I don't put on dinners to make speeches

I don’t put on dinners because I want to make speeches. I hate making speeches. Even talking. Publicly that is, I don’t mind talking to the person next to me, though I find I’m a better talker (i.e., I talk) when the number of people next to me isn’t much more than three.

I know, I know, people just assume you’re going to do a good job. They want you to do a good job. In fact they’ve probably got their fingers, toes and eyes crossed hoping that you’re gonna do a good job, that you won’t fuck up. No one likes a fuck up, especially if the one fucking up is doing the talk. That’s just awkward.

Once I was given a book called How to bluff your way through public speaking. And I’ve been told that being on stage talking is one of the few moments in your life where you control everything. Plus there’s always what Steven Spielberg said, namely that people will sit through 20 minutes of anything. But this is a) next level advice and b) assumes you like control. It also assumes you’ve passed the bluffing stage and have 19 more minutes to go. It assumes you’ve read the book. And I haven’t. 

You’d think you’d be able to talk about something you made up. You’d think you’d be able to talk about something you want to do. Well, maybe you can. Certainly everyone speaking at TED can. But I can’t. I can hardly squeak out that tonight’s menu will be and say toe-curlingly excruciating things like ‘We cooked you some nice food’. Nice food?!

Yes, I said that.

'280 slm' 2015, Costadilà

I don’t know if buying the same book twice (ok, multiple times) ‘cus I found another with a better cover is any better, different or worse than originally buying the book for it’s cover but I do it so it whatever. I have definitely also bought wine solely for its label and while that sinks in know this: even though these days I care too much about what I’m drinking actually tastes like to go all in for awesome alliteration, when you’re in a safe place, a good label can be a good place to start.

For instance when you’re in a natural wine bar and don’t speak the language (Italian) and are one of those people (me) who think you’ll somehow offend the person whose language you don’t speak less by speaking as little as possible and leave all communication to someone more civilised than you. So I pointed to the label I recognised from somewhere and asked my boyfriend to ask the nice looking man at the bar whether he could tell us anything about it.

He told us it was a Prosecco made in the old-world way called Prosecco Col Fondo and also that the grapes were hand-picked, fermented with indigenous yeasts, skin macerated (25 days) and the wine left on the lees for 5 months before bottling. Then he shook it up, told us his name’s Ernesto and that he made it.

The lesson? If you judge a wine by its label you might still be drinking hours later with the guy who made it.

Tasting notes:

The 280 slm looks like smoggy sun. Tastes like morning sun drying dew off daises. There’s straw and wood smoke and fresh bread yeast and sitting slightly buzzed on a fence with your scarf on eating apples in fall.

//

“280slm” 2015

Costadilà

Glera + Verdiso + Bianchetta Trevigiana, + Perera

Treviso, Italy

25 days skin maceration

Imported by Vleck

The Extra Supper

I

Blood orange water kefir with artichoke and juniper berries

II

Ribboned raw zucchini salad with parsley, mint and red onion 

III

Ras el hanout butter-roasted kleine kipjes in chef hats with goose fat potatoes and roasted spring onions

or

Moon pizzas

IV

Blood orange upside down cake with grated cardamon cream

Just as I was taking pictures the oven was delivered. The oven didn't fit inside. We knew this for certain when we'd taken off the door. And then the second door. So we cooked and plated outside, dressed very much for inside. After that I didn't take any more pictures. But we did make a 3D invitation.

Click for the (three) photos I did take.

The oranges weren't orange enough

The oranges weren’t orange enough and the not-perfectly-green apples had already been purged. The tomatoes were, for the day, to be considered vegetables because it was obvious the vegetables needed a dash of red so that they could be identified as vegetables and not just kale, which is how it looked now, because kale sends the wrong message or at least not exactly the right one, this is primetime TV after all, possibly not the biggest demographic of kale eaters; and speaking of kale, could you replace that box over there? 5-hours or is it now 8 at any rate lots later and it’s no longer looking its best and everything needs to at least seem the best of everything because god-dammit this is what we're being paid to do.

Later on all the bread had to be thrown away. 

But only once we’d moved everything back to where it had been after moving it all so it looked just like it did but different. But then, who even remembered what it looked like before?

And the whole time no one even blinked an eyelid because everyone was a professional and a very professional one at that and they were shooting a 30-second commercial and 30 seconds is hardly enough time to blink in anyway. (I just timed myself and I seem to blink every 4-seconds).


Illustration from Pen & Palate.

The Southern Supper

An aperitif

Aperol, bourbon, bitters, grapefruit, maple syrup 

To begin

Leaves with a lemon-garlic vinaigrette

Entree

Apple-brined, whole-roast, organic pig

or

Roast Coquelet

with

6-hour barbeque-baked beans

Caramelised onions

Red cabbage & fennel slaw

Lemon-zest apple sauce

Homemade bourbon BBQ sauce 

to be drunk with vin naturel: a Litrozzo Rosso of the Greghetto grape, Le Coste, 2014

For after

A pecan & chocolate tart with whipped bourbon crème fraîche 

Lot61 Coffee

Johnnie Walker Whisky

(All photos by Sophia van den Hoek)

 

 

Hakata Senpachi and some stuff about sake

This is drinking food. It’s quick-grab, slurp, suck, re-lick your fingers food. It’s unlikely stuff on a wooden stick (eel, pork belly) and genius (salted, crispy-fried chicken skin, also on a stick) food. It’s so-fresh-you-hardly-taste-the-fish food; and the eel, not the one that came on the stick but the one that came last, the one on the plate, is as fatty as foie gras in terms of other food, food.

This is ‘What’re they eating over there I'd like some of that’-food, and ‘Can I try a bit of yours’-food. It’s ‘You need to try this’-food and ‘Can we have more of that one’-food. It’s lots of ‘What’s this?’-food and, ‘Try combining this with the one over there’-food. All of it’s ‘Way better than when we went to that expensive place’-food. It’s hungover food.

And we drank slow-brew sake that tasted like chocolate. 

Here's some stuff you might like to know about sake:

1. To turn rice into sake, brewers use a yeast called Aspergillus oryzae.
2. In Japanese, the word 'sake' is used to refer to any alcoholic drink. The Japanese call what we call sake nihonshu which means 'Japanese alcohol' . 
3. There are several types. These are differentiated by the manner in which the rice was milled.
4. Milling is to do with the rice polishing ratio, i.e., how much of the outer husk and core of each rice kernel has been ground away. To get to white rice from brown rice, you need to polish it to about 90% (i.e. you polish off 10%).
5. A sake with a higher polish (between 50-70%, so that's 30-50% polished off) is generally more expensive. This is because it requires more rice and processing to make the same amount of liquid.
6. Ginjo and Daiginjo sakes are considered premium sakes. 
7. Junmai is the Japanese word for 'pure rice'. Junmai is brewed using only rice, water, yeast and koji – i.e. there are no other additives. Unless a bottle of sake says 'junmai'  (純米), it will have additives.
8. Some other useful words: amakuchi = sweet, karakuchi = dry, genshu = undiluted sake (most are diluted), honjozo = sake to which a small amount of distilled alcohol has been added,
   jizake = sake from smaller breweries or more artisanal brands.

Oh, and we were at Hakata Senpachi.

Illustration by Briony Crane.

The mysterious case of lattes to go and sportswear only nominally designed for sport

Ever since there was no real skiing this December because there was no real snow in the Alps, I’ve been wearing my hiking socks; something you’ll undoubtedly have your own thoughts on but hear me out. If more of us were wearing hiking socks, I figure, less of us would be bearing blue-grey ankles to the cold, which, even if not so cold, is cold enough to turn your exposed ankle blue. Maybe there would even be less of us wearing those clashing techno-coloured pink and fluro-yellow sneakers because these, you could argue to the evidently, even if not at first, obviously, fashion conscious, would clash with the grey. And it’s the sneakers, I suspect, which are the gateway. 

The gateway to lunching in Lycra and nipping out to the Albert Heijn to pick up the exact ingredients you need for tonight’s dinner and certainly no more unless, perhaps, there’s something in the bonus. The gateway, too, to putting on (worse) or remaining in (a little better) your yoga kit to ‘grab a latte’; though I appreciate this is an act that is also mercifully frustrated by the fact you live in Amsterdam, a city not set up for the to-go culture because, depending on how you look at it, is either 1) proud and independent, or; 2) incredibly slow on the uptake and, at any rate; 3) because its people are already ‘going’ on bikes, making lattes to go even less enjoyable than normal**. (Alternatives 1 and 2 are also, I think, factors frustrating the types who would, in a flash of neon, be swapping their lattes in yoga pants for brunch in full sporting regalia. It is, after all, very difficult to find decent brunch or even breakfast here).

And even if we could forgive the sneakers, and you could, I suppose, be forgiven for thinking they’re meant for running (ha) errands in organic stores — they’re comfy, after all, and the only thing alongside your expense account that’ll get you through New York — a form-fitting, phosphorescent, Dri-Fit T-shirt (i.e. blazingly bright gear designed to get men up mountains and not to the wine store before closing time) is harder to excuse. And at any rate, you just look silly; even if you do occasionally do actual exercise. 

**And by 'less enjoyable than normal' I mean not at all enjoyable given that even walking with one of those damp cardboard cups, let alone biking, all the while navigating people, curbs, cars and bikes while also trying to take, without spilling sips of an expensive, by-now— cold coffee that the barista took ages to make and which, in all likelihood, you probably did have the 3 minutes it would take to drink, hot, on the spot, is just not enjoyable.

Illustration by Carson Ellis.

Breda, Amsterdam

It’s the kind of place that makes you wish that you, personally, and the nation, generally, had a deeply rooted lunch culture. Of course that’s only if you don’t already and also if by ‘lunch culture’ you mean more than a broodje kaas, which, even if not one to be admired, is as deep rooted a culture as any. Appropriate or deliberate, then, that the restaurant’s name is Breda, a town in the ‘Bourgondisch’, bistro-friendly, lunch-loving half of the Netherlands. 

But this and the fact that everyone running the place originally comes from there, is probably Restaurant Breda in Amsterdam’s strongest link to Breda, Breda. Not that one cares. Not when one is sitting on a beautiful green couch with one’s wine glass reflecting outside’s high grey skies and you consider, finally out of the wind, what a marvellous thing it is to have a proper lunch. A proper lunch on a Friday afternoon in a proper, high as those grey skies-ceilinged, dining room. One that is elegant (the light fixtures are stunning) without being fussy (you might be out for lunch but this is still Amsterdam) and built around a long bar (important). 

Our reservation was for 1 p.m. but with last night’s not nearly as chic dinner feeling only hours away, we chose for the 3-course menu (€29.50) over the 4 (€36.50) or 5-course (€42.50) options. And that, and the name of the wine in your glass (unfortunately vin naturel only comes by the bottle) is all you are to choose; the object being to settle yourself back down on that couch and enjoy watching the chef, whose other restaurant, Guts & Glory, bases its menus on one animal at a time, exercise his skill and new-found freedom in cooking with all kinds of beasts (fin, feather, shell) at once. 

Toast

The buttered side of one’s proverbial piece of (nowadays probably sourdough) toast hitting the floor has made wisdom status, but what about when you water the plants, already late, on your way out the door, now very late, and they start dripping and your floor’s wood? Or when you take out the bin, don’t put a swizzle-thing thing on it like you’re supposed to, you know you are, because you’re going to take it down immediately, sure you will, ok, so, just for a second you put it down in the hall, making, of course, sure it’s balanced and when you’re back, 1.5 seconds later, ok maybe more, it’s all over the place? Or what about when you’re vacuuming and see there’s all kind of crap on the windowsill because who even cleans there, think hell, I’ll give it a quick swoop, aren’t I good, but darned if I’m going to move all the small pieces of sentiment, memory and oddly shaped love-token-rocks before I do so, I’m not that good, and you swoop and SWOOP, there go your memories, whizzing around in the vacuum cleaner bag. How about that quiet morning to yourself, no one home, you in bed reading the papers, a coffee cup balanced on your mattress - a balancing act so obviously impossible to anyone else that one should read ‘impossible’ as ‘forbidden’ - and then the cat jumps up, cute purr purr cute, and there’s coffee all over the bed just as you warned would happen to everyone but yourself, because somewhere deep inside you think you’re just that little bit better or at least more in control of the universe? 

Ha.

When you’re thinking your darkly prejudiced thoughts like that, coffee and cat all over the place, you obviously forgot the time you vacuumed (a different time) and then dropped three bags of sugar, or all those times you just had to sample whatever you were cooking you were so hungry and of course it was way too hot and you knew that but you did it anyway and you burned your mouth so you could no longer taste dinner which was ready a whole three minutes later, and you certainly haven't  paused to consider the way in which lentils have a tendency to take a dive off your fork (you are once again sampling at the stove) once it’s reached its zenith, the fork I mean, and of course they all roll teeny-weeny into all the places you not only cannot reach but you JUST CLEANED.

It’s a good thing I don’t really eat toast. 

If you like the idea of drinking rubies drink Sébastian Riffault "Raudonas" 2011

I like drinking wine out of plastic cups more than probably most anybodies. I like my wine cloudy, unstable and fizzling and if it’s a really good day it’ll be all three plus red and cold. Give me rough and unsettled or watered down with spritzy water to drink during the harvest time, wine. But I also like wines that make you 

s 

i

n 

g 

cus they're so clean.

Wines as crisp as the sound of you biting into an Autumn apple straight from the tree crap-bit-of-juice-got-in-your-eye can be; precise as we think the Germans to be. Patrick Bateman ebony handled razor blade sharp and also just normal sharp. 

Last week I drank Sébastian Riffault’s "Raudonas". I say my god but here I’ll say my gosh because this was definitely something made on earth and I don’t think the earth gets enough credit. You could taste it. The earth I mean. Earth and flint (Sancerre, Loire), spice, cranberries and rubies. Like Thanksgiving but better or at least easier. Singing almost singeing — sides of your tongue gettin’ all juicy — acidity, a long finish and whistling Indian arrow straight purity. In a word, for the sake of adding one more word: 

unctuous. 

And no, I don’t drink everything out of plastic cups.

//

Sébastian Riffault "Raudonas" 2011

Pinot Noir
Loire

From: La Officina

Mana Mana

There was enough vinegar on the grilled vegetable salad for even me to comment which will only mean something to you if you knew how every salad is a battle between me and the rest of the world, me being on vinegar’s side. But we'll get there.

The last time I’d been to Mana Mana was maybe a year ago, maybe less, I don’t exactly remember. What I do remember is that we’d passed the place when it was still at its previous place (Hemonystraat) a million times and wanted to eat there for another million. It was, however, always shuttered up but for the one time, which is how I knew it was a restaurant to begin with and not the shutters of a person with the good fortune of having their family crest being a big steaming pot (see their logo). I remember being in a very bad mood and going was meant to be both a surprise and to cheer me up. It did. 

On fish

I felt shiny. I was mopping up the oil from the last can of sardines everybody brings back from Lisbon and felt shiny. This, if not indicative of January’s strain on one’s psychological well-being, at least shows you the power of advertising. I was feeling how the back of your average tin of cat food promises your cat will feel after nom-nomm-nomming its Extra Fancy Fishies in Real Oil or whatever, which is to say, bright-eyed and silky-furred. 

A week later I was feeling angry. Angry that the salmon we’d bought from the fish man didn’t have its skin on. Angry that I hadn’t checked whether it had its skin on, and angry that I had to check. Why would you cook something without its skin?

Now I felt guilty. That eyes-cast-down-at-your-middle-leg-region kind of guilt. 

“…and of course none of you eat fish, right?”

The room had only just faintly gargled its non-answer to the first of the rhetorical questions it had just been slammed with just a moment before, the “Of course you’re all smart enough not to eat meat, right?”.

Shit. 

We were at the opening speeches of the Youth Food Movement’s year, and I knew that in a week’s time we will have picked up a pig, brought it to slaughter, hung it, brined it and roasted it (although thank god for the surprise element of life, because it turned out we’d also be roasting it out in the snow). I was also feeling very aware of last week’s salmon incident, sardine lunch, a side porting of kibbling to go and two bites of a herring served on the tail (plus pickles and onion though I prefer it cut up). On all counts then, I eat both meat and fish.