So this is what they get up to on Saturday Lunch-times

Saturdays from 8 -12 I have the house to myself. I potter, do the drudgery, catalogue my beer-mat collection - all the usual solitary stuff. However, this Saturday Mr Wong and my sons invited me to see inside their world. They go to Kung Fu class, Piano lessons and worship at the temple of Target or Kmart (I'm far too English to do that, give me Argos any day) and before coming home they stop at the Collins Road Asian Enclave and eat at Bamboo.

Bamboo - Authentic Singaporean Cuisine. http://www.eatability.com.au/au/perth/bamboo-willetton/map.htm


Now, I go through phases where I can take or leave SE Asian cuisine. I have had more than the fair share alloted to most White Girls and I am very picky about what kind of places I will eat in. For me, the aroma of chicken broth or the sight of a stack of ice cubes in an cold Kopi-Oh does not evoke the same misty-eyed frenzy which affects my husband. A bowl of Heinz Tomato Soup and some Mother's Pride spread with Country Life would get me going, but I digress. Nor will I eat anywhere in which my forearms stick to the plastic table-cloth.

Bamboo is different. There are three locations; Perth CBD, trendy Subiaco and Asian-dense Willeton out in the 'burbs. That's where they go. This outlet is run by three Cantonese sisters from Christmas Island http://www.christmas.net.au/and furnished from Empire http://www.worldofempire.com/. It is stylish and spotless and bustling.

The menu is extensive but the men of my family almost always order the same thing: Wan Ton noodles, dry, with barbecue pork and Wan Ton noodles, dry, with crispy roast pork. Two iced Milos and an iced lemon tea. The Wan Ton are filled with a delicate pork mince and float in what I am told is the perfect chicken broth. The dry noodles get mixed in the soy sauce until they are perfectly golden brown. Everyone is very happy. This is the best food of this type in a 10km radius. The noodles, I am told by Mr Wong, are as good as the ones from the China Town markets in Sydney, only the one stall mind you and that was way back in 1993.



I chose Kway Toa flat rice noodles with beef, no egg. I first had this dish in the night markets in Sandakan, Sabah. Served in a plastic bag but none-the-less delicious because the great strength of these flat noodles is that they take on the taste of the wok like no other. As a consequence all the previous built-up layers and patinas of flavour and carbonisation and salt and oil from a properly seasoned wok are imbued on to their slippery surface. If the kitchen does not have an expert and fully focussed wok driver, then this dish will give the game away. Happily, Bamboo has just that.

My order comes out first. I get that smug grin which befalls the diner who knows they've made a top choice and I dress the dish with sliced pickled green chilis marinated in soy sauce.

see how they envy me

For dessert, the men of my family make the short journey to the next door store and indulge in Korean Ice Lollies; flavours and colours that immediately take one back to being 8 years old, flavours and colours that have been outlawed in Europe for many years. My sons eat them in the back of the car on the way home. Shark fin shapes made with a tangerine-flavoured blue-grey ice shell with strawberry-flavoured red jelly inside. Wholly and utterly unethical on every level, and a right proper treat and no mistake.


I grabbed a selection of Korean crisps, drawn chiefly by the graphics on the packaging. I have little or no idea what they will taste like, but then that's the fun of it.

does anyone know what is in these stunning cans?

We all arrive back home, and while the adults give their bellies an airing on the sofa the sons are on the trampoline at once. Strong stomachs and lots of stamina. Far more than I posses. I may go back to my pottering next Saturday and give my greed a rest. Oh, wait a minute, I 'll be in Bali next Saturday.

Low-Carb Lunches 1: Warm Prawn Cocktail

Ahhhh.... there's been a gap. I cannot find the copious notes I made from my UK trip. I haven't quite looked everywhere; I am postponing the crashing disappointment of realising I left them on the plane/taxi/duty free shop. However, they may turn up somewhere utterly unexpected. Like my Foo Fighters Tickets from April 2008. I put them somewhere for safe keeping while we went on holiday to Kota Kinabalu and the floor-sanders were in. I swiftly erased the knowledge from my mind, came back with 18 hours to go before the show and tried to trawl through a house already turned upside down because of the floor-sanding operation. One of my sons found them wedged right at the bottom of a bolster cushion inside the cover. I have eyed him with a shadow of suspicion ever since.

Anyway..... while I was preparing to ransack the soft furnishings I got hungry.
I am trying to reduce my carbohydrate intake to one serving a day. I am vain and slightly more upholstered than muscular and summer is coming. So I looked for lunch-time inspiration to London. Pret a Manger to be precise http://www.pret.com/
Anyone who worked in London in the 90s remembers their first Pret experience. Good bread, good fillings, easy to grab, made you feel like you were a little bit Continental, wrapped in spiffing cellophane so you didn't get grease spots on your desk and most importantly you could be in and out in 6 minutes flat so more time for lunchtime shopping/fags/flirting/shoplifting.

The book of the shop divulges all its secrets.

Not sure if that was an unwise move or a very arrogant one as Pret was so sure they could not be aped. For the eschewer of bread and carbohydrates in the middle of the day the fillings on their own make a wonderful lunch.

The first in the book is egg and bacon mayonnaise but that dish is dead to me ever since I witnessed at first hand the low habits and hygiene of the London pigeon (the Berkley Square mob to be precise), made the fowl/egg connection with the lumps in my sandwich and have never been able to countenance a boiled egg since. Scrambled is fine, it's just the white bit. And what those pigeons were doing to one another. Everyone has their peculiarities, that is one of mine. The next filling is, however, far more appealing; Avocado and Prawn. And since it has no yeasty cover it will be elevated to cocktail status.

The trick with prawn cocktail is not the prawns (in Britain we would use partially defrosted north sea ones and fancy ourselves exotic and erudite). Today I used frozen West Australian prawn flesh at $40 a kilo. I sauteed them in butter and olive oil with some torn kaffir lime leaf, lemon juice and salt and pepper.

The trick is not the salad vegetables, The Pret recipe calls for Cos lettuce leaves for which I substituted skinned Roma Tomatoes. ( reader, I shall admit this to you: I dislike lettuce. Well, I dislike the way I handle it. I 've never been able to treat it properly and nothing lettucey will ever come close to my first French Green Salad served between courses in 1979. I accept the Ponce Rating and I know my limits), half an avocado, paprika and the MAGIC ingredient Marie Rose Sauce.

Marie Rose Sauce or Cocktail Sauce is irresistable to humans. When I worked in backstage catering we would serve up goujons of snapper with slices of lime and a dish of Marie Rose Sauce in which to dip. Next to the Amelia Park Frenched Lamb Cutlets hot off the barbie this was always hands down the most popular item we could serve. Mick Hucknall demanded seconds. Alicia Keys' rhythm section grabbed handfuls. Only Diana Krall would not weaken. And the secret is ...... homemade mayonnaise, worcester sauce and tomato ketchup.

I made mine thus:
1 egg yolk
freshly ground sea salt and black pepper
a squeeze of lemon juice
a few drops of balsamic vinegar
10 mls extra virgin olive oil
20 mls peanut oil
dash of worcestershire sauce
good glug of Heinz tomato ketchup

Coax forth the mayo in the bowl with much patience and elbow grease, then stir in the last two ingredients. It should glow like a the flush of a lover and hold its shape like jelly.


Unfortunately I chose the rubbery- soft kind of avo and decided it would be better off having a tumble in the saute pan with the prawns along with the skinned roma tomato and the shredded basil I substituted for the Pret recipe paprika. The gentle heat really brings out the sweetness of the tomatoes.


It had texture, flavour, softness and crunch and most importantly of all enough Marie Rose Sauce to lick out of the dish for the finale.

OK, now where DID I put those notes? There are no curtains in my house so I don't have to scrabble behind any pelmets....

Semantics: disappointment, expectation and hardening the F up in Perth.

Bar & Tapas
Tell me, what does that suggest to you?
If you are European, especially Spanish or Catalonian it will be a strong suggestion, if Australian-Who-Has-Traveled it will be another thing, if it is Perth-CBD-Worker-Looking-For-A-Bar-And-A-Bite-After-Work it will be another.
Me - I'm a mongrel with my roots in north London, a few visits to Northern Spain at the very least. But I live in Perth.

So.... the chief thing I expected at http://www.andaluzbar.com.au/ was a) not to be kept waiting for 12 minutes for a glass of Tempranillo; one extra-odinarily pompous waiter took my order mutely, one inert bar-man and several intermittent staff later and I was forced to walk the 5 metres to the bar and pick up the glass myself. I know that this is hardly a hardship in the real world, I'm not waiting for clean water in a Haitian post-earthquake camp or anything, but still....

Bar AND Tapas.

This is a Bar
They choose to serve small portions of Mediterranean styllee food on mis-matched saucers and call it tapas (no baccalau, however the Berkshire pork cheek confit and scallops were good as were the chick-pea battered prawns - I presume that the chickpea element was besan flour).
But a Tapas Bar it is not.

This is a Tapas Bar

(I don't know who the pasty middle-aged woman at the end is)

The goods are on display, the dog can see the rabbit. There is no menu, one trusts the chef.

The wine is in tubs on the counter. One could help oneself, but one has an agreement with the Host; the customer will ask and the Host will pour at once. Not wait 12 minutes while the staff faff about.

This is tapas, this is what it looks like;
It ain't fancy, it's just the best of what the Host likes to serve.


That, mi amigo, is a plethora of fried protein coated in refined carbohydrate on sticks. Salty, crispy, delicious, honest. In the illuminated cabinet below is a selection of less robust items: vol-au-vents ( yes, vol-au-vents because they are popular and people like them and they contain a creamy, vinegary, filling perfectly) filled with crab remoulade, salami and potato salad, elvers and mayonnaise, need I go on?)

So, it is with initial trepidation over spoiling our evening yet resulting in the purity of an informed debate, that I suggest to my dinner date that either the term "bar and tappas" is misleading or that my European -flavoured expectations are simply out of place in this town. My dinner date works with words and concepts and design. He tells me the clue is in the punctuation; Bar amperzand Tapas. It is not a Tapas Bar. Well quite, I say, otherwise they would have had the cojones to put the tapas on display, right there in front of the booze whetting the appetite and assaulting the senses like a common street walker rather than coyly nestling between the leaves of a flock-wallpaper covered menu. Nor would one be at the mercy of the waiting staff but in the care of a Patron (pimp?) who is unashamedly displaying his wares.

Andaluz could be taken as a gravely disappointing misnomer, but as my dinner date reminds me,
this is a bar that does food in the middle of the Perth CDB. It is Wednesday night and it is buzzing: Job Done.
However I would be extremely interested to know how the seed of the vision of Andaluz started out in the owners' eyes. Seriously, I am very willing to have my European smugness knocked out of me. But I would advise that the owners tell the pot-wash guy not to leave the mop and tea-towel drop right outside the kitchen door. A small detail but nothing puts one off ones' head of veal and truffle oil dish like a dirty mop-head standing sentry at the kitchen.

I must share my delight at the growing numbers of Bars in Perth. Yes, a Bar. Where a grow-up can enter, sit or stand and buy a drink. It is heartening to see the stealth licensing laws are being used. And the interior decor of Andaluz is right on the pulse. The dark, bold hues of the walls and colour accents from vintage bric-a-brac is all the rage in the front parlours of Kensal Rise. http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2010/oct/23/anatomy-of-style-vintage

At the risk of sounding deeply condescending, and I really don't want to be that person as I do realise how fortunate I am to have got a permanent foot in the door of this country, I wonder if the owner's vision matched the end product his wait-staff supply. This is a mis-match I see time and time again in this city and I truly wonder why these gaps need appear. I am 99% certain the designer did not mean for the bar-staff to stash the paper wine lists on the lip of the gun-metal grey girder which frames the bar. Small details and hardly life nor death, but they must have mattered to someone somewhere along the line.
And speaking of lines, the bottom line is that I have to drive in from the 'burbs to Andaluz, I am not the tie-loosened white-shirted ideal customer looking for drink after work with a boudin noir rather than a pie for sustenance so really, what do I matter?

I would give Andaluz another crack, but with vastly different expectations.
Perhaps I just need to Harden The F* Up, Stefan
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iweZ-o43wFU

Mint-Chocolate Mousse or Mum - did you get this from the Shop!? (compliment of the highest order)

I have two sons.
One will wolf down confit du canard, foie gras or tripe while the other turns his nose up at a croque monsieur at the same Parisian Bistro because it is "the wrong kind of cheese."
One will ask for Venison Pie for tea after a seeing the dvd of Bambi, while the other's idea of nirvana is to be let loose in a ball-pit filled with Twisties and Crinkle-Cut Chips.

So, it is something of a challenge to cook a meal that satisfies the polarised tastes my children demonstrate. Almost each day there are multiple dishes on offer simply because I cannot take the cruel sting of (food) rejection and I am irritated beyond measure when an empty refusenik stomach demands Milo cereal at 8pm. I pick my battles. However, I do feel the need to ease the fussy one in to a wider range of home-cooked and non-synthetic foods and I know that he has a sweet tooth. I shall, like Paris, loose my nutrtional-arrow in to his Achilles heel. My arrow will be tipped with Mint-chocolate Mousse.

It's not fancy. This is how I made it. And no money changed hand with Nestle, which is nice.

MINT CHOCOLATE MOUSSE
serves 4 children
125g mint-flavoured milk chocolate
25ml water
2 eggs
1 egg yolk
50g caster sugar
50ml very hot water
1 10g sachet of gelatine crystals
100ml thick/double cream
grated chocolate and piped cream (ideally from a squirty can to maximise effect) to decorate

small dishes



1. Melt the chocolate with the 25ml water in a bowl over simmering water
2. In another, larger bowl whisk the eggs, yolk and sugar together until frothy and thick

3. Dissolve the gelatine in the very hot water and add to the eggs and stir well

4. Stir in the cream and melted chocolate and pour in to individual dishes

5. Chill for 2 hours
6. Garnish with the cream and chocolate, and if you can get away with it fresh mint leaves
7. Decide whether you did get it from the shop and just decanted it to make yourself extra washing up, it's your call.

And this is the response: "Mum, did you get this from the Shop? Did you? It tastes fantastic, just like from the shop. Oh MUM you are so clever."

I bask in the glory and ignore the sugar eating away at his dentine. At least he has had eggs and milk. Plus I remember to snatch the mint-leaf garnish away before he sees it (everyone in Year 1 knows greenery=deadly poison). My other son finds it a tad bland. Neige aux Marrons Glaces for him tomorrow.

Girona, Catalonia - El Mercat Del Lleo.

Just across the street from our hotel in El Placa del Lleo is Girona's retail food market. This is the distribution centre for the city's fresh produce. What a joy to behold.
The purpose built hall houses wet, dry, cured, moist, slippery, crunchy, crispy and soft foods. Outside it is surrounded by produce stalls, the goods on which are of every shape and size.
Even putting the olfactory senses on hold, the visual ones are delighted fed and delighted admirably.



are these elvers or smelts?



We walk through, unable to buy anything to cook, but delighted that the chefs and cooks of the city just a short stroll ahead of us have been here far earlier on today and left with full bags.

The elvers on the tapas, I get a hard stare from my friend and to be honest I could take them or leave them but oh, how pretty they look.


54 different kinds of baccalau

Checking the provenance and sovereinty was impossible. The Catlans do not care to speak Spanish. They are NOT Spanish, no more Spanish than the French or Italians and they will NOT, by jingo, speak it unless pressed very hard. Therefore it was not EASY to strike up a casual conversation about the provenance of the monkfish, or the halva or the quinces. Even my friend Lucy ( who took these marvelous pictures) who learned her Spanish in the jungles of Peru could not elicit any information without resort to hand gestures. Plus as it was obvious we weren't buying and were merely passing through and these stall holders are busy, busy, busy.
retro-tastic butchers' stall
So I can only guess that all these treasures came from the surrounding hills and plains and shores. Certainly there were no gimmicks and every one buying looked doggedly assured that they knew precisley what treatment to give the familiar ingredients according to the day of the week and the complexion of the days' weather. In short, this produce is the backbone of the region and while there is definitely room for experimentation (after all Ferran Adria's El Bulli is but a stone's through), none of the cooks here want their supplies titivated or tarted up. This is where the every day cooks and the Post Modern Impressionist cooks come to fill their palettes.

When we reach the far side of the market, we are a tad peckish. We are now faced with the task of sifting through the immense number of choices of where to have lunch in this city. But it won't be too tricky, as long as we choose somewhere whose cook was at El Mercat Del Lleo earlier this morning, and left fully-laden with produce and inspiration.
and with that thought in mind we make our way to the Plaza del Independencia for a bite to eat

Back in the saddle, Mediterranean style

There has been a distinct malaise here at Crackling.
What could it be?
Homesickness? I've been back from Europe for 3 weeks now
Missing something I already have? Could be, but that is a little wet as a theory.
Bug picked up on the plane? Very possibly. Long Haul flights = big metal bird/pertri dish full of other people's germs.

Nothing's really cutting it these days.
Apart from breakfast bacon and eggs (can never go past that happy couple, particularly as my English butcher in Brentwood cures his own streaky)
My appetite for good food is low; pedestrian at best, white-trash at worst. Come midday I am eager for snickers bars and refined carbohydrates. Now I wouldn't usually tell anyone this but it may affect my usual integrity if I don't demonstrate how low I've sunk:- Cheese and Bacon Cheeto Balls with a topping of Kraft 1000 Island Dressing.
Little Else.

I am pining for the peppered smoked mackerel, the plaice, the damsons, my sister's Maran hens' eggs, the pork pies, the Wallace and Grommit range of cheeses and the common High Street Byriani amongst which I was submerged for three weeks. Two weeks with a short sabbatical to Catalonia and Oh! The tappas and the wine. Now so very far away.

Low and Flat. A bit like Belguim.

Until I stumble upon the latest series of No Reservations uploaded kindlyby Kumquasta on youtube. It is the Roma episode.
Even though he's a teeny tiny bit tame these days, Anthony Bourdain still gets me going. Is it the black suit and white shirt or the white suit and black shirt? Or the fundamentally European foods cultured in a fundamentally European way? In this episode Tony visits a rarified delicatessen in the back streets of the city and wallows head first in every kind of singularly European Goodness: milk'n'bacteria (whole fresh parmesan wheel), cured pork products (proscuitto), fermented rape juice (wine) and bread that makes a shattering, raspy noise when cut (hard, fermented, raised woodfired wheat). I can't put my finger on it precisely but it has all put its fingers on me.

I turn to my garden, store cupboard and the remainder of the Red Tail Ridge Olives:



Onion
Olive Oil
and Anchovies melted down
Garlic just with the raw edge taken off
Italian chopped plum tomatoes, drained - you must drain them - and
melted in the unctuous perfumed oil
Parsely, oregano.
One red birds eye chili
Cans of cannelini beans and borlotti beans
Hell, even a drained can of "sandwich flake"style supermarket tuna (scraped with a blade from the hulk of a beat far away in Thailand during a 12 hours shift, no doubt)
Warm body heat warm so the flavours can sing out.
It is right for lunch tomorrow with salad leaves and right for tossing through warm rigatoni.




Europe is at my fingertips once more. My appetite has been restored.
Now if only I could get my hands on the raw, sweet red wine from Girona, just right for Sangria. It doesn't even get to the wholesalers', the owners of this restaurant http://sites.google.com/site/restaurantbahiaeng/pick it up straight from the vinyard in the hills. More of that later.

I'm looking out over the Med again, fork in hand, thankful for what I have and the sun is shining. Thanks Tony, both of yous.

Excuse me while I compose myself

Now the jetlag and the ensuing laziness is wearing off, there is work behind the scenes of Crackling to bring reports and recipes from the UK, and Catalunya which is NOT Spain in case you didn't know.
So while you're waiting, feast your eyes on this premium Hampshire Hand-Raised Pork Pie.

a bien tot