you live in a nostalgia-obsessed England. Thank you Nigella Lawson for producing this beautiful set. The wonky, shallow-dimpled bowls are part of a 16-piece dining set which, it transpires, has been kept aside for me for a while. What for, till when? Part of my dowry? Until the day I no longer live with people who break and don’t wash crockery that is not even their own. I await the moment with bated breath and trembling trepidation.

It is the defining (and fascinating) feature of modern society that no issue is ever black and white, or simple – a thought confirmed by a brief reflection on any given topic in 20th century sociology. On the face of it yes, we should be eating a more varied diet, more vegetables and less deep fried junk. However, upon scrutiny this simple statement breaks down into a complex system of reasons, links, preventing factors, business agenda, marketing harmful or otherwise, prejudices, habits and stereotypes. Even writing this found it hard not to stray from my argument to another one of my supermarket hate rants. Amazingly, considering they had a lion’s share in derailing our relationship with food, they have the potential to use their immense influence to put us back on the right track. It is impossible to place the blame for the nation’s poor diet on supermarket chains solely, no one could have predicted fifty years ago what effect supermarket shopping would have on people’s eating habits. However, knowing what power supermarket chains wield over what we put in our shopping baskets it would be criminal not to use that ‘superpower’ to try and revert the situation.

Whether there is anything to revert back to, whether there was ever a time when we simply ate better is anyone’s guess. Modern notions such as RDAs, five portions of fruit or vegetable per day or two portions of fish, one of which oily per week have not been around for that long for their benefits, or even the hypotheses behind some of them to be empirically proven. These modern notions were in turn preceded by the two wars and a time when nutrition was never a subject of scientific inquiry. I remember reading an interview with a nutrition scientist who admitted that the five in five a day was pretty much plucked out of thin air after a period of deliberation and efforts to come up with a figure that would strike a balance between tangible health benefits and what is humanly possible. Five is such a nice, round – and achievable figure, and so the random became the canonical. Please don’t misunderstand me here, I’m not trying to say that this is wrong or bad. I’m not disputing the benefits that millions undeniably get from making 5-a-day their habit. The lesson to take home is that arbitrary actions and dubious methods can sometimes be justified if they bring about an improvement in the overall life standards of the community.

In short, we may not know whether the diet situation was ever good, however we all know in the deepest of our hearts that the status quo is simply not sustainable. I was originally prompted to write this following an article in the Guardian, lamenting the fall of vegetable and fruit consumption by poorer families by as much as 30% as we reach the brink of second recession. This announcement came shortly after Labour dismissed a government initiative to incentivise participating supermarkets for fairer pricing on healthy but less popular foodstuffs in a discount scheme as result of a supermarket lobby agenda that would only financially benefit supermarket chains in the long run. Really? Those who supply vegetables to the supermarkets have been the most vocal proponents of the scheme. Whether they see it as their last chance to get a fair price for their produce is anyone’s guess. It however must mean that a portion of the incentive would end in the farmer’s pocket, otherwise there would be little support for the initiative from their rank.

And what if supermarkets did actually benefit from the scheme? Cynical as this sounds no one expects altruism in an environment ruled by cutthroat practices. They would never get on board if there wasn’t a pretty penny to be made there. Back to the point about the complexity of the issue I do think this is something on which we ought to turn a blind eye. There is no simple miracle cure for the problem where everybody benefits and no one is a profiteer. Wouldn’t it be nice if the two political forces finally recognised the gravity of the issue and put their differences aside in the name of the nation they are supposed to serve? After all, it might be that we just need a little top-down nudge to get us started.

Which brings me to my final point: education. This is perhaps the single most important piece in the puzzle, but one that can backfire the worst. Knowing our ingredients and daily cooking from scratch seems to be something of a lost art. How do you acquire this important skill if you couldn’t learn by observation during your childhood because your parents simply did not cook? Celebrity chefs on TV have no doubt done a great deal to popularise an activity that was once seen as a chore. Cooking is fun and easy, we are told constantly. But what if it isn’t? It is fun and easy to someone who enjoys it, a tedious means to an end to those who don’t. And I can understand that there are people who do not care for cooking and, potentially, the effect of celebrity chef propaganda here is only guilt-inducing. ‘I’m meant to find this easy, something must be wrong with me because I just don’t.’ This may result in a feeling of disenchantment and giving up on the whole thing.

In my opinion things need to change at community level first. Take Jamie Oliver’s TV programs. His large scale campaigns were never particularly successful, however when he sets out to help individual families he generally strikes a chord with them through his personal approach, as he did with the tearful single father who just wanted to sit down with his sons to eat a good meal at the end of the day. I am not a big fan of Jamie’s, and I understand where the backlash against some of his activities is coming from (Jamie’s School Dinners). Nobody likes to be told they’re wrong, especially when it comes to bringing up your children. And nobody likes to be patronised by a man who says ‘greenage’ and ‘let’s big up mister bread’ on national TV. However through careful involvement with the respective local communities Oliver generally does manage to raise awareness and make a degree of difference. Our government might live to see that setting aside a smaller amount of money to support grassroots community education such as cookery workshops might bring more tangible results than splurging out on a massive marketing campaign promoting the aforementioned five-a-day. And I do hope things change, what is more important than keeping the nation healthy? Why would we need more jobs and healthier economy if we were too sick to enjoy these benefits? Our health must always be a priority, otherwise we live in a very twisted world.

Written by Expat Gourmet whilst munching on a fish finger sandwich.

Christmas cookies are a phenomenon in its own right. You can see a nice spread of them in my previous post about Czech Christmas food. Unfortunately, and I apologise for the digression into linguistics, the word cookie doesn’t really quite do these justice – and neither does biscuit. The two languages, Czech and English, sometimes have a habit of not quite aligning, and it’s hard to put my finger on the subtle difference (or the correct translation). As a chronic anal retentive, this causes me real pain. There has to be a way of spelling out the difference between delicate little flowers, florentines and miniature cream-filled tartlets whilst ascribing the common property of sweets, baked or otherwise, served at Christmas time. Cookies are plain – these Christmas beauties are as far from plain as possible, nor are they crunchy like biscuits are by definition. Sweets perhaps? To me sweets are chocolates and hard candy, not baked goods. Can you tell how much time I’ve devoted to this? Can you see how much time I’ve got on my hands?

Baking Christmas cookies is a lovely old Czech tradition, one that will definitely carry on in my future family. Every family has a set of good old favourites, cookie recipe they fall back on safely every year – and a few little experiments. There are beehives and rum balls, florentines and vanilla rolls, oat cookies, tartlets, macaroons, madeleins, cocoa nut bites  and what have you. My Christmas is inextricably linked with cinnamon bird cookies that my mum bakes every year. I’ll leave those till next year, no point in giving it all away now. Then there are Linzers, the stalwart of tradition in modern Czech cuisine. Two layers of Linzer pastry, named after the city of Linz in Austria, glued together with jam sandwiched between them, have become one of the real symbols of Christmas during the 20th century. They come in any shape – the funnier the better, but always have a hole which the jam peeps through. I know they were always present on our Christmas table, and in the dining rooms of my friends and relatives.

This year Linzers have been a true triumph for my mother. The little playing card shapes were the only ones to survive my flight back to England intact, but I will have you know there were delicate little hearts and fish and cute teddy bears (“Pain in the backside!!”), painstakingly glued together with gooseberry jam one by one. I am told the pastry has never come out so short and crumbly, yet compact and light, and the redcurrant jam used this year gave those boring (traditional) strawberries or raspberries a serious run for their money. Every year the cookie shapes seem to get smaller and smaller – but if mum wants to make the job harder for herself then that’s surely her problem. It is mainly for this reason that I find our Linzers so exquisite.

Moving down one generation: the black and white log, or salami as we like to call it, is a creation of my grandmother’s. Again, the salami is one of those things that seem to always have been around, and it seems inconceivable that they shouldn’t in the future. It’s not traditional or famous, but it’s so dear to our family it has become a permanent fixture.  There’s something mesmerising about the combination of dry, almost bitter cocoa biscuit layer and sweet and moist, buttery coconut. I remember as a little girl trying to unravel the two layers, a bit like trying to dismantle a Twix. No two ways about it, this is a complete sugar overload – but when can you if not at Christmas?

So, I promise, this is the last you will hear from me about Christmas – till the next time. In the meantime, do give these two recipes a try. The recipes as given to me were very sparse and contain only the quantities of ingredients, this gives you an idea of just how familiar the two women are with making these sweets. Even though we only make them at Christmas, you will be bound by no such constrains of tradition. Move over chocolate digestive, make space for something pretty.

Black and White Swirl Log
Mix A:
250g biscuits (Cocoa biscuits or anything dark you can get your hands on. If this isn’t possible use a larger amount of cocoa.)
150g icing sugar
3tbsp black coffee
30g cocoa powder
a splash of rum
Optional: softened butter for easier handling

Mix B:
120g caster sugar
120g softened butter
60g desiccated coconut

Crush the biscuits to smithereens. Mix all the ingredients for A together so they are completely combined. Roll out to the thickness of 0.5cm on a tea towel. In a separate bowl, mix the ingredients for B together, and using a spatula spread them on to the rolled out base. Using the tea towel carefully roll this up into a compact log, sprinkle with coconut and chill before serving

Linzers
210g plain flour
70g icing sugar
140g softened butter, cut into cubes
2 egg yolks
zest of 1 lemon
jam of your preference – redcurrant is our new favourite

Sift the flour onto your worktop, add the sugar, butter, yolks and lemon zest. Work the pastry as fast as possible, shape into a ball, cover in cling film and chill for an hour.
Preheat the oven to 180. Roll the pastry out as thin as possible (aim for 2mm) and reach for your cookie cutters. Make sure you have a really small circular cutter for the aforementioned hole (circle is not required – see playing cards, but the simpler the better) You will need two shapes per cookie, one with a hole forming the top layer. Line a baking sheet with baking paper, carefully transfer your shapes across and bake in the preheated oven for 5 minutes. The cookies should be a pinky hue, not golden or brown.
Leave to cool, then glue the individual cookies and its see through counterpart carefully together with a thin layer of jam.