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No such thing as a fifteen-minute meal


It’s struck me recently that one of the hardest parts of cooking at home is not the prep or the actual cooking, but the washing up.

In my teens I worked as a pot washer and occasionally a kitchen porter in a three-star hotel in Derbyshire. Both jobs are seen as at the bottom of the ladder in the kitchen hierarchy.

Pot washing was monotonous, shoving trays of crockery through a steamer, stacking them to dry and then shelving them.

But being a kitchen porter was much more physically demanding, scrubbing heavy saucepans, cleaning working surfaces, cleaning the walk-in fridge, mopping the floor, taking heavy bags of rubbish out to the bins.

As a home cook, you are both pot washer and kitchen porter.

I try and wash up as I cook, but even so at the end of an evening the sink and work surface are littered with pans, dishes, knives, spatulas, spoons, peelers, and all manner of items. I look around me and say to myself, ‘How on earth did all this happen?’

This is what you don’t see when you watch Jamie’s Fifteen-Minute Meals. The fact is there’s no such thing as a fifteen-minute meal.

Good restaurants and bad restaurants


One of the things that sets a good restaurant apart from a bad one is how it handles a complaint from a customer. Good restaurants take complaints seriously; bad restaurants do nothing about the complaint.

I made a complaint this week when I went with my wife to Hisar Meze Bar, a Turkish restaurant in East Dulwich.  The evening started well with an excellent plate of lamb’s liver and decent if not outstanding borek (filo parcels with feta and parsley). However, a trip to the gents set alarm bells ringing. A clean and well maintained toilet is usually a sign of a good restaurant. This one was neither clean or well maintained.

We had both expected the sish lamb to be extremely tender. Lamb is, after all, a speciality in Turkish restaurants.  But when it arrived it turned out to be incredibly fatty. We called a waitress over and asked for a sharper knife. Actually, I was going to ask for a hacksaw. She returned with a new knife, but never thought to enquire why the knife on the table wasn’t sharp enough.

But it wasn’t just the sish lamb that left me regretting we had paid £28 for the two dishes. The salad appeared to have been dumped from a great height on the plate. It had been put together with little thought about presentation. I located a large white object in the salad. My wife suggested this might be a horseradish. The chips were dry and pale, probably because they had been sitting in the kitchen for ages, and the yogurt (£2.50) tasted of nothing.

I pushed my plate away, having only eaten a few morsels.

‘Is everything okay?’ asked a waiter.

‘The lamb was very fatty,’ I said.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll tell the chef,’ he replied casually.

Ten minutes later another waiter asked if everything was okay.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘The lamb was so fatty. I told your colleague that.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said with no real concern, and wandered off. He obviously had the same script.

Neither waiter returned, the chef never appeared, and we weren’t offered an alternative dish or a reduction on the bill.

We paid up, didn’t leave a tip, and decided we wouldn’t be returning to Hisar Meze Bar ever again.

Good restaurants understand that you can turn a complaint into something positive if you take a customer’s complaint seriously and do something about it. If you do this, the customer is likely to go away feeling disgruntled and ripped off. An apology with no action means nothing.

Bad restaurants just want to take your money and don’t understand that a restaurant is about creating an enjoyable experience for the customer, who has decided to spend his or her hard earned money in your establishment, not somewhere else. A really good experience means good food and good service (and not lip service).  Good restaurants know this.

Britain isn’t a foodie culture


You can get the impression that the quality of food in Britain we eat has changed beyond recognition in the last twenty years or so.  This is especially true if you live in London, with its dynamic restaurant scene and where farmers’ markets and posh butchers and delis have sprung up all over the place.

Yet if you travel beyond it’s a very different story.  A couple of years ago I was with my wife and son in a popular tourist town in Derbyshire, and the choice of places to eat came down to dingy looking fish and chips shops, pubs with confused looking menus, and a solitary pizza restaurant. We opted for the pizza restaurant – it was awful.

Michelin star chef Angela Hartnett, a protégée of Gordon Ramsey and the former head chef at the Connaught, has come to a similar conclusion about the foodie culture in the country.

When people say we are a “foodie nation, we have a food culture, I genuinely don’t think we do”, Hartnett told BBC Radio’s Desert Island Discs.

“I don’t think we’re like the Italians or the Spanish, where everyone from the person who lives in one flat to the person who lives in a villa will go and buy a chicken and everyone can afford that chicken. Our food culture is about money. People who have money can afford good food in this country.”

Hartnett went on to say it was wrong to patronise people on low incomes about organic food.

“When you haven’t got any money and you’re living on a low income, to patronise and sit there and say, ‘You’ve got to have an organic chicken’ is wrong. We’ve lost home economics in a lot of schools. People aren’t taught to shop. People don’t have the time to shop and the time to cook.”

I think she is bang on. There are too many chefs and food bloggers who live in a culinary bubble.  I recall Rick Stein once saying something to that effect.

The irony is that we have more cook books and TV cookery programmes than ever, yet for many people, despite Jamie Oliver’s best attempts, cooking still means sticking a supermarket ready means in the microwave.

Learning to make pizza

I’ve made pizza  a few times at home, but never been completely satisfied with the results. So -thanks to my wife – I went along to a pizza workshop at Bread Ahead in Pavillion Road in Chelsea.

It was a brilliant class. The instructor, Kevin, a Yorkshireman who learnt all about baking when he spent three years in the south of France, took us through all the steps in the pizza process. Once we had made the dough, he showed us how to stretch it by repeatedly slapping it hard on the table for about 8 minutes.

Something I hadn’t heard of before in pizza making was poolish, a mixture of water, sea salt, flour and yeast. It’s known in bakery terms as a starter, a term associated with sour dough, and is made the day before and then added to your dough mix. Also, Kevin used strong white bread flour, not 00 flour.

The pizza turned out to have  lovely chewy texture, which I assume was down to the poolish. We also made garlic dough balls and grissini (bread sticks), which were both equally good.

What I came away with more than anything was confidence. I’ve always found this is what cookery classes give you.  When you see  a professional make something in the kitchen, it demystifies the process and you think, “Yeah, you know, actually it’s not that difficult.”  And pizza isn’t. It only has four ingredients plus whatever toppings you decide to use.

So I’ll now be making pizza regularly at home. And I’ll enjoy slapping the dough.

Rick Stein discovers Mexican food

As presenters of TV food shows go, Rick Stein is a rarity.  His style is thoughtful, reflective, never over the top, and never all about him.  It’s the cuisine and the culture he wants us to focus on.

HIs latest TV series sees him journeying from California to Mexico. The last time he had been in Mexico was nearly 50 years ago.  I’ve see three episodes so far and they have been wonderful.

You always feel you are there with Stein as he make this way through a crowded food market or tastes a dish in a restaurant.  You can tell that some of the dishes he tastes leave him underwhelmed, but he’s too polite to say that to the chef or restaurant owner.  Instead he’ll say, “Yes, it’s very good”, or just nod.

There’s a humility and an almost child-like quality in Stein as he goes on his travels. He maybe a famous TV chef and personality, but he comes to discover and learn something new from the people he meets. He treats someone cooking hearty comfort food in a tiny kitchen in a back street somewhere or in their home with the same respect as a Michelin star chef at a fancy restaurant.

In episode three he journeyed to a trendy restaurant called in Taqueria Criollo in the coastal city of Ensenada on Mexico’s Baja Peninsula, where he met Tania Ganja and Memo Barrett and tried crispy tacos filled with mashed potatoes and crowned with shrimp aguachile and watermelon escabeche. “Seafood tacos for the social media generation,” he remarked in typical Stein fashion.


Why is pizza so popular?


The death of the wonderful Antonio Carluccio last week and my visit this week to the European Pizza and Pasta show at Olympia have got me pondering why we love food from Italy so much.

I’ve no idea how many Italian restaurants there are in Britain, but it must be several thousand.  The Italians got into the restaurant business in Britain long before the Indians and Chinese.

And in recent years we have seen the rise of excellent Italian chains – Ask, Carluccios, Franca Manca, to name but three.  And Jamie has even got in on the act.

If you’ve been to Italy, you’ll know that Italian cuisine is, of course, much more than pizza and pasta. I visited Sorrento a couple of years ago and was knocked out by the range and quality of dishes in its restaurants.

And we probably shouldn’t even talk about “Italian” cuisine, as in Italy food is regional. The kind of dishes they serve in Bologna will be different from those in Naples, the birthplace of pizza.

Pizza has to be the most popular dish in Britain. I know that some people argue that chicken tikka masala occupies that spot, but when do you ever hear kids asking for a curry when you take them out?

The reason pizza is popular is because it’s incredibly satisfying and so varied.  If you think about it, it’s basically bread with various toppings. And bread is popular wherever you go in the world, the flat breads in the Middle East, nan breads in India, baguettes in France, tortillas in Mexico. It can also be eaten in the street. It’s classic finger food.

At the European Pizza and Pasta Show, I got chatting to a woman from The Pizza, Pasta and Italian Food Association and asked her what she thought was the secret to the popularity of Italian cuisine in Britain.  ‘With Italian food, they don’t go in for novelty or gimmicks. They serve the same dishes again and again,’ she said.

She is spot on. In a London food scene that seems to get whackier every month, and where restaurants are desperate to make themselves appear different and innovative, you know exactly where you are with most Italian restaurants. What people want is good food and good service at a reasonable price. What they don’t want is the kind of foodie circus we now have in London.  Unsurprisingly, Antonio Carluccio was not a fan of this kind of nonsense.

Last night I went to a typical local Italian, II Mirto, tucked away in a side street in East Dulwich. The owner, who is from Sardinia, also runs an Italian deli down the road in Forest Hill. II Mirto seats just 22 diners and feels almost like eating in someone’s living room.  Oh, yes, and they only take cash, as the handwritten notice on the counter informs you.  The menu is pizzas, pasta and a couple of specials. There’s nothing pretentious or fancy about this place and the food is very decent.  That’s why I like it.


London’s allotments


I’m delighted that the fight to save Northfields Allotments is still going on. I visited them last year and was very impressed by the amazing variety of vegetables and fruit being grown. Established in 1832, they are London’s oldest. If the proposed plans to build housing goes through, people using the allotments could lose 10% of the space, leaving many gardeners without a plot.

At one time, if you went to a party and told someone that you had an allotment, they would nod, try to appear interested and then quickly start scanning the room for an excuse to get away.  ‘Back in a minute. Just need to catch Phil.’ Allotments were where you found glum old men in caps shuffling along with a wheelbarrow or slowly turning over soil with a spade before lighting their pipe and furtively disappearing into a small shed.

Tending an allotment was something you did when you had entered the twilight years of your life, like the characters in Last of the Summer Wine. It was a way of filling empty days – and maybe getting away from the wife. Allotments belonged to a world of bingo, meals on wheels, and those days centres where people sit staring ahead in wing-back chairs.

Things have changed now. If you want an allotment in London, then you will have to put your name down on a waiting list and often wait several years before one becomes vacant.  The waiting lists for some allotments have been closed.

The popularity of allotments reflects both the increasing interest many of us have in knowing more about what we eat and where it comes from and a disenchantment with the kind of fruit and veg on sale in supermarkets.

Allotments also tap into a romantic middle-class urban yearning for a more rural and simpler way of life. Allotments are about reconnecting with the natural world and escaping a corporate and hectic city life.  Allotments are no longer sniggered about. They can touch something deep inside us.

In London, where many people live in flats and don’t have a garden, if you want to grow vegetables, then you have to do it on a windowsill or, if you have one, a balcony. And, of course, you are limited to growing things such as basil or parsley or maybe tomatoes.  It’s not a good idea to grow anything big or hard on a windowsill, at least if you want to avoid newspaper headlines such as ‘Postman hit by potato.’

London has around 36,000 allotment plots, the vast majority of them located in the outer boroughs. In fact, three London boroughs, the City of Westminster, Kensington and Chelsea, and the Corporation of London, don’t have any allotments at all. Brent, Bromley and Ealing have the largest number.

The history of allotments is obscure, but it seems that they can at least be traced back to initiatives in the eighteenth century when some of the rural poor were given small patches of land to grow food. Many had been plunged into poverty as a result of the open field system of agriculture being replaced by enclosures. This meant that what was once common land was now owned by the wealthy.

Another factor behind the rise of allotments was the way the industrial revolution dramatically changed the face of England, with the working population moving from agriculture and the countryside to big factories in towns and cities. Some workers were given small parcels of land to grow food. It’s unclear whether the primary motivation was for them to feed themselves or to keep them occupied and away from taverns.

Various legislation was passed in Parliament to force local authorities to provide allotments, but it wasn’t until the First World War and concerns about food shortages that allotments really took off.  By 1917 there was around 1.5 million plots in England, much of it requisitioned.

After the war, some of the land was returned to its owners, but many returning servicemen were given small plots. The economic depression that followed the war led the Quakers to launch a scheme to provide allotments for the unemployed, so they could grow their own fresh food.

At the outbreak of the Second World War worries over how Britain was to feed itself returned and half a million extra plots were created.  A “Dig for Victory’ campaign was launched by the Ministry of Agriculture.  Bright posters and leaflets sought to take people’s minds off rationing and encourage them to get digging, and advice was provided on how to compost, sow seeds and weed.  Private gardens, sports fields, parks, land beside railway lines were all transformed into allotments. Even the lawns outside the Tower of London and at Kensington Gardens were turned into vegetable patches.

Characters such as ‘Doctor Carrot’ and ‘Potato Pete’ encouraged people to eat more vegetables and recipes were provided and on Sunday afternoons people would sit around their wireless listening to Cecil Henry Middleton on the Home Service give his gardening tips.

From the fifties onwards allotments went out of fashion, as food became mass produced and more available.  A brief revival in growing your own food occurred in the Seventies, perhaps due in part to The Good Life, the TV comedy about a couple who quit the rat race and convert their garden in suburbia into a farm.

What I remember most about the programme when I watched it as a teenager being awakened by his hormones is not the couple’s attempts to keep chickens or grow vegetables, but Felicity Kendall. Nearly all the boys in my class at school had a crush on her.

I hope those fighting to save Northfields Allotments can persuade the property developers to leave them alone. London needs these wonderful spaces.





Do you remember Vesta paella?




I have to say that my mum wasn’t a great cook. I don’t know if the nuns at the convent school in Ireland who educated her taught her any culinary skills, but if they did, she didn’t learn much.

Even so, she was willing to try new things, unlike my dad, who was never happier than when eating a plate of beans on burnt toast, which was the only meal I remember seeing him cook.

Maybe eating more exotic food was my mum’s way of trying to feel part of that glamorous world she saw in films and on TV and in the women’s magazines she used to buy each week, sitting up in bed at night flicking through the articles about clothes, being a good housewife, and new gadgets for the home.

One day, she arrived home from the shops and plonked her blue shopping bag down on the living room table.

“What’s for tea?” I asked as usual. I was always starving when I came home from school.

She pulled out a box and held it up. “This!”

“What’s that?” I said, peering at the photo of yellow rice flecked with red and green.

“It’s called paella. It’s a new thing,” she said, handing the box to me.

I examined it and saw that it had a small map of Spain on it. All I knew about Spain was that it was famous for oranges and that Leeds United under Don Revie had changed their kit to all white, like Real Madrid, to try and emulate their success.

Mum opened the box and there were two white sachets inside, one containing rice, the other a powdered mix with tiny pink prawns in it. After reading the instructions on the back of the box, she lopped off a chunk of Kerrygold butter into the frying pan and then tipped in the rice and began to fry it. As the grains sizzled, they started to brown.  She then gingerly poured in a jug of water and, checking the instructions again, turned up the gas flame to bring the pan to the boil.  Then she shook in the colourful powder, lowered the gas, and left it to simmer for twenty minutes.

When she put my plate in front of me and I took my first mouthful, I let out a long Mm sound. I’d never tasted anything like it before. I loved its creamy texture, the unfamiliar flavour, and the bite of the small prawns.

Remarkably Vesta still produces boxes of paella, although the map of Spain has been replaced by a flamenco dancer.

The fact that I can remember that paella all these years later tells me that it must have been a moment of some kind of significance. Perhaps that paella acted a signpost to a more exciting world than the small Midlands town that I was feeling trapped in. Food can do this. It can transport us to another place.



Too many cook books


Kirstie Allsop, co-presenter of Location, Location, Location cropped up as a guest on Saturday Kitchen recently. And, low and behold, she has just written a cook book, Kirstie’s Real Kitchen.  She gushed to the excellent Matt Tebbutt (a fitting heir to James Martin) that she has written a cook book with accessible recipes, so everyone at home can follow them. Blimey. I thought that was the whole point of a cookery book.

Every time I watch Saturday Kitchen there’s someone plugging another cook book and making out it is providing something unique.  The truth is, in most cases, they’re not. They are simply tweaking existing recipes. “It’s cottage pie with a twist.”

I have a collection of cook books, but have never used most of them. Nowadays I’ll often head to You Tube to watch a clip of a top chef, such as Marco Pierre White, Rick Stein, or Gordon Ramsay, cooking a particular dish.

What astonishes me is that most of these cook books being churned out by publishers are filled with arty photos of dishes and therefore expensive to produce. And then there’s all the marketing. But I can’t help wonder how many of them actually sell, or sell well enough to make a profit for the publisher. I can’t answer this question – but I bet Kirstie is already working on her second book.


Robbed in Barcelona


I noticed the three men in shorts and T-shirts larking about on the platform, but didn’t think much of it.  It was about 11 pm and I thought they might have been enjoying themselves in one of the nearby bars around Urquinaona.

When the train arrived, my wife and son got on ahead of me. As I tried to enter the carriage, one of the three men edged in front of me, dropping his sunglasses on the floor by the doors. I stood there and waited for him to pick them up.  He started fumbling around, so I stepped to the side. As I did, he moved across, making it difficult for me to get on the train.

Then he got up up and I moved into the carriage. The next thing, a second man motioned to me to move further down, and then a third man tugged at the neck of my shirt and pointed to a space by one of the windows. Feeling slightly disorientated, I obediently shuffled along, wondering what was happening.

Just before the doors closed the three men jumped off.  Instinctively I patted the pocket on my shorts where my wallet was. ‘They’ve nicked my wallet!’ I said to my wife.

I had become another victim of the gangs who prowl busy Metro stations and crowded streets in the centre of Barcelona seeking tourists to target.  My initial feeling of shock at what had happened was quickly replaced by one of anger.

I have always considered myself very street wise when in a foreign city. I do my best to be low key and not seem like a tourist. But on this occasion I fell for a common distraction technique.

When we reached our hotel, I immediately phoned my bank and cancelled my debit card. The only other items in my wallet were my Oyster card and Sainsbury’s and Tesco club cards. The crime carried out by the gang had netted them 60 euros and a £10 note.

Two days before this, as I was travelling on a bus with my wife and son to the centre of the city to meet some friends in a restaurant in a street off Las Ramblas, a friend texted to ask what had happened in Barcelona. He had read reports of a serious incident involving a van.

Had we caught the bus half an hour earlier and not gone to the cafe opposite the hotel for a snack we too might have been among victims of that horrific terrorist attack which left 14 people dead and dozens more injured.

I was robbed, but that is trivial when compared to what happened in Las Ramblas. I was lucky. Others were not

Restaurants in Italy and Spain can be disappointing

We are always told how fantastic the food in Spain and Italy is. And, yes, you can find some great places to eat. But there are also many restaurants where the food is mediocre or awful and the service slapdash.

This is my conclusion having returned from a holiday in Tuscany and Barcelona with my wife and son. I had gone in the expectation of eating great food in wonderful restaurants. Instead more often than not I came away disappointed.

For example, one evening we sat down at a table outside Osteria Enoteca in a small square on Corso Italia, the main shopping street in Pisa. I ordered a pizza with salami, my wife a spaghetti carbonara, and we ordered a margarita for our son. Each dish turned out to be very poor. But the service was just as bad.

Could we have some parmesan, please? Ten minutes later a waiter returns with a small bowl. Could we have some olive oil, please? Another ten minutes goes by before the waiter returns. By the way, I ordered a beer – half an hour ago. The beer arrives after another ten minutes. At 10.20 pm one of the waiters starts stacking the chairs while we are several other customers are still eating.  This was a Tuesday evening in the middle of August when Pisa is packed with tourists.

It was a similar story in several other restaurants we visited in Pisa or in the towns along the Tuscan coast. So many of the waiters we encountered seemed very forgetful.

However, one restaurant in Pisa was brilliant: La Meloria Fried and Fish in Via Domenico Cavalca.  From the outside it doesn’t look much, but the food was excellent (penne with octopus and calamari with boiled potatoes in parsley and olive oil were particularly good) and the service from Elena, the owner, outstanding. She seemed to be able to do six things at once and always with a smile. You could tell from the way she served the customers that she took a pride in her restaurant and was passionate about it. What’s more, you can have a bottle of good wine for nine euro.

In Barcelona the prize for the worst meal I ate goes to La Surena in Port Vell. I ordered dogfish and patatas bravas. Both were disgusting.  Something told me that the food was probably frozen. After we had left the restaurant, I went immediately to a shop to buy some biscuits to take away the awful flavour.

Another bad experience was at Congrejo Loco, a fish and seafood restaurant in Port Olympia. As soon as I saw the prices (190 euro per kilo of lobster), the white table cloths, the huge menus, and the waiters dressed in white jackets I suspected that this would be another disappointment. And it was. I ordered Gallician octopus and potatoes (15 euro). It was saturated in pimento and salt. Truly awful. The restaurant had been chosen by a friend of ours and her husband, because they had had their wedding reception there.  They admitted that it had gone down hill since then.

Two restaurants that were excellent, however, were Laia in Blanes, a resort on the Catalan coast, where I had some delicious baby calamari, and Entre Pam I Tapes in Badalona, on the northern edge of Barcelona, where I had the best patatatas bravas I’ve ever eaten.

Chefs such as Rick Stein, Gennaro Contaldo, and Jose Pizaro have done a wonderful job in convincing us that Italy and Spain are gastronomic wonderlands. The truth is that there are many restaurants that dish up food that is as poor as you would get in some places in Britain and that seem to care little about providing diners with a memorable experience.




Borough Market

The terrorist attacks on innocent people at Borough Market also were a major blow to its many food business and those employed in them.  Some will probably have lost thousands of pounds or even contracts with hotels and restaurants who have found new suppliers.