1Dish4TheRoad
"1 Dish 4 The Road".. Fusing food writing with whatever else I find on the road – fiction, history, poetry, humour, diversity, family stories & London.

Kitchen Peeves

Kitchen utensils on a drying rack by the sink

I do love a kitchen. And if you’re reading this blog, I’m assuming you like a kitchen too. The room where everything happens. Where all the cooking goes on. The scene of a hundred smiles, occasional tears, and a fair few cracked eggs gone rogue over the counter.

I loved the kitchen when I was growing up too. I’d tail my mum like a duckling, hand clasped tight around her apron strings, eyes wide as buttons as she drew out a steaming tray of her famous fudgy brownies, or helping her flip my favourite lamb chops on our 1970s’ electric fryer.

Nowadays, it’s my own boys who love the kitchen. And it’s not them making a mess with those rogue eggs: they can crack them cleaner and truer than I. My youngest scrambles, my oldest poaches, and it makes me proud.

Ah, the kitchen. Special space, precious memories, the beating heart of the home. And, just sometimes, I really hate it…

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“Picnic As…”

Even now I’m in two minds: is “picnic” really the right word here? Do I really wish to conjure up bucolic images of gallivanting about the countryside, all wicker baskets and gingham blankets, pink-stained fingers pinching the wet tops of strawberries, a knocked-over glass of bubbly fizzing over a clump of summer daisies?

The traditional British picnic has its roots in French pre-Revolution aristocracy. But when the posh pique-nique-ers feared for their heads, rather than lose a requisite piece of anatomy for a spot of outdoor munching, off they sailed for Blighty instead. And before you could say ‘rillettes de lapin à l’ancienne’, the craze was sweeping Georgian high society.

Picnics were then social affairs, events to see and be seen in. Their settings of countryside meadow or urban pleasure garden immersed the wealthy and privileged in a rural idyll, an escape from the bustle and grime of the city, bestowing them with an air of salubrity and restoration.

Nowadays, picnics are more democratic, but the word itself – if not the act of taking food outdoors – still seems entrenched in a genteel world of supermarket dips, served with a dash of whimsy and a sprinkling of kitsch.

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Viennetta at CHEZ BRUCE; Back to the ’80s [new version]

The multi-colored Viennetta at Chez Bruce takes me back the to 1980's

Wall Street traders. Space Invaders.
Arcade dreams. Custard creams.
Kylie and Jason. Thatcher and Reagan.
HP sauce. Inspector Morse.

Band Aid. Live Aid. Cherry-ade. Kwik Save.
HIV, MTV, TUC, SDP.
Del Boy and Rodney. Deirdre on Corrie.
Just Say No. Farmer Barleymow.

Striking miners. Flash designers.
Berlin wall. Maradona’s handball.
Virgin Atlantic. Sticky-backed plastic.
Baywatch beach. Papa Don’t Preach.

Big hair. Polo necks. BHS. VHS.
ET. BT. Mr T. Ford Capri.
Donkey Kong and Pac Man. Now it’s Captain Caveman!
Scooby Dooby Doo, Where are you?

 

*

 

Ahh, the ‘80s.. That deeply-troubled decade of social inequality and oversized shoulder pads. And what of it? Why is my mind suddenly cast there?

Because right now I’m looking at a menu at Chez Bruce – a well-regarded restaurant on the verge of Wandsworth Common – and standing out from the text like a flashing blue siren from an ’80’s police procedural, is a word that takes me right back to that very decade: “Viennetta”…

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“A Tale of Two Puddings” – RULES RESTAURANT and THE GAME BIRD

Rules Restaurant London does the best pudding in London - a dreamy syrup sponge pudding

 Covent Garden, 18th January 1804 

“WHERE IN JENKINS’ NAME IS MY GRAVY?… ” I holler at the waiter, evidently newly prenticed and a waif of a boy, whose smart attire barely disguises a demeanor resembling that of my poor cousin Henry just before he died of the pox. 

What dark times are these when a gentleman ventures into his preferred eating establishment and has to wait for his gravy! So enraged am I, that I find myself resorting to some choice utterances – namely involving that damn fiend Napolean and a frisky French poodle – before slamming my silver tankard down so briskly on the mahogany table that my ale splashes over my well-tended beard. Curses and curse again! 

Does he not realise that I am London’s foremost restaurant critic? Admittedly, we are but few in number, namely my good self and that blasted rapscallion upstart Charles Pendergast. Yet, it would appear this wretched boy dares test my ability to destroy reputations with nothing more than my quill and a pot of ink! View Post

The Secret Diary of a Virgin London Supper-club Cook, Aged 42¾

For this London Supper-club, I aimed to make all dishes seasonal, with food sourced from the local farmers market.

 

October 1st 2017

So went to another of Johnnie’s wine-tasting workshops last night. He does them in his own kitchen, which I think is pretty brave – having a dozen punters in your kitchen as they quaff ten glasses of wine. Could easily turn into a disaster episode of Come Dine With Me.

But his workshops are hugely enjoyable and genuinely educational. And I can even say that after waking up with a head more fuzzy than a permed-up Paddington Bear whose just bungee-jumped over Tower Bridge in a woolly onesie.

Luckily, it’s not far to get back to mine from Johnnie’s. It involves a two-step stagger onto the pavement, a 90-degree turn left, a couple more paces… and voilà, I’m home. Even after ten glasses of wine, it’s still pretty negotiable  – although if there’s sherry involved, anything can happen.

Anyway, in a brainwave that may have had something to do with those ten glasses, I vaguely recollect suggesting to Johnnie that we put an event on together – with him doing a workshop on pairing wine with food, and with me cooking the food.

ME COOKING THE FOOD? Hahaha… What was I thinking? Cooking for a dozen people, each say five courses – well it doesn’t need a mathematician to work out that’s.. a LOT of cooking. Practically industrial. And not only that, I’m asking people to part with their hard-earned cash for the privilege. No, I must’ve imagined it..

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