Cooking with Al

Al is learning to cook, partly through school, but also with us as well as a great big dose of teaching himself and practicing. There are few things more satisfying than watching someone try cooking a dish for the first time, practice the technique, try the result and then comment sagely on possible improvements. If I sound like a very proud parent, I am, but I'm also trying to be restrained in my comment so I don't embarrass him out of the kitchen....

He made Beggar's Chicken, something I've wanted to try since, well, I was probably about his age and saw it in a Women's Weekly cooking book. It looked magical, yet in my teenage mind was wildly profligate (throwing away a kilo of salt?) and required a lot of faith. Al, on the other hand, leaped after the briefest of looks and was well rewarded. In fact, we all were...

The result was worth the palaver. It looked roasted but was floating in juices and was the most incredibly tender chicken I've ever tasted, as though the meat fibers had been individually softened. The flavour was perfect - the smell of a little soy, ginger, spring onions and five spice wafted above the juices. It was truly wonderful.

Vanilla Slice - You'd have to drive a long way to get one this old school

He also made a Vanilla Slice worthy of a country baker and last week made a goat curry (he has no fear). All wonderful, and I am hoping for much more.

Goat curry - rich and heady with fragrance. Everyone loved it (except the goat).

A trip to Preston Market becomes Paella

Saturday at Preston Market. Mission: to make paella.

We bought some fish...

...and some prawns....

...and some mussels.

Will was hungry...

...so we had a slice of pizza for lunch.

We said hello to some old friends...

...and met them again after they'd had a makeover.

I cooked some capsicums, garlic, bay leaves and onions with oil and smoked paprika...

...which came from a cheerful tin.

Felicity's talking, suicidal prawn amused Will with his constant refrain of "rip my head off!".

Some fish, browned chicken legs and browned chorizo went in the vegetables with the rice.

Some stock and saffron went in and it simmered for a bit before I added the mussels, prawns and pippies.

It was pretty good.

Sympathy for the Devil before Chicken Soup for the Soul

"A Chicken Soup for the Soul story is an inspirational, true story about ordinary people doing extraordinary things. It is a story that opens the heart and rekindles the spirit."

This is not a "Chicken Soup for the Soul" story. It's far, far better than that. It's a chicken soup story. I'll resist the temptation to tell you to duck yourself, but only just.

Chicken (not in soup)

I woke up yesterday with a cold and a throat infection, which made swallowing painful and me grumpy. Not surprisingly, I've had a craving for chicken soup as something both nourishing and easy to imbibe, and so went looking for a simple recipe. Early in my search, I found Chicken Soup for the Soul, from whence the above quote derives.

I know it's easy to be dismissive of self-help books and websites, but there's a reason for that - they're shit. Wide-eyed, sing-song nonsense spouted by the gormless to a mouth-breathing audience of the unfulfilled does not, in my eyes, justify the extra distance I have to walk in my favourite bookshop to get to the proper books, you know, the ones about food, war, ethics and architecture. I've never quite understood the sheer arrogance of writing down a bunch of homilies and expecting people to be grateful, or in the case of a book of this rubbish, pay. Worse are the ones that go beyond the simple "I changed my life by not being sad and adopting a sunny disposish," and suggest that we can wish the universe to be a better place, often making reference to quantum physics, as though talking about science is the same as understanding it (spoiler alert: it's not).

The funny thing is there is some actual, factual, real-life science that suggests that chicken soup may be good for you when you're poorly, although to be completely honest it's only in dribs and drabs. There aren't any major studies or meta-analysis and nothing at the Cochrane Collaboration, which for those unfamiliar with it, or who think it's an R&B band, is pretty much the bee's knees when it comes to medical evidence.

Chicken (about to be soup)

So I made some chicken soup. I stuffed some carcasses (politely called "chicken frames") into a pot with a couple of sliced carrots, a leek, a handful of parsley and some celery and a few dried mushrooms, before simmering for three hours to make stock.

Chicken (becoming soup)

Half the stock was frozen for later use (risotto, probably) and the rest had some chicken thighs (and their bones) added, along with some more carrots, leeks, potato and parsley. After some lengthy period the bones were removed and the meat shredded. Some modest noodles added and cooked and the soup was completed and perfected. Sticky with natural gelatin and calming with organic... ummm.. organisms.

This is a "Beggars Banquet" kind of soup. Like 1968 for the Rolling Stones, it was a turning point in my illness; a pivot around which my fortunes revolved. There was "before soup", differentiating the early formulaic blues soup from the "after soup", which was up-beat, more focussed and without Brian Jones, although to be fair, Brian wasn't there for "before soup" either. Like Beggar's Banquet, this was also a little bit country 'n' western, but not in an insulting way.

Most importantly, although I wasn't enlightened after eating the soup, I did feel better. Not in an uplifting, spiritual, optimistic kind of way; but more in a "at-least-my-throat-doesn't-hurt-as-much" kind of way. And that's what matters.

Because there is no Answer; there is no Secret and there is barely any Fucking Point*, other than the one we make for ourselves, and that, dear readers, is the only one that matters. Except for soup.

Oh crap, now I'm spouting off unfalsifiable rubbish... Maybe that's why they do it - it's so easy.

*My book based on this title out soon.

Taxiboat

Westgarth used to be called Northcote South, which you'd think would just be reduced to "Cote". But it's not, so applying the logic of the existing name, I live in Northcote North; Clifton Hill is, in fact, South Northcote South; and my former little house in Collingwood is in East South Northcote West. If Westgarth insists on being called Westgarth, where the hell is Garth?

Nice sign

Taxiboat, ideally, should be visited in a taxi, which would be a Taxiboat Taxi. In the perfect world you would get the taxi from the Princess Pier, having got off a boat, which would be a Taxiboat Taxi Boat. Anyway, I could be recursive (recursive all day) all day, so I'll stop.

Taxiboat, as you may have guessed already, is in Westgarth, directly opposite the cinema in a groovy room with polished concrete and an enormous bar. As iSaluti does for its pizza oven, Taxiboat does for its bar, making it a major feature of a small room and giving it a remarkable amount of floor space. It's also a fairly loud space, even when seasonally adjusted for my hearing, and despite that there were only two tables and a scant dozen people.

We were joined by the Catman Malcolm, as well as Suzanne and John, having only recently discovered that not only did we work for the same organisation and share a love of BitTorrent for English panel shows, we also posted words about food. As Steven Wright says, it's a small world but I wouldn't want to paint it.

I'm not sure how Taxiboat describes itself, but I'd describe it as a mix of Chinese and south east Asian dishes, brought out to share (as God intended, or would have if he'd bothered to show up for work).

Suzanne, John and Malcolm

We were attended to quickly and the service was enthusiastic and good natured. We spent a bit of time futzing over the menu (which was always going to happen), ordered, and the food arrived fairly promptly.

Spring rolls, as has been noted, are an easy choice and pretty much set the tone for the night. They were crisp, light and... well... didn't have a lot of flavour. Compared to the spring rolls from Thy Thy 1, these were more cigars than cigarettes and weren't dense with filling in the same way the Victoria Street ones were.

OK, but suffered by comparison to these from two days earlier

San Choi Bow is not something I've ever been a big fan of, and by reports there was no reason to make an exception for this. F described it as unremarkable. And that was all she could muster up.

Making rice paper rolls is like using a parachute. It's a little bit tricky, and unless you get it *just* right, people will be left somewhat disappointed. By all accounts these were adequate. Do you see a theme emerging here?

Meh...

The one thing I had heard about Taxiboat was that their dumplings were good, and they certainly have pride of place right up at the pointy end of the menu. Once again, however, the demon Bland visited the table, spread his cable-knit cardigan wings and exuded an uninspiring beige mist. I expected the ginger and seafood dumplings to have at least two flavours (don't make me explain which ones...) but we ended up with seafood and... And???....

Sigh. I thought about performing the Rite of AshkEnte to banish the demon Bland but couldn't remember which version it was that didn't cause instant death. That turned out to be my loss.

Bland turned up again for the main courses. A dish of Singapore Noodles looked lovely, but both of the prawns in the dish were sitting on top and although the noodles were cooked beautifully and their texture was perfect, they lacked any sort of real flavour.

A dish described as Chicken Teriyaki was softly sweet and apparently braised. The wagyu beef in sesame was similarly uninspiring. It was cut into small cubes, and although there was nothing wrong with the texture, there was no suggestion of browning or of the wonderful caramels of quickly cooked meat. Malcolm described it as wooden, but I think he was referring to flavour rather than texture. The dread demon Bland had done his job and had done it well.

The salt and pepper squid was certainly salty and surprisingly soft and had been cooked beautifully, but lack pepperiness. A plate of stir-fried pak choy and (I think) bok choy was recommended to us, and it was pretty good too.

The conversation was more interesting than the food

The highlight of the night was the Thai Red Duck Curry. Now, I have to say I've made this myself a few times and I'm not bad at it. A chopped up Chinese roast duck and lychees goes into a Thai red curry with the usual herbal extravaganza, giving a dish that's sweet, rich and complicated with the flavour of the roast duck and balanced with herbs. And this was good - it was sweet and rich and the flavour was lovely with an emphasis on the aniseed of Thai basil (although F felt that it lacked the requisite unctuousness). But the duck was thin slices of duck breast cut off the bone.

I often do the mental trade-off about the value of keeping the bone in when I cook a lot of things. Bone so often means moist and more flavour, but sometimes I want to be lazy when I'm eating rather than cooking. I've had beautiful pan-fried duck breasts (and if you want duck rare, it's the only way I trust myself to cook it that way), but my favourite duck dishes have all been on the bone (like this one).

Taxiboat was a bit disappointing, to be honest. The food certainly wasn't bad, but despite this writing, it wasn't (*irony spoiler*) worth writing home about. I'm trying to avoid damning with faint praise but that's about all I can do. The restaurant itself has a smart modern look yet is low on the wank factor, yet the clatter was a bit much and there wasn't much elbow room. The waiting staff were good-natured, but sometimes needed a reminder or correction (which is better in my book than the other way around); and all the food had lovely textures but tasted, well, bland. And in spite of the wonderful quirkiness of having a bath and shower in the lavatory, any bonus points were immediately lost by having nothing with which to dry your hands.

W was so disappointed he tried to hide

We didn't stay for dessert, instead walking up the hill to Coco Loco, which we will post about at some other time.

Food we have et...

So in the absence of real postings (real in the sense of "what we started this blog for"...), we have been doing a bit of cooking at home, plenty of which has been captured through the magic of the modern technique know as "Photo-Graphy". Here are some modest samples. Those of you only vaguely familiar with the emerging art of "Photo-Graphy" may rest assured that, despite current thinking, it does not "steal your soul". However, it is widely understood by learned Gentlemen that it may disturb the luminiferous aether, so all caution is advised.

Grating tumeric for a paste, which would then be pounded with coriander roots, garlic, cumin, ginger. The poundation was then mixed with tomato, saffron threads, salt, pepper and white fish cubes (of gummy shark) were marinated, later to be very slowly cooked. Chick peas were added to warm through; then chopped coriander.

I vouchsafe, Sirs, that it was Good.


Later, chicken salad was prepared upon an Indochinese basis. Cabbage, carrot, poached chicken breast, handfuls of herbs (mint, coriander, basil), thinly sliced red onion marinated in rice vinegar, sugar and salt, lots of ground pepper, lime juice and fried shallots from a packet. Lots of fish sauce, chili, sugar and vinegar to dress...


Black mussels, always to be preferred, were from the fishmongers adjacent to Psarakos in Thornbury, but a hop, step and swagger from here. Alas, F refers to them only as "Psoriasis Brothers". We've had them often, but today (being a holiday), Alex and I stuffed them with pork and either a pounding of green herbs and pepper or a mix of red curry paste and other accouterments . Truth be told, the hard work mussels (green) were not nearly as good as the slap-dash, liaise fare (red) ones... All good, but a lot of work and, methinks, one to do once a decade or so.

A Night at Home

We haven't eaten out in quite a few weeks. We've talked about it, but middle child has a whooping kind of cough, and although vaccinated against just such a situation, our GP tells us not to be surprised. "It's OK", he says. "It just a mild variation from the standard", implying it's the medical equivalent of one of the more dull Bach cantatas. Oh.. that's alright then. She's only got one of the four diseases she's not supposed to be able to get, but I'll accept that this might be ok....

So, as I'm not keen on leaving the house, tonight I offer two courses cooked at home.

Asparagi di Campo con Acciughe e Limone

This is, without any pause for thought, the best asparagus dish this side of something that's a long way away. It's gutsy and earthy, but still manages to emphasizes asparagusness, which is important for something that's ultimately a vegetable. The original recipe came from the book "Verdura: Vegetables Italian Style" by Viana La Place, but I've modded it over time and with considerable love and respect. It contains:

• Asparagus
• Anchovies
• Parsley
• Olive Oil
• Lemon (Lime)
• Garlic
  

Take a shirtload of asparagus - you know how much you like, but at least 4 or 5 stems per person. Steam or cook in water until *just* tender. Drain in a colander and refresh in cold water. Stop it cooking and keep it green.

A big slug of olive oil now goes into the dry pot the asparagus was cooked in... Once it's warm, drop in some finely chopped anchovies - at least two per person, and a finely chopped clove of garlic (one is enough). Let this gently frazzle for a few minutes. Add the grated rind of a lemon and the asparagus.

Toss the asparagus to make sure it's covered in the oil/anchovy/garlic/parsley/lemon/Sex God mix, splash on some lemon juice and serve. It's earthy, dirty, sexy and asparagussy...

Chicken, Chorizo and Paprika Stuff Hopkinsii

It would be jolly to claim that this is a classic Spanish dish that was passed to me from a Great Second Uncle's Third Aunt's Daughter's Neighbour, but, truth be told, I made this up and while it's still evolving, it's still damn good. It's part casserole, part soup, rich with garlic, sausage and paprika. For four, we used:

• about 500g/a pound of chicken thighs, chopped into bite-sized pieces
• two chorizos (the Spanish sort, ie dry like salamis, not fresh like sausages)
• three decent sized potatoes
• two red capsicums/bell peppers
• a brown onion or two
• three(ish) cloves of garlic
• smoked paprika
• cumin
  
• some saffron threads (optional, but should be dropped in a scant cup of boiling water)
  
• 500ml/two cups of chicken stock
• bay leaves
• salt, pepper

Chop the onions coarsely into strips and gently saute in a heavy casserole. Add the finely chopped garlic and capsicums after a couple of minutes, then the chorizos, which have been chopped into bite-sized pieces. Fry for a bit until the smell forces you to taste a bit of sausage. Hmmmmm....... By this point you should be hungry.



Add a tablespoon or so of smoked paprika and a teaspoon of cumin and gently fry for a few moments. Add the chicken and stir-fry a bit longer. Once the chicken is coated with spices and coloured, add the stock, two bay leaves and the chopped potatoes, which have been chopped into large bite-sized chunks (and peeled, if you like), and the saffron with its water. Salt (a bit) and lots of pepper...
Simmer on a low heat (*just* bubbling) for about 35-40 minutes. Test the potato, and when it's soft, crush a few bits if you like (I do) to thicken the liquid.


Serve in bowls, sprinkle with a small handful of roughly chopped parsely (don't skimp on the parsely - this is important!) and pour yourself a glass of cheerful and assertive vin rouge. "Huzzah", he said, through wetted and slightly oiled lips. Nom nom nom......

Butchers Grill

Butchers Grill (no apostrophe ) is nowhere near High Street, but is in Bourke Street, a few doors down from where I work in the city. We'd gone from High Street, where places were too dark (the Wesley Anne); to Gertrude Street in Fitzroy, where everything was full to the City. The plan leaving Fitzroy had been to go to a Korean BBQ place, but it was being dismantled/brought undone. We'd walked through bitter winds, tried a few other places full of suits and settled on Butchers, which obviously had plenty of tables from the window.


It's a grill room in the style to which I had become accustomed when I worked at the (then anachronistic) Southern Cross in the mid 1980's, but brought up to date, if that's not a contradiction in terms. Dark red timbers, red and gold wallpaper, chandeliers and a wall of wineracks and stained-glassed windows. But it's not quite right.... This is a style that requires a total commitment: the customer can't be allowed to see behind the facade (or even that there IS a facade). But the real world kept poking out: from behind the bar where the post-mix pipes had a cheeky Matrix-like effect; to the veneer of veneer; and to the stained-glass that looked like it had come from a colonial-style home in 1979.

It was getting late by the time we sat down, and the full meat event was a bit more than we'd planned on, so we skipped entree and straight to the serious business: grilled meat all round. Lamb cutlets were cooked rare and perfectly. The chevapchichi were ok, but not particularly special (especially with the memory of these so recent). They were reasonably finely ground and evenly cooked - no high temperature flavour but still retained enough fat to keep them juicy.

Chunks of pork and chicken came on long, long skewers with token squares of red onion and green capsicum. The pork was wonderful and had really taken on the grill flavour. Despite being happy to eat every part of the pig except the squeal, I like to imagine I'm discerning when it comes to our four-legged, pink skinned friends. The chicken, on the other hand, was a bit less inspiring. Insert gently damning faint praise here.

The green salad tasted like it had been dressed with a commercial dressing. F's garlic mash was very good, generous with butter.

The food highlight for me was a smoked sausage, which was coarser than the chevapchichi, but which had the rosy inner glow of a snaggle that's been slightly cured, and a deep, smoky flavour. Everything came with a mild, fresh paprika relish.

Butchers promises much and delivers in part. When you dress up like Miss Havisham, expectations are created; great expectations in fact, and these weren't met. The food was good (and not particularly expensive) and we did have a lovely bottle of wine. But the food wasn't great, the service didn't quite meet the surrounds and the people at the next table were laughing like drunk toads mating with hyenas. Not that it's fair to hold Butchers responsible for that.

So in summary, while Butchers looks like a stately club, John Howard's green tracksuit was poking out from under Miss Havisham's wedding dress. She also sang "Happy Birthday" at the top of her voice and flirted with the camp waiting staff.

A Volvo P1800 on the walk back to the car. No reason.

Yellow chicken curry in potentia

Yup, another posting that's got faff all to do with High Street, except that I made it at home and, ergo elk*, it was made within a five minutes walk from High Street.


Chicken, pumpkin, green beans, yellow curry paste, lime leaves, chili paste (the soya oil kind), fish sauce, palm sugar, coconut milk etc...

* "What is the difference? What indeed is the point? The point is frozen, the beast is late out of Paddington. The point is taken. If La Fontaine's elk would spurn Tom Jones the engine must be our head, the dining car our oesophagus, the guard's van our left lung, the cattle truck our shins, the first-class compartment the piece of skin at the nape of the neck and the level crossing an electric elk called Simon. .... Ecce homo, ergo elk. La Fontaine knew his sister and knew her bloody well. The point is taken, the beast is moulting, the fluff gets up your nose. The illusion is complete; it is reality, the reality is illusion and the ambiguity is the only truth. " (from MPFC, episode 24)