tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6091315277967923692024-02-22T16:06:24.381+00:00CHEF SANDWICHBeing the journal of an author and sometime cook...Lennie Nashhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08446141000881802058noreply@blogger.comBlogger308125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-53632651196546207852020-05-26T15:22:00.000+01:002020-05-26T15:22:05.473+01:00Georgian Food: A Culinary Journey In Tbilisi (Part 6)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGC1Kri3n_BXemkGkkxO5hHNaw2TYXqzjigolRRY01OF7oycJwNXIxCOrrkL_NjYBrejsWq0uyyUSD8SN-qEQETh_aB6sGKODyuAfjewmBk8XTFaVXGwxlnaLVFgkMsJyP29YCGn9VSSf/s1600/kebab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="1600" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGC1Kri3n_BXemkGkkxO5hHNaw2TYXqzjigolRRY01OF7oycJwNXIxCOrrkL_NjYBrejsWq0uyyUSD8SN-qEQETh_aB6sGKODyuAfjewmBk8XTFaVXGwxlnaLVFgkMsJyP29YCGn9VSSf/s400/kebab.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgian-food-culinary-journey-in.html"><b>Read part one of trip HERE</b></a>)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It took a long time to get back to Freedom Square and the
road that led to Mariam’s shed. On the way, I walked down an alley to a kebab
shop that specialised in Iranian and Afghan dishes. I sat at a table near the
door and ordered a “chicken on the bone kebab” when a fight broke out. Two
large men burst into the restaurant, yelling and baying for blood. One of them
looked like a Viking in a blue puffer jacket, the other was equally broad and
had a red pug nose. A Georgian man finishing his meal looked at them and shook
his head. The other customers looked on nervously. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A scrum formed and the restaurant staff – five or six Arabic
men with large bellies, making up in weight what they lacked in height - slowly
pushed the pair backwards towards the sliding glass door. The shouting went on
for several minutes and finally the intruders were pushed out of the restaurant.
The owner locked the door. “Georgia!” he said. The waiter returned to finish my
order and made an apologetic gesture about the noise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The dish came in an unnervingly quick time to cook
chicken on the bone. There were bony pieces from the back of the chicken, and a
couple of wings and drumsticks. The meat looked nicely cooked on the outside,
but was red and jelly-like close to the bone, and had the gamey smell of
pheasant. I figured they’d had too bad a night already to complain. I ate the salad
and the naan bread and then thought what the hell and ate some of the whiter
chicken meat. I paid and headed off to Mariam’s shed. It was 1.20am. I’d
arrived at a similar time the night before and the iron portcullis that led to
the courtyard garden and noticeboard of compliments had been open, but this
time it was shut. I pushed a few times but it was definitely locked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I began to think about all sorts of horrible possibilities,
knowing my bag and passport were inside. I knocked a few more times and pressed
my ear to the gate but there was no sound from within. Next door was a basement
bar. Three customers came out to smoke. I asked one of them for help. He was an
olive-skinned man in his early 20s and spoke good English. I asked if he could
see a buzzer on the gate. “A bell?” he said. I nodded and in our drunken state
we felt round the gate. He turned on the light on his phone. But there was no
bell or knocker, only the name Hostel Mariam with a phone number underneath. It
was printed on A4 paper and stuck to the door with sticky tape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“You live here?” he asked. “How long?” I told him it
was my second night. “You have your clothes here?” He shook his head and
clicked his throat in disgust. We both knocked again on the iron gate. My
knuckles were getting raw and the banging made very little sound. I shoved the
door a few more times. The night before, the gate had been wedged open with a
brick and I was wondering whether the brick had become wedged under it, but it
was definitely locked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I started getting a horrible anxious feeling, and the winter
air seemed to bite much harder. The thought of spending a night on the street
wasn’t a pleasant one. The man blearily examined the gate again, then typed the
number on the wall into his phone. I thanked him a couple more times. The phone
kept ringing and cutting off as he made disgusted shakes of his head. He was
definitely on my side. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Suddenly there was an answer and he started babbling
away in Georgian. His tone slowly got aggressive. It wasn’t a good sound to
hear. After a minute, there was a pause while he flicked away at his cigarette.
There was a barrage at the other end. It sounded like a dragon breathing fire. “Is
it a woman?” I asked. “Yes, it’s an old woman,” he said. “But I don’t know what
she do. I think she’s lying. She says you only have a small bag there and you
move out.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He dialled the number again, crushed his cigarette with his foot,
and then lit another one. A voice came back on the phone, and his tone got more
aggressive. He checked with me again. “You sleep there?” he asked. “Yes,” I
said. “You have your clothes there?” “Yes,” I said. Then the phone went dead.
He swore and began to redial. “What happened?” I asked. “She says you check
out. She not come to the door. She has a bad heart – it’s hard for her to get up.
I think she’s lazy.” He tried the number again but there was no answer. I was
already thinking about the park bench I’d sleep on. Without my passport, it
would be very difficult getting a hotel. Then I thought about Babar’s hostel
and whether there might be a spare bed there. Did they still keep the door open
when Babar wasn’t turning up in the middle of the night?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">My new friend, and I really don’t know what I would
have done if he hadn’t been there, tried the number a few more times and finally
got through. The conversation quickly turned into an argument. I could hear a
hurricane coming down the phone. He kept checking with me that I “had my
clothes there,” and kept shaking his head. Eventually he said: “I think she’s
coming.” I thought I could hear distant noises from inside the courtyard, but
after 10 minutes just put it down to hope. Then finally the door opened and
there was Mariam, her orange hair stuck up in rollers like a medusa, hailing a
torrent of abuse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">She was leaning on her stick and rubbing her back much
more than I’d seen her do before, making whimpering noises interspersed with
full-blown rages of hate. I stepped through the gate, afraid it would shut
again, and for a minute she swore at the young man and his friend who had
wandered up to watch the spectacle. She slammed the door shut and clenched her
fist, making hammering gestures in the direction of my nose. She carried on
shouting and I did my best to rectify the situation. I helped her as she hobbled
back through the courtyard to my shed door. My bag was on the table outside,
underneath the vines. My toothbrush and toothpaste were on a chair next to it.
She’d cleaned out my room. I panicked, thinking about my belt pouch containing
my passport and money that I’d hidden under the mattress.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Mariam continued to rant at me, pretending to hammer
my face with her right fist, as she gripped her stick with the other. I kept
telling her I hadn’t said anything about checking out. Her punching motions got
closer to my nose. One slip of her walking stick, and my nose would be as flat
as a <a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgias-khachapuri-culinary-journey-in.html"><b>khachapuri</b></a>. Eventually she unlocked the door to the shed and we walked in.
I kept saying “no check-out” as she continued her attack. She said nothing
about the English being “number one” this time, and the only thumbs-ups signs
were the ones directed at my face. I realised she was probably mad.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">She pointed at the beds and I pointed to the one I’d
slept in, and she turned back the cover. While her back was turned, I checked
under the mattress and found my belt pouch. Nothing appeared to be missing. The
cash seemed to be about the right amount and the passport and bank cards were
there. I handed her 25 laris for the room, then she left. The shed was
freezing. The water jug had a slight sheen to it as though it was about to ice
over. I shut the door and found she’d taken the remote control for the air
conditioning, which when you put it up to its maximum of 16C was the only way
to heat the room. I took the blankets from the other beds and piled them on top
of me. I decided to check my emails and realised she’d turned off the wifi as
well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I woke early. There was no banging on the door this
time and there was no sign of Mariam in the courtyard. I dressed and wandered
out to the other shed to brush my teeth. It was far too cold to shower. I stood
outside my shed for a few minutes gathering my thoughts. There was still no
sign of Mariam. Normally she would be peeking through the net curtains, but
there was no light in her kitchen. I found a plug outside my shed that led to a
bundle of wires and managed to put the wifi back on. It also turned on the
porch light. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I lay on my bed, shivering and searching on my tablet for
hotels. It was still a few hours before check-in times. I went to the toilet. I
heard no noise in the courtyard, but returned to find the outside light was off
and so was the wifi. The plug had been taken out and the bundle of spaghetti
was dangling down as it had been before. I took it as a sign that I was
definitely no longer welcome. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I packed my bag and walked past the mandarin plant and
the noticeboard with all those cheery messages. I could feel eyes on my back. Mariam’s
black cat was sitting on a chair near the gate and was watching me with narrowed
eyes. It hadn’t liked me when I first turned up, but now it looked particularly
unfriendly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I pulled the gate open and ventured out into the rain-drenched
street. The basement bar next door was shut. At the end of the road was a small
hotel with Christmas lights in the window, but I wanted one further away from Mariam.
That cat had put the chill into me, and in my bleary state I began wondering whether
Mariam had ailuranthropic powers – she certainly had the temper for it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<i>Continues...</i>)</span></div>
Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-67092583990264883212020-05-24T14:13:00.002+01:002020-05-26T15:24:11.936+01:00Georgian Food: A Culinary Journey In Tbilisi (Part 5)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMcW1_Urj-0jzEhuL5l96bD_jUuZRf0wE076LU2oB5ZN5zQNRec0hEKl61x5p7XpzVX4y7oRH4SsLbHDck4UeoZ668ktvcIRHxfh-_hv-l-4IjbkbGz3YEJ6p3rlKUDiyzohC6D72LNPio/s1600/pom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1412" data-original-width="1600" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMcW1_Urj-0jzEhuL5l96bD_jUuZRf0wE076LU2oB5ZN5zQNRec0hEKl61x5p7XpzVX4y7oRH4SsLbHDck4UeoZ668ktvcIRHxfh-_hv-l-4IjbkbGz3YEJ6p3rlKUDiyzohC6D72LNPio/s400/pom.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgian-food-culinary-journey-in.html"><b>Read part one of trip HERE</b></a>)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">After another 20 minutes, Babar still hadn’t come out
of the <a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgias-khachapuri-culinary-journey-in.html"><b>sulphur springs</b></a>. He’d told me not to wait for him so I went off to look for a
hotel. I couldn’t do another night in that hostel. I walked past a gorge to the famous Orbeliani
Baths, set in a beautiful, Turkish-style building decorated with blue, white
and brown mosaics. Outside was a plaque with a quote from Russian poet
Alexander Pushkin, written in 1829: “Never before have I seen, neither in
Russia nor in Turkey, anything that can surpass the magnificent baths of
Tiflis.” I’d read somewhere about how he’d also been a big fan of the local
food: “Every Georgian dish is a poem.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16px;">”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">In a side street, a woman was selling pomegranate
juice. She crushed a couple and handed me a paper cup full of red juice. It was
delicious – a hundred times better than the stuff you get in cartons, and I
wondered how it would taste with a shot of vodka to keep out the biting January wind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
checked a few hotels but they were all full. Then I saw Babar hobbling up the
road. He said there was a cheap hotel around the corner that might have a bed.
We walked through a metal gate into a courtyard cluttered with old furniture and
pot plants. An elderly woman with dyed orange hair came out to meet us. Babar
chatted away to her and told her I was English. She gave a thumbs-up and said:
“English number one.” </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Mariam, as her name turned out to be, said her brother’s
son was working as a doctor in London.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“She’s got a shed that’s free,” Babar said. Mariam grabbed
my arm, making another thumbs-up gesture, and opened the shed door. A small
electric heater hung from the ceiling. It was colder in there than the
courtyard. The inside was lined with hardboard and psychedelic grey wallpaper. There
were three beds. The largest had a duvet covered in shiny gold fabric. I asked
about the other beds, and Mariam said I could have the whole shed to myself for
25 laris (about £7). I handed her the cash. “Are you only paying one night? If
you’re going to stay longer, I’d pay her in advance,” Babar said. I told him I’d
see how the first night turned out and whether I’d survive the cold. “Well, it’s
up to you – but this is Georgia,” he said. If only I’d known how prophetic his
advice would turn out to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I told Babar I’d buy him lunch for helping me out. He
said he’d been to Georgia five times but still hadn’t tried khinkali – the
country’s famous dumpling dish. Mariam sat down on a courtyard chair, winced,
held her back, then got up again. “Oh khinkali,” she laughed. “Restaurant
there, there and there,” she said pointing in all directions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We found a cellar restaurant up the road and headed
in. I’d heard the Georgians weren’t that fond of fish, but there were several
fish dishes on the menu, including roasted red mullet for the ridiculously
cheap price of 9 laris (just over £2) and trout with pomegranate sauce for 11
laris. There was a whole page devoted to khinkali. We ordered four types - beef,
lamb, cheese and mushroom. They came with a ramekin of mild chilli sauce. The
lamb ones were the best. The meat had been minced and flavoured with fresh
coriander, cumin and garlic from what I could tell. Babar finished his bottle of Coke, insisted on paying
half the bill, then headed back to his hostel. I ordered another beer. “You’re
not going to drink in here all afternoon being miserable are you?” he asked. I
said I’d go for a walk round the city later. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But my plans changed when a folk
band came in and did a soundcheck for the evening. One of them played a panduri
– a three-stringed, lute-like Georgian instrument - strummed with the fingers
in a raking, clawed action, often at high speed. They swapped instruments and
took it in turns to sing. The accordion filled out the sound and the bass played
intermittent, sparse notes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But what made it was the interweaving vocal melodies. It
wouldn’t be much without the singing you might think, but they played some
beautiful instrumental Georgian folk songs too. They were great players. Towards
the end of the night, they let me have a go on the panduri. I plucked a few
strings, but they said it had to be strummed. When I got back to my shed that
night I watched a video on the internet of a Georgian man described as the Jimi
Hendrix of the panduri. He played at such breath-taking speed you could hardly
see his strumming hand move. It was a blur - the faster he strummed, the slower
his hand seemed to move, like one of those ‘thumb cinema’ flip books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It was bitterly cold in that shed, even with the blankets
from the other beds piled on top of me. I got to sleep when the sun came up, and
woke about noon. Mariam was frantically knocking at my door, shouting:
“English! English! Alexander! Alexander!” I dressed quickly and found her
clutching her walking stick, slumped in a garden chair outside my shed. We had
some sort of conversation delivered through mime and the occasional word we
both understood. I told her I was staying for another three nights. I pulled
out a 100-lari note and asked if she had change. But she just brushed it away,
and the way I understood it, said there was no hurry about paying. She gave
another thumbs-up and said: “English number one.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I rolled a cigarette and two large, bald men walked
into the courtyard, eyeing the place up and down. They looked like gangsters.
The first one, who was clearly in charge, was puffing at a cigarette and
stubbed it out in a flowerpot. I was mid-sentence, or at least mid-mime, when
he butted in. At first I thought they were Mariam’s relatives, perhaps cousins
of the mystery doctor. They looked at me as I smoked my roll-up and I heard Mariam
say: “Cigarette!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I began examining my city map, then had trouble
folding it back up again. She followed them outside and was gone for a few
minutes. I’d finally folded up the map by the time she came back. “Polizia,”
she said. “They look. Good,” she said giving another thumbs-up. “Good to look.”
I told her again I’d stay three more nights. I said I was going to get change
for the 100 lari note, but she waved the note away and smiled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then she clutched her spine, grimaced as she got to her
feet, and pointed at one of the plants. “Mandarin,” she said. It was a
broad-leafed plant in an old paint tub. It was barely two feet high in height
and I was amazed it could survive such freezing temperatures, but it looked
healthy enough. “Orange?” I said, forming a small circle with my hand. “Yes,
yes,” she said looking at me as though I was an idiot for not knowing what a
mandarin was. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’d liked to have seen her courtyard garden in the summer. There
were vines running across the ceiling and the place would have been filled with
leaves and grapes. Now they were just thin strips of wood snaking around
the walls and the lean-to next to my shed. There was a stocking of dried black
grapes on the table, showing what they produced when the leaves returned in the
spring. On the wall was a noticeboard with pieces of paper pinned to it.
Messages written by previous residents. Most were in Russian or Georgian, but
there were one or two in mangled English which basically said Mariam was a
saint who ran a five-star establishment and there were few fit to pray at her
feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I wandered around the city and finally found a place I’d
been told to visit – Fabrika, a trendy backpacker spot and haven of industrial
chic. Put it this way if there was ever a shortage of beards in the world, they
could always go to Fabrika. It was an old sewing factory that had been
converted into a huge hostel complex with 24/7 working hubs for geeks in beanie
hats and head wraps who do things on computers and talk about servers, algorithms
and time zones. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At the back was a courtyard of bars, restaurants and
trendy shops. In the middle was a vintage car, light blue in colour and
suitably Instagrammable. I wondered how many social media accounts it had
appeared on around the world. At the far end was a VW Camper van that had been
turned into a photo booth. Next to it was what looked like a giant ship mine.
The factory brickwork was daubed with graffiti – one scrawl in vibrant yellow
said: “Kids are the best humans in the world.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Not that there were many kids there. The youngest
people seemed to be the trendy Georgians working in the restaurants and bars.
Most of the hipster customers were older and had seen better days. Their
skateboards did little to conceal their age. Some of them were old enough to
remember when beards were fashionable first time round. The women favoured fake
leopard skin coats and fur-lined parkas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">You could tell it was Tbilisi’s place to be from the
prices. Although it was still very reasonable by European standards, there were
far cheaper restaurants – and hostels - in the city beyond the concrete and
glass. But what right-minded flashpacker wanted to brave the traffic and stray
dogs out there? Why weave your way through the narrow, dark streets when you
could drink in the courtyard bars and crash in one of the factory’s bunk beds? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There was a burger bar offering the usual fanfare and ridiculously-named
“hand-crafted” patties. Next to it was a bar specialising in board games, and a
ramen noodle joint whose owners had clearly studied the Wagamama format. I
settled for the busiest bar – the Moulin Electrique. It was a great place. A
bar that promised Georgian food and a moody playlist. Massive Attack,
Portishead and occasional acoustic guitar skits from Nick Cave wannabes.
Clearly knowing the age of its customers, Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon
came on and all was going well before Jamiroquai took a turn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The food came quickly and was pretty good. If you
wanted to see a future direction of Georgian food, then the menu was probably a
pretty good indication. They still had the traditional dishes, but some had
been tweaked and were described as in the “Moulin style”. I noticed avocado and
coconut had crept into the menu too. There were cold dishes like cheese plates,
pickle plates and what they called bread tapas – a platter of <a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgias-khachapuri-culinary-journey-in.html"><b>khachapuri</b></a>. There
were also 14 salads and 14 soups, including the intriguing-sounding pea soup
with smoked ribs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I ordered chicken broth with meatballs and egg, and
something called a Georgian sandwich. The broth was a light chicken bouillon,
that I suspected had come from a packet, with five grey meatballs made from
minced chicken, onion and herbs, half a boiled egg buried at the bottom, a dill
garnish, and slices of toasted baguette on the side. The sandwich was excellent
– cheese slices and peppery mayonnaise stuffed in a fat, oval-shaped roll,
somewhere between naan bread and airy panini. I asked a waitress whether it was
a traditional Georgian sandwich, and she shrugged and said: “Well, it’s
Georgian bread.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I washed it down with glasses of the local Black Lion draft
lager, which I had taken quite a liking to. It was delightfully sour for a
lager with the sort of hoppy notes a craft beer enthusiast could drone on about
for an hour. It tasted more like those pale ales the Americans favour rather
than a typical bland European lager, but thankfully the bubbles lasted to the
end of the glass, and it was disturbingly easy to drink. But at four laris for
400ml, who cared. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Christmas lights came on as the sun set and glistened
in the factory glass. Outside, a giant tin of Campbell’s tomato soup that
served as a beer table sparkled in green light. The wind picked up and a man
walked down the steps from the work hub, clutching at his head. He was trying to
stop his combover flapping in the wind as he put his beanie hat on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The place was achingly cool, but somehow less
pretentious than the industrial chic hipster joints you get in Sofia or Berlin,
and far less so than those in Shoreditch and Hoxton. I was beginning to see
what all the fuss was about and why Georgia was increasingly becoming the place
to say you’d travelled through. I sat in the Moulin Electrique all evening,
slowly building up a tab. I saw the customers come and go and felt happy. I sat
there scribbling into my notebook, listening as the music went from shoegaze guitar
bands to trance to a lengthy stint of Bob Marley to James Brown and then more
modern funk. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Most of the night-time customers were Georgians and what
beautiful people they were. It was a pleasure to be among them. But I wasn’t
looking forward to navigating the tortuous route home. Finding your way through
Tbilisi in daylight is hard enough, but late at night it was near impossible. I
was doing well for a few streets, and then I got lost searching for the bridge
that would take me back across the river to the old town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I found myself in a dark underpass, lit only by the
pink lights of a strip show. Dodgy-looking men were huddled in corners. I turned
round, went under a flyover, past another strip club and found myself at a
brightly-lit square with a McDonald’s and Subway restaurant. These were the
first Western fast food chains I’d seen since I’d got there. I walked into the
McDonald’s to use the toilet. There was a security man on the door. The place
was packed and chaotic. No-one seemed to know where the queue began and there
were not enough staff to cope with the orders. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I looked at the menu and was shocked at the prices. A
Big Mac meal was 18 laris (nearly £5), about the same price it is in the UK. Yet
the average salary in Georgia was barely £350 a month, and the place – all two
storeys of it – was filled with locals ravenously munching burgers as though
they’d just spent a fortnight fruitlessly hunting deer in the mountains. For
the same money, they could get a proper meal in a Georgian tavern with a couple
of beers thrown in - and yet here they were in numbers. I hadn’t the heart to
look at the Subway menu, but I imagine the prices were much the same. What was it
that made Georgians pay so much to eat under the glow of the golden arches? It
couldn’t just be the marketing and branding.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<i><a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgian-food-culinary-journey-in_26.html"><b>Continues...</b></a></i>)</span></div>
Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-28573028344506058722020-05-13T16:58:00.003+01:002020-05-24T14:26:53.821+01:00Georgia's Khachapuri: A Culinary Journey In Tbilisi (Part 4)<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgian-food-culinary-journey-in.html"><b>Read part one of trip HERE</b></a>)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I put on my rucksack and followed Babar as we headed off to
the sulphur baths. He told me to take a towel from the hostel, as it would save
me two laris not hiring one at the baths. He was worried it might be closed as
it was Christmas Day, but a few of the shops and restaurants on Rustaveli
Avenue were open. He changed £20 on the way for laris. The first bureau only
took euros, dollars and roubles, but the second took pounds. Every other shop
seemed to be a money exchange. The rates were given outside in neon numbers,
but I soon found it was rarely what you got inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Babar said we’d stop on the way to get breakfast at
his usual haunt. It was a small kiosk in an underpass and was run by two women.
It specialised in khachapuri – Georgia’s famous cheese-filled bread. The walls
were painted bright pink and there was a coffin-like black oven. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A woman in an
apron was at the far end rolling out dough into circles and squares and filling
them with cheese. The baked breads lay on silver trays at the front of the
kiosk. Some were shaped like <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2008/12/didnt-you-do-cornish-pasties.html"><b>Cornish pasties</b></a>. They were golden brown
and looked delicious. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Babar asked which ones had potato in. The woman
serving pointed at a tray containing flat oval-shaped bread. He ordered two.
They came in plastic bags and were two laris each. They were delicious and we
ate them as we walked. They were like cheese and onion pasties, but much better
because there wasn’t the grease of pastry. It was a superb breakfast and a hearty
introduction to Georgian cuisine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I read later there are a dozen or so regional types of
khachapuri, defined by the shape of the bread, cooking method, but most
importantly by the type of filling – everything from minced meat and trout to nettles,
spinach, beans and mushrooms. The ones we had, stuffed with buttery mashed potato
and cheese, were called khabidzgina - specialities of the Russian-occupied South
Ossetia region to the northwest of Tbilisi, a cooler climate where potatoes
grow in abundance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Khachapuri apparently gets its name from two Georgian
words – khacho (cottage cheese) and puri (bread). Most are filled with chkinti,
a curd-like cheese, and a salty, elastic-like cheese called sulguni. The yeasted
dough is similar to naan or pizza in taste and texture. There are numerous
recipes, but most contain flour, fermented milk (a yoghurt-like liquid made
with kefir grains), eggs, yeast and a little salt and sugar, although there are
simpler versions with just flour, water and yeast. It is such a staple of the
Georgian diet that economists use a Khachapuri Index – inspired by the Big Mac
Index created by The Economist magazine in the 1980s – to monitor inflation by
tracking the price of its ingredients. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Khachapuri has such a special place in the <a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgian-food-culinary-journey-in.html"><b>country’s gastronomic culture</b></a> that every family seems to boast its own secret recipe, and no feast is
complete without it. However, despite being one of Georgia’s national dishes
and certainly its most common food, historians are unsure of its origin. Some whisper
– to the fury of proud patriots - it might not be Georgian at all and may be a
cousin to pizza. Indeed, the round, thin Megrelian varieties topped with
bubbling cheese certainly resemble pizza bianca. Food writer Dali Tsatava, a
former professor of gastronomy at the Georgian Culinary Academy in Tbilisi,
points out that Roman soldiers travelled through the Black Sea area, bringing
recipes for something that resembled pizza. She says tomatoes did not exist in
Europe until the 1500s, so it was just cheese and bread, not unlike khachapuri.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The only regret I had was not trying the Gurulian
khachapuri which are only baked at Christmas. They are half-moon shaped and
contain boiled eggs smoked in the chimney for a couple of days. We walked
another 10 minutes as Babar told me about his plans to buy a property in the
city. He took me down an alley and pointed at a house for sale that he’d looked
at on his last visit. He said the owner had shown him round. Every time he
asked the price, she talked about the square meterage and how central it was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“But how much is it?” he’d asked in exasperation. Babar
shook his head and laughed. “She told me it was one million dollars! She didn’t
even bother to calculate the price in euros,” he said. “She thought that by
joining the EU, she was going to become a millionaire. You can buy an apartment
here for 10,000 dollars! Put it this way, you can buy the President for 22,000
dollars, so use that as a yardstick when they talk about prices and work
downwards. One million dollars! I just thanked her and walked out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We headed south to the ‘old town’ Abanotubani
district, on the bank of the Mtkvari River. The sulphur springs had apparently
been discovered in the fifth century by King Vakhtang I of Iberia (present-day eastern
Georgia) when the area was just thick forest. He had been hunting with his
falcon or hawk, depending on the tale, when it took a pheasant and both birds
fell into a hot spring and died from burns. He liked the springs so much, he
cleared the forest and built a settlement around it. Tbilisi (meaning “warm place”
in Georgian) became a popular bathing spot with merchants travelling the Silk
Road between Europe and Asia, and the city grew from there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We got to the baths and headed in. I don’t know what I
was expecting. Babar said there was a scam going where all the travel guides
and tourist information leaflets directed you to the private baths that you
hired by the hour – not the far cheaper public ones. “It’s top of the list on
Tripadvisor, the private rooms. But they don’t mention the public ones and it
took me a long time to find them. They should tell you about these things.
Tripadvisor should tell you. What else are they there for if they don’t tell
you?” I nodded and smiled and thought about mentioning how people used to pay
for editorial content until the internet took over and changed everything. But I
was here to enjoy myself and I didn’t want to dwell too long on what a dead-end
job journalism had become. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The private rooms were in brick-built huts, curved at
the top, like brown Daleks. A group of tourists had climbed on to the roof of one of them. There was a small park and the public baths lay
beyond. We walked down some steps and paid at a kiosk. The cost was five laris
each. At the bottom was a long, steamy room full of lockers. The gatekeeper was
a fat, angry-looking, bald man who demanded to see our tickets. He asked where Babar
was from. “Pakistan,” he said brightly. “Pakistan,” the man repeated, nodding his
head gravely. He tried to make us pay for towels but Babar said we’d brought
our own. The man said something to the crowd in the room. Babar asked about
lockers and the man waved his hands in a shooing gesture and said: “You lock, I
don’t open.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We undressed, wrapped our towels around our waists, and
headed into the steam room. It was a dome-shaped building decorated in mosaics.
The air was so thick you could barely see more than 10ft. Hot water poured from
taps in the ceiling. Some men shaved, some lathered. We showered then sat in a
deep bath. The thing that hit you first was the overpowering stench of egg from
the sulphur springs. Once it got into your pores it didn’t leave you and I
could still smell egg on my skin a day later. But the water was hot, and after
that chilly breeze outside, it was wonderful sitting in that steaming tub. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There were two masseurs at work. Large men lay down
like slabs of meat on marble platforms and the masseurs got to work, scrubbing
them hard with soapy towels. After a few minutes in the bath, I showered again
and went into the sauna. There were soggy leaves everywhere. Some of the locals
liked to beat themselves with nettles to get the blood flowing, another
hangover from the Romans. Or maybe they were just beating away the stench of
egg. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Babar said he was going to have a massage for his bad
leg. He said it was the main reason he had been to Georgia so many times. He
had steam massages in Birmingham, but they cost far more - normally £30 for 30
minutes, but he bought them in blocks of 20 massages for £500. The masseur was
a friend and offered “mate’s rates” and wasn’t too happy about the extra
discount, but Babar would point out that it was money in the bank, and besides
he had to pay interest on the £500.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I went back to the locker room. A side room was open and
I could see men in there smoking cigarettes. If I’d known Georgian, I would
have seen the sign said “staff only” or “keep out” or something similar. I
rolled a cigarette and went in. I heard a shout behind me. One of the masseurs
was walking towards me aggressively. Behind him was the fat gatekeeper. I saw the
resemblance for the first time. They were definitely father and son. I held out
my rolled cigarette for inspection. “No smoking in here,” said the masseur. “No
smoking!” said the gatekeeper. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I got changed and was about to head out for some air. Near
the stairs was a barber in a tiny dungeon. I asked the gatekeeper about a
haircut, but he made a scowling face and pointed at my hair. He was a hard
friend to make. He shouted something to the customers towelling themselves near
the lockers. It was something like: “Can someone speak to this idiot in
English?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A shy-looking man answered. There were a few words and
the young man said: “You need to dry your hair or the machine won’t work.” I
thought it was another attempt to get me to pay for a towel. I went to speak to
the barber, but through sign language and broken English it turned out that no
matter of towel-drying was going to convince him to give me a cut. It would
foul up his clippers. I thought about how British barbers charged extra for a
wet-cut and why he couldn’t just manage with scissors. He said next time I
should get my haircut first, then go for a steam bath afterwards. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I walked outside and waited for Babar. The barber came
out a minute later and looked horrified. He gestured for me to put my hat on. I
thought at first it would help dry my hair and I could return for a cut, but he
was just worried about me getting a cold after going from the heat of the steam
room into that freezing wind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<i><a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgian-food-culinary-journey-in_24.html"><b>Continues...</b></a></i>)</span></div>
Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-35357153020508149742020-05-10T16:50:00.000+01:002020-05-13T17:10:28.291+01:00Georgian Food: A Culinary Journey In Tbilisi (Part 3)<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgian-food-culinary-journey-in.html"><b>Read part one of trip HERE</b></a>)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgian-food-culinary-journey-in_8.html"><b>Read part two of trip HERE</b></a>)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We finally got to the hostel. It had a tiny blue and
black sign that said “private room, dormitory room, welcome”. You could have
walked down that street a hundred times and never found it. Above it was a grimy
brass plaque that said law office. Another sign offered translation services. Next
door was a Spar shop that was still open. I was gasping for a beer and asked Babar
whether he wanted one, but he said he didn’t drink. He went in and bought an
orange, a banana and a bottle of water. I bought a large can of beer and a
bottle of fizzy water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We walked up a dark side passage into a courtyard,
then up some rickety steps to a wooden balcony that led to an unlocked door. We
crept in, whispering as we went. Inside was a small kitchen with a large fridge,
and a lounge beyond. A man with a beard as big as a hornets’ nest was sleeping
on the sofa, next to a large stick. Babar woke him gently and seemed to know him. The man muttered a
few replies and said there was a spare bed for me. But he didn’t seem to be
awake. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We sat at the kitchen table and whispered away as Babar peeled his
orange and then carefully divided it into segments, removing as much fibre as
he could from each. I said I was going out to the balcony for a beer and a
smoke. I said I’d only be five minutes. I finished the can in a few gulps. Then
I opened the warm one I still had in my rucksack. There was a low table on the
balcony covered in ripped up fags and torn packets of king size papers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I went back in and Babar was cutting his banana into
thin slices. We whispered away at the table. I asked if there were lockers, and
he said: “You’ve never stayed in a hostel before?” I told him about the last
time in Amsterdam. “Oh, the YMCA,” he said. He said my bed would be about 12
lari – less than £4. He told me about the countries he’d travelled in and the
prices of the hostels in each. While growing up in Birmingham, he’d become
friends with some Bosnian refugees who spoke no English. He’d become reasonably
fluent in Bosnian, and due to similarities in the language, it meant he could
get by a little in Georgia and a few eastern European countries. He said he
liked Romania the best. I asked him about Lithuania, telling him how much I’d
loved its capital Vilnius, but he said he’d been spat at there for being a Muslim.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He was heading back to the UK in three days’ time. He
said he didn’t like to take too long off work. He worked for National Express,
monitoring the CCTV cameras. He said sometimes the police came in and asked
whether they had footage of any of the crimes they were investigating. The bus cameras
filmed inside and outside the vehicles. Sometimes they captured incidents in
the street. He liked looking for murders the best, he said. The work felt
important. Sometimes he’d have to go through hours of tape before he found it.
I asked whether the police paid for the service, but he said they did it for
free. That way the police were there when you needed them. He said only last
week one of the drivers had been beaten up by five youths, and was still in
intensive care.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Babar took a swig from his bottle and warned me about
the Georgian water. He said it tasted of eggs from the hot springs that bubbled
under the city. But once he heard the water was good for you, he started to
like it. I opened my bottle and took a swig. It had a dusty, salty flavour, then
I got a faint aftertaste of eggs. It smelled like a school chemistry
experiment. It wasn’t until we went to the sulphur springs later that morning
that I truly began to understand what he meant. Once you’ve smelled that odour,
you smell eggs everywhere, even on your skin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Someone from the dormitory came into the kitchen. At
first I thought he was sleep walking. He was from Azerbaijan and was missing
some teeth. If you can imagine Robert De Niro with a large nose and a
protruding jaw then that wouldn’t be far away. He chattered away in a curious
tongue while tapping a cigarette on his packet. Babar managed to hold some sort
of conversation with him. His Bosnian meant he could get some way and there
were other words he recognised from Urdu. The man finished his cigarette and
wandered back to the dormitory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Babar finished the last of his fruit and we crept down
the corridor. As we turned the corner, I was suddenly hit by the stench of feet.
It took a few hours to get used to the smell. The room had single beds in a row
against one wall and six metal bunk beds. None of the top bunks were taken.
There was one single bed free. Babar said that was the one he’d booked. His bad
leg meant he had trouble climbing up to the top bunks. I picked the one nearest
the door. On the bottom bunk was Robert De Niro. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The floor was covered with backpacks. Socks were
drying on the radiators and the place hummed with the chorus of snoring
travellers. I took my boots off, peeled my socks from my feet, and undressed. I
put my clothes and backpack on my bed and climbed up. There was a soiled
mattress without a sheet and a duvet without a cover. I lay on the mattress for
an hour listening to the noise. After a while you could hear a rhythm. It was
like a musical question and answer; a riff and then a response. One snorer
would take a few bars and then go silent, and the space would be filled by another
sleeper. It reminded me of seagulls, but the noise was much more irritating. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then a truly great snorer got involved - a big beast
from the rip-snorting jungle - and I spent the next hour wondering whether it
would ever stop, and whether I could be bothered to climb down the ladder in
the half-light and find a toilet. There was a gap between my mattress and the
wall and I was worried my stuff would slip down and hit the Azerbaijani, who
didn’t seem to be asleep at all. He kept making sighs – more like a tutted prayer
– and sometimes muttered a few words. They were melancholic words that seemed
to fit his hangdog expression. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The room was hot and I didn’t bother with the quilt.
Instead I stuffed it in the gap between the mattress and the wall and put my
stuff on it to stop it falling through. I began to feel itchy in just my pants
on that mattress. I tried not to think about bed bugs and lice. The more I
tried, the itchier I felt. I planned to go to the hot baths as soon as I got up
and have a good soak. If sulphur couldn’t kill the little bastards, nothing
could. I looked down at Babar a few times. I couldn’t work out whether he was
asleep. I wondered where the other bodies were from.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Suddenly the snoring lulled and I thought I might have
a chance of sleep, but it had only quietened in deference to a bigger beast.
From somewhere in the vicinity of Babar’s bed came an incredible sound. To
describe it as snoring would be a terrible disservice. It was like a series of
seismic waves. The room seemed to rock in answer. I was sure the metal supports
on my bunk bed were vibrating. There was a gap of three seconds of sweet
silence between each explosion. It was long enough to make you wonder each time
whether the snoring had finally stopped. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Azerbaijani began muttering something below. I had
no idea what the words meant, but somehow in my sleep-deprived state I could understand.
They were voiced with the same world-weary suffering a comedian uses for comic effect.
It was something like: “Sweet McJesus, and I thought I’d heard all the infernal
snoring there is to hear in the seven darkest rings of hell.” He muttered again:
“Is there a camel in the room?” There was a pause, maybe 10 seconds, maybe 20,
and I tried not to hope. I could feel the Azerbaijani relax through the bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then the Gatling gun started up again. Even louder. Pounding
away in the mud and blood of Flanders. After another minute, the Azerbaijani
whined again. It was the despairing sound of someone who sees their car on fire
and realises there’s a winning lottery ticket inside. “There’s a pig drowning
in vinegar,” he seemed to say. “For all the lives I might yet lead, may I never
hear those devil’s farts again!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I must have slept at some point because there was a
grey light from the window and the room was cold. Morning was clearly the time
the radiators went off. From my bed I could see the far side of the street. It
was very different from the night before. The angels and trumpets were gone and
the air was diesel grey. People in puffer jackets walked the pavements,
wondering how they’d play the cards they’d been dealt. There was very little
Christmas cheer on display. The buildings that had sparkled with golden glorious
promise now looked the colour of an insomniac’s eye bags. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I fell back to sleep for a while and woke to find Babar
shuffling around on his stick. He whispered a few words. The room was still
filled with bodies. He asked if I wanted coffee. He pulled a small plastic bag
out of his larger plastic bag and said it was ground coffee. I dressed and he
returned with a mug of steaming black mud. It was very good. I walked out on to
the balcony. Two stray dogs came to join me. They had tags with numbers on
clipped to their ears. Then they gave up their endeavours for the day and
curled up to keep out the cold.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<i><b><a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgias-khachapuri-culinary-journey-in.html">Continues HERE...</a></b></i>)</span></div>
Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-34674864337421222322020-05-08T16:17:00.003+01:002020-05-10T17:26:17.558+01:00Georgian Food: A Culinary Journey In Tbilisi (Part 2)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD5aKjIqw97no-ZU7SFK_ueLAngYT_yr2ntl7ofa7IzavjQ7F_fYRAcYMWWBFr0COr8eZz_7y3zwjUapqxF7VphEvk8j8qYhypWfxS0ZU2fmPIGSbYqqcI-wweC9tIVmxyEA8O91cNcv2W/s1600/popcorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD5aKjIqw97no-ZU7SFK_ueLAngYT_yr2ntl7ofa7IzavjQ7F_fYRAcYMWWBFr0COr8eZz_7y3zwjUapqxF7VphEvk8j8qYhypWfxS0ZU2fmPIGSbYqqcI-wweC9tIVmxyEA8O91cNcv2W/s400/popcorn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgian-food-culinary-journey-in.html">Read part one of trip HERE</a>)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It was a turbulent flight and the passengers clapped as
the plane bumped to a halt at Kutaisi, the mediaeval capital of the Kingdom of
Georgia. A man behind me shouted: “Bravo! Bravo! Bellissimo as they say in
Italy!” A woman told everyone to remain in their seats until the seatbelt signs
were off. She then spoke for a few minutes in Georgian. It was a soft, pretty
language. There was the nasally sound of Russia and <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2018/07/spaghetti-sofia.html"><b>eastern Europe</b></a>, but it was
faster and more playful somehow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A gale was blowing. The airport was modern looking and
empty. There was only one other plane – another Wizz Air jet – on the tarmac. The
queue at passport control was long and slow. The immigration officers seemed to
be asking for every passenger’s life story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When it was eventually my turn, a woman spent a minute
flicking through my passport looking at the stamps and visas. “First time in
Georgia?” she asked. I told her it was. She stamped my passport with a year-long
visa, then handed it back and said “bye bye”. She seemed surprised and slightly
suspicious when I said thank you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was past midnight and there was a 30-minute wait
for the bus that would take us through the mountains to the capital Tbilisi. I
bought a large can of Georgian lager and a bottle of water for eight laris
(about £2.50). I wondered how much change I’d have got out of a £10 note </span><a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgian-food-culinary-journey-in.html" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>back at Luton Airport</b></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then I thought better of drinking the beer; thinking
about the five-hour bus ride ahead. I hadn’t had time to book a hotel and had
no idea what I’d do when I got there at dawn. The bus was packed, mostly with
British students. At first I thought they were part of a group tour led by an
Asian man in his fifties who walked with a stick. He kept wandering up and down
the aisle giving updates on when the driver was finally going to turn the heating
down and put the ventilation on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">After another 30 minutes or so, the bus left the
airport. We climbed slowly up through the mountains and I caught the occasional
glimpse of the sheer side of cliffs. There was no yellow hum of city lights,
just the twinkle of distant villages, like lakes mirroring the starry sky
above. The roads were empty and we passed through endless hamlets where nothing
stirred. Occasionally we’d crawl past a roadside café, but apart from the
houses, the only buildings seemed to be gas stations, brightly lit and ghostly.
There seemed to be so many that if you ran out of petrol you’d have less than a
mile to walk to the nearest. I noticed the number of police stations too. Plush
glass buildings with all the lights on, and the occasional police officer
sitting at a desk doing paperwork. It didn’t make much sense. There wasn’t a
soul on the road and no-one was up, and yet they seemed to have the police
resources to stop a midnight riot in Paris.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Behind me, an English man was talking on his phone to
a woman asking for money. She kept saying: “Not good, not good. I worry much.” She
said her rent was due and he eventually agreed to wire her some cash and top up
the credit on her phone. “Okay I love you,” she said as the call ended.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At some point we stopped at some great monstrosity in
the middle of nowhere that seemed to be half food hall and half supermarket. The
man behind tapped me on the shoulder. He was wearing a bulging red fleece,
black-rimmed glasses and had a grey quiff. He looked like a fat Stewart Lee. He
handed me a five-lari note, and asked me to get him a bottle of water. I hadn’t
even planned to get off the bus. I was slightly annoyed at first, but then I
realised he used a wheelchair. I looked at the note – on the back was a drawing
of a man in shorts holding a fish and a bucket. I handed back the note and said
I’d get him some water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The food hall was empty apart from the sleeping staff
and our weary bus party. And we weren’t spending from the look of things. After
another interminable, spine-crunching journey through the hills, we joined an
empty motorway and picked up speed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I nodded off and woke to the neon signs of casinos and
grand hotels in Freedom Square, in the centre of Tbilisi, where someone had
once tried to assassinate US President George W Bush with a hand grenade. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">In
the centre of the square was a huge column, topped with a gold statue of Saint
George, the country’s patron saint. In the Soviet era, a statue of Lenin had
stood there, but it was torn down in 1991.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Everyone seemed to have someone waiting for them. It
was 5am, freezing and I suddenly felt very tired and alone. The man with the
stick began to hobble off towards a subway. Either he had lost his tour party
or he didn’t have one to start with. He was clutching a Lidl plastic bag that presumably
served as his suitcase. I wandered after him and quickly caught up. I asked him
if he knew of any hotels that were open. There was a Marriott hotel up the road,
but it looked hideously expensive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Babar, as his name turned out to be, said he’d booked
a bed at a hostel and I was welcome to follow him there. We walked for 10
minutes down Rustaveli Avenue, which I would find out later was Tblisi’s main
street and named after the mediaeval poet Shota Rustaveli, author of The Knight
In The Panther’s Skin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The city was glittering with golden light. There were hundreds
of angels blowing trumpets. They were hanging from wires across the road,
lighting up the impressive Soviet architecture. The trees were wrapped in fairy
lights. Everything seemed to be gold. I asked whether it was always like this,
but Babar looked at me as though I was an idiot and told me it was Christmas Day.
The Georgians apparently used a different calendar and celebrated it on January
7. New Year’s Day, confusingly also called the Old New Year, was a week later
on January 14. I was worried there might not be room at the inn. If not, there
were a few 24-hour bars and restaurants I could sit in until it got light, Babar
said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He said he’d stayed at the hostel a couple of times.
It was his fifth trip to Georgia. He was planning to buy an apartment and had
already seen a few on previous visits. Property was supposed to be cheap in
Georgia, but Babar didn’t look like he had a fiver in his pocket the way he was
hobbling down the road with an NHS walking stick, adorned with plasters, in one
hand, and a carrier bag in the other. I liked him straight away. He had a
confident, easy-going nature and told me about his many trips around eastern
Europe. He said his mother had recently passed away, and looked close to tears
for a second. “She was my strength,” he said. But he was soon back to his
cheerful way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What worried me was the thought of a hostel. I hadn’t
stayed in one for years. The last one had been a homeless hostel in Amsterdam after
I had my passport and money stolen and found myself pacing the canals with just
six euros to my name. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience. There must have
been 40 men in that room. And the smell is something I still remember. It was
the smell of rancid vinegar. The time before that, I’d been <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2011/11/bed-bugs-and-cheap-hotels.html"><b>bitten alive by bedbugs</b></a>, but that had been a particularly filthy place even by <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Down-And-South-East-Asia-ebook/dp/B00CLHIPFC/ref=pd_cp_kinc_1"><b>Cambodian flophouse standards</b></a>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I was still toying with the idea of finding a bar and
drinking myself steadily through morning until the check-in desks opened. But
it was bitterly cold and I was worried that Christmas Day might mean all the
hotels were full or closed. I was even less confident about finding a bar open
at 5am. It certainly didn’t look like a 24-hour city. But Babar said I could
probably find somewhere to drink. “Not that I’m calling you an alcoholic,” he
said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I was desperately tired. Even the worst bed in the
worst hostel in Gomorrah was better than pacing the streets for a few hours,
even if the angels were looking down. Babar told me Airbnb had started opening
up in Georgia and they were ridiculously cheap. But he didn’t like the idea of
staying in someone’s apartment. “I prefer hostels because you meet people,” he
said. He was right about that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<i>Continues...)</i></span></div>
Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-15764282491117855832020-05-06T12:50:00.000+01:002020-05-11T12:23:41.903+01:00Georgian Food: A Culinary Journey In Tbilisi (Part 1)<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It all happened at the last minute, and pretty soon I was
on the midnight plane to Georgia. According to the inflight magazine, it was a
small country not much bigger than Wales. In fact, assuming the map was correct,
if you stretched out the north coast of Wales about as far as the Isle of Man,
then spun Wales 90 degrees to the right, it would be about the same shape as
Georgia. It looked like a very bad drawing of a dinosaur. A fat dinosaur. A
dinosaur that could barely lift its belly from the ground. And from what I’d
heard about the hearty food and the Georgians’ love of booze, it might have
been a fitting description. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The dinosaur’s head and neck was on the Black Sea and its
body stretched east, stopping well short of the Caspian Sea. Its front feet were
perched on the boulder of Turkey to the southwest, but to stop it sliding off, its
belly was splayed on Armenia to the south, and its rear on Azerbaijan to the southeast.
Directly north was the crushing weight of Russia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As you can tell, I knew – and still know very little -
about what travel guides often lazily describe as this “mysterious” and “secret”
former Soviet stronghold. But in fairness, I’d been pretty much unaware of its
existence until August 2008, when Russia snatched South Ossetia and Abkhazia like
a school bully raiding a smaller kid’s lunch box. I was working for a TV news
station in London at the time, and for a week covered every twist and turn of
the war from the safety of my windowless hutch, spoon-fed by wire copy, and
with only pictures from the ground to give me any sort of indication about what
the place looked like. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I don’t remember much about the conflict now. Only
that at the time I was pretty sure it was the beginning of World War Three, so
brazen was Russia’s invasion. I’d been trying to give up smoking and make a
substantial cut to my drinking, but the thought of nuclear missiles lighting up
the sky quickly put an end to that, just as it did when Donald Trump came to power
eight years later.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">A line in the sand must surely be drawn, I’d thought. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">How could America and its Western allies stand by and watch the annexation of a
sovereign country after all the kerfuffle over Iraq? Surely a stand would have
to be made? A stand that would only be decided by bombs. But then, of course,
little Georgia was an insignificant country that had no oil, and as few people
knew where it was on the map, nothing was done. Georgia was rarely on their mind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Instead, the West stood by like a shame-faced commuter
pretending not to see a granny being mugged at a bus stop. And as I flew into
the country in early January, more than a decade after that five-day war, Russia
still held the land it took without a blush – and had absolutely no intention
of handing it back.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">So apart from Georgia’s famed hospitality and love of
the vine, that was about all I knew about the region as I sat on that crowded
five-hour flight from Luton Airport to Kutaisi, the country’s third largest city,
reading about Georgian food in preparation for the week ahead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I put some traditional Georgian music on my headphones.
It had a strange, unearthly quality to it. Folk musos in ill-fitting Fairport
Convention T-shirts might corner you at parties and tell you its beauty and
ethereal nature comes from its polyphonic roots – interweaving vocal harmonies,
often backed by a three-stringed lute called a panduri. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It sounds a little like Irish music when you first
hear it, and there are DNA studies showing Ireland’s saints and scholars were
descended from farmers and bronze metalworkers who travelled from the Middle
East and Black Sea thousands of years ago. They may have even been the origin
of the western Celtic language. All I can tell you is the music sounds old.
Very old. Like the sound of ancient Gods lamenting lost loves and fallen heroes.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As for the booze, I knew Georgia claimed to be the
home of wine, with archaeologists tracing the first known wine-making to the South
Caucasus 8,000 years ago. The early Georgians apparently discovered grape juice
could be turned into wine by burying it underground for the winter in qvevri – egg-shaped
clay pots that have now become an official symbol of the country, and as I
would discover, are found on everything from fridge magnets to tea towels. The
only thing I couldn’t understand is what took them so long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’d also heard the beer was pretty good, and there
were an increasing number of microbreweries making craft beer. The chacha, a
sort of colourless rocket fuel like Greece’s tsipouro, could be dangerously
strong. And the Georgians liked to toast anything, even a successfully-cooked soft-boiled
egg for breakfast. The convention was to down your glass at every toast - with the drinking
vessels getting bigger each time. There could be as many as six toasts, perhaps
more, depending on the stamina and ruthlessness of the toastmaster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’d read a bit about Georgian food over the years, but
the only two dishes I could recall as I sat on that plane, next to two Georgians
watching kung fu films on their laptops, was a cheese-stuffed <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2015/10/bread-pudding-30000-year-old-recipe.html"><b>bread</b></a> called khachapuri,
that they sometimes shaped like a boat and cracked an egg into, and
mushroom-shaped dumplings called khinkali. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’d never eaten khinkali, so I switched on my tablet and
watched them being made on a YouTube video. They resembled the tortellini of
Italy or, perhaps more accurately, the <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2011/08/festival-food-trucks-how-to-eat-your.html"><b>momos</b></a> of Tibet and Nepal. You make a
dough from flour, eggs and water, but it is far less eggy than pasta – just two
eggs to a kilo of flour, whereas <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2018/07/spaghetti-sofia.html"><b>pasta</b></a> might take ten eggs for the same amount
of flour. You roll it out thinly in circles a few inches wide, add a spoonful
of spiced minced meat, cheese, <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2011/06/how-do-you-cook-7lb-monster-mushroom.html"><b>mushroom</b></a> or vegetable filling, crimp the sides,
and then twist it into a clever shape and boil for 15 minutes or so.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">They are
shaped like a leprechaun’s treasure sack, and topped with a nipple-like pinch
of dough to hold them together. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">You eat them with your hands, holding them by the
nipple and biting in while doing your best to avoid gravy running down your
chin. The nipple you put back on your plate. It is considered cheap to eat them,
the video said - they help the waiter count how many you’ve eaten while totting
up the bill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I also read how Georgians like to flavour their food
with cumin, blue <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2019/01/wild-rabbit-stew-with-ipa.html"><b>cardamom</b></a>, dried marigold leaves and pomegranates – but most of
all with walnuts. If there is anything that really sums up Georgian food, it is
the heavy use of walnuts, food writers seem to agree. They also like to eat
plenty of fresh herbs with their food – and there is often a saucer or two of fresh
sprigs on the table. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The only country I’d been to that ate herbs like that was
Vietnam, where a bowl of steaming <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2011/05/pho-bo-difficulties-of-national-dish.html"><b>noodle soup (pho)</b></a> or delicious <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2011/08/vietnamese-beef-stew-bo-kho-breakfast.html"><b>beef stew (bo kho)</b></a> would always come with a basket of saw-edged coriander, paddy herbs and thinly
<a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2011/09/in-defence-of-cambodian-cooking.html"><b>sliced banana flowers</b></a>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Georgia, like every other country, has its regional
dishes, with meatier dishes in the east and more vegetable-based dishes in the
west. They also use tandoor clay ovens to bake bread and barbecue meat, and as
a rule, do not eat a lot of fish. But it is not easy to summarise a country’s
food; there are always exceptions. I read something by an American journalist
who’d lived in the country for a number of years. He said there are two rules
in Georgia – you don’t criticise their religion (nearly 90% of the population are
Eastern Orthodox Christian) and you don’t criticise their food. I made a mental
note not to do either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’d been told Georgia was a cheap, fast-growing place.
I knew expats who were planning to move there from <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2012/10/bangkok-water-spinach-and-war.html"><b>Thailand</b></a> and <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2012/02/importance-of-freshwater-fish-to.html"><b>Cambodia</b></a>,
saying southeast Asia had become too expensive. The country seemed to be crying
out for foreign investment. There was a full-page advert in the inflight
magazine for “citizens of any country” to buy flats in Georgia. The developers
promised interest-free mortgages without proof of income, and a residence
permit with every purchase. For 29,555 euros you could buy an apartment in
Batumi, a casino-filled resort on the Black Sea. A few hundred euros more
bought you a flat in a snowy resort on the Goderdzi Pass in Adjara.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It would, of course, be impossible to learn any useful
idiot level of Georgian in just a week, but I promised myself I would try. If
only it was that easy. It proved to be a very difficult language to remember,
let alone pronounce. And by the end all I had gleaned – mastered would be far
too generous a term – was gamarjoba (hello), diakh (yes), ara (no), getakva
(please), me mkvia (my name is), mobrzandit (welcome) and bodishi (I am sorry).
The latter would come in useful many times.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>(<a href="https://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2020/05/georgian-food-culinary-journey-in_8.html"><b>Continues HERE...</b></a>)</i></span></div>
Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-77923112907219406122019-06-11T12:52:00.000+01:002019-06-11T12:58:15.178+01:00Shark Attacks In British Waters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8C7m8MumimybaiP_p7J007x6w8l5P7RVhxMTOEChM5dyehzwVYZY_WzW8kCwIDM0X78Hmo7hYLQ8tjUW-GzCpioJZwadhZJ1O-Loam-fcZas3uUEINpWBF60KxjeucRWq69b6xCg9P81q/s1600/shark+cover.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8C7m8MumimybaiP_p7J007x6w8l5P7RVhxMTOEChM5dyehzwVYZY_WzW8kCwIDM0X78Hmo7hYLQ8tjUW-GzCpioJZwadhZJ1O-Loam-fcZas3uUEINpWBF60KxjeucRWq69b6xCg9P81q/s320/shark+cover.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">My new book <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Shark-Attacks-British-Waters-Watts-ebook/dp/B07SRK57YC/ref=zg_bs_277991_27?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=F90V85CB52XGNY31NSFH"><b>Shark Attacks In British Waters</b></a> is finally out. It's a bit of a departure from my usual food ramblings, but I fancied writing something different, and it was great fun researching it; I found some great stories along the way...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It came about from a drunken evening at a fishermen’s club in Hastings, East Sussex. A friend bet me
£100 that there had never been a shark attack in British waters. I decided to
take him up on the wager and this book is the result of that bet.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">In the book, you’ll read about the mysterious death of a teacher
who vanished while bathing off the Yorkshire coast. His inquest heard his left
shoulder had almost been wrenched off by a “powerful animal” and there were
other bite marks across his body. You’ll also meet the swimmer reportedly
chased by a 12ft shark at Brighton beach. When they cut open the shark’s belly,
they found a human head inside.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">There were also three reported attacks on bathers in
the chilly waters of Edinburgh. Not to mention the case of the man who lost a
leg while swimming in Wales. The police constable who staggered on to the
beach, bleeding from bite marks. The crab fisherman who brawled with a shark in
waist-deep water in Norfolk. And the woman bitten in half in Belfast Harbour.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">These are just some of the reported shark incidents I
found while trawling through the British Library’s newspaper archives and other
sources. Some happened centuries ago, some were a lot more recent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">There were also numerous sightings – and in a few
cases alleged captures – of great white sharks in UK seas. Many were from
Victorian times and earlier – which may throw light on some of the reported
attacks on British bathers in those times. Some fishermen think there are still
white sharks living in UK seas. The debate still rages. And not a summer goes
by without a story of that most fabled of sharks off Cornwall.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Other species, including the basking shark and
thresher shark, have reportedly attacked boats. The worst case was a triple
drowning in the Firth of Clyde in southwest Scotland when a shark capsized a
wooden sailing dinghy. Two men and a young boy died. Other attacks were
reported and the “basking shark menace” was raised in Parliament.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Fishermen were afraid to go out on their boats and
there were calls for the Navy to be brought in to blow up the sharks. Some
claimed the attacks were the work of a rogue basking shark, said to be 40ft
long. Others believed it was a species not found in Scottish waters. They gave
it the name “Man-Eater”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">All the shark encounters took place as described in
contemporary newspaper reports and other historic sources. To reconstruct the
events that took place in each incident, I have interviewed marine biologists
and ichthyologists, and quoted current scientific papers to get an
understanding of the shark’s actions and what species of fish may have been involved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The book is a history of reported British shark
attacks, presented in chronological order from the late 1700s to the present
day. It is worth adding that there were probably shark attacks in British seas before the 18<sup>th</sup> century, but none have been recorded by history.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The book is available as an ebook on Kindle <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Shark-Attacks-British-Waters-Watts-ebook/dp/B07SRK57YC/ref=zg_bs_277991_27?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=F90V85CB52XGNY31NSFH"><b>HERE</b></a> - it is free to download today (11 June 2019) and tomorrow, so please tell anyone you think who might be interested.</span></div>
Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-55037135091545419642019-01-21T15:16:00.000+00:002019-01-21T15:16:21.571+00:00Wild Rabbit Stew With IPA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZGjRAJQB6DHujodyjj0HlyGqIoN3SJceontan1-sTT7jKVEeFJBV6O19fSJM27giWAbMfSLvScdvLIXG37T_VDKVgdtyJNK0rRpMwxsbT_K1Rmy9oXo4GDBnh9svNGaptSa3Y3l_rpOy/s1600/rabbit+stew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZGjRAJQB6DHujodyjj0HlyGqIoN3SJceontan1-sTT7jKVEeFJBV6O19fSJM27giWAbMfSLvScdvLIXG37T_VDKVgdtyJNK0rRpMwxsbT_K1Rmy9oXo4GDBnh9svNGaptSa3Y3l_rpOy/s400/rabbit+stew.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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There's an old joke along the lines of a man goes into a restaurant and asks, "Is the rabbit wild?" "Of course it's wild," says the waiter, "it's absolutely livid." That's got nothing to do with anything, but just to say use wild rabbit for this recipe. It's got a far better flavour than farmed rabbit, it keeps poachers in work, and most farmed rabbits live terrible lives.<br />
<br />
I had wild rabbit on a recent trip to Georgia (the country not the state) and I'd almost forgotten how good it is. There it was cooked in white wine and served in a clay dish surrounded by mashed potato. It tasted good, but the meat was still very firm and could have done with being cooked at least an hour longer.<br />
<br />
It can be quite a fiddly meat so you want it falling off the bone - and that takes two hours or so of slow cooking. This recipe will do the trick. It is good cooked in red or white wine, but I find it's much better when braised in a (forgive me) hoppy beer like Indian pale ale.<br />
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<i>One wild rabbit, jointed</i><br />
<i>Five tablespoons of sunflower oil</i><br />
<i>Four tablespoons of flour</i><br />
<i>Three medium onions, sliced</i><br />
<i>Three sticks of celery, peeled and diced</i><br />
<i>Three medium carrots, peeled and diced</i><br />
<i>Eight garlic cloves, crushed</i><br />
<i>Two bay leaves</i><br />
<i>Ten peppercorns</i><br />
<i>Four green cardamom pods</i><br />
<i>One pint of IPA </i><br />
<i>One pint of water, more if needed</i><br />
<i>One teaspoon tomato puree</i><br />
<i>Eight medium potatoes, peeled and halved</i><br />
<i>Salt to taste</i><br />
<br />
Rabbit is generally cut into eight pieces and it is very easy to do. Take the legs off, and cut the body into four pieces. Make sure you put in the kidneys etc. as well, as they improve the flavour of the liquor. The secret is not to hack away at it with a knife, otherwise you'll end up with sharp bone shards in the stew. Instead hit the back of your knife with a rolling pin and this will give a clean cut through the joints. Easier still, get the butcher to do it.<br />
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Sprinkle the pieces with salt then dredge in flour so they are evenly coated. Heat the oil in a pot until it is quite hot, then add the rabbit. Cook on each side for three minutes or so until well browned. Add the onion, celery and carrot and stir well. Fry for another two minutes, then add the bay leaves, tomato puree, cardamom, garlic and peppercorns.<br />
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Add the beer, making sure you scrape off all the fried flour bits that may have stuck to the bottom of the pan. Then add enough water to just cover the rabbit. Bring to the boil, then reduce to a low heat. Cover the pan and simmer on the stove for two hours. Stir occasionally and cook at times with the lid off if the liquid needs reducing. Add more water if it is getting too dry. Add the potatoes 30 minutes before the end. It's ready when the meat can be pulled off the bone and the potatoes are still holding their shape, but cooked through. Season to taste.Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-92209768390529480312018-07-22T14:56:00.001+01:002018-07-22T14:57:25.366+01:00Spaghetti Sofia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi59fAgN3pTp2BbRWLW_MZpfbdtIZqw3JnKelRKHE0JnM5TJ6iLst2DJ_xMNkBWKq-8zQpVxrseTYMpqUHdM5N5v84LyB9O2zR5JW8DApR2eecSY7UmlqfLnBVlvvbg3TvHe70k7I_YBjDc/s1600/spaghetti+sofia.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi59fAgN3pTp2BbRWLW_MZpfbdtIZqw3JnKelRKHE0JnM5TJ6iLst2DJ_xMNkBWKq-8zQpVxrseTYMpqUHdM5N5v84LyB9O2zR5JW8DApR2eecSY7UmlqfLnBVlvvbg3TvHe70k7I_YBjDc/s400/spaghetti+sofia.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
This was inspired by a pasta dish I had during a visit to Bulgaria's capital Sofia. It's a wonderfully laid-back place if you haven't been there, and I thoroughly recommend a visit. It's also worth noting the beer is ridiculously cheap too. One of the increasingly decreasing countries in Europe that is still affordable after the pound was floored by Brexit.<br />
<br />
Spaghetti, enough for two people<br />
2 shallots or one small onion<br />
2 garlic cloves<br />
Good knob of butter<br />
Salt, pepper<br />
30g fresh basil, chopped<br />
20 baby plum tomatoes<br />
Good handful of grated cheese<br />
Splash or two of fish sauce<br />
<br />
Cook the spaghetti in salted water then drain.<br />
Melt the butter in a pan. Add the chopped onion and garlic. Add the tomatoes. Fry for two minutes until the onion is soft and the tomatoes begin to split.<br />
Add the pasta, basil and cheese. Fry for a minute. Stir in the fish sauce then serve.Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-15178107447686531522018-03-06T15:56:00.000+00:002018-03-06T16:02:35.830+00:00Cambodian Stir-Fry Vegetables With Pork<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsSebYPVZ4GsVPHLPHhZkuDJvnj-HWLCZwSGcZ1PL3Y_bzHStKXP1llnWj_ZWgfzlbX_RgGz_-R76J5KR6n1ug_cuXl0azt1K-RfeDquw10NaXjoiJZkzGL-HbvTVz-v5jNgSi_2x9z87/s1600/finish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1218" data-original-width="1600" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsSebYPVZ4GsVPHLPHhZkuDJvnj-HWLCZwSGcZ1PL3Y_bzHStKXP1llnWj_ZWgfzlbX_RgGz_-R76J5KR6n1ug_cuXl0azt1K-RfeDquw10NaXjoiJZkzGL-HbvTVz-v5jNgSi_2x9z87/s400/finish.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I used to eat this dish, and countless variations of it, in
cheap, road-side cafes and stalls when I was working in Cambodia’s stifling
capital Phnom Penh. The heat meant you were never that hungry, just thirsty, and
I drank more melted ice than beer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But this meal and other stir-fried dishes like it were
perfect for kickstarting the appetite without bloating you out, and more
importantly they were delicious. They were never over seasoned or spiced, and
there was always a plastic tray of condiments on each table so you could tweak
the flavour as you wished – fish sauce, soy sauce, sugar, lime wedges, ground white
and black pepper.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The stir-fried vegetables came in numerous permutations,
sometimes with meat or fish, sometimes without, and were often flavoured with
oyster sauce. They were cooked fresh in front of you and served in silver bowls,
with another silver dish containing sticky rice. And the thing I loved most was
you always got a ramekin of thinly sliced chillies on the side, that gave a
burst of fire and helped the whole thing down.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Those were wonderful days on the whole, and I miss them
dearly. And occasionally when the British weather gets the better of me, and
gives me a shot of the low-down blues, I make myself one of these dishes, like
this one I made for lunch today – stir-fried vegetables with pork. Which if my very
rusty Khmer doesn’t embarrass me too much is known over there as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sach chrouk char pale khieu</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyway, this is how I made the dish and it turned out pretty
well. It goes without saying that you can substitute pretty much any other
protein for the pork – popular choices in Cambodia are frog, shrimp, squid,
crab, fish, eel, chicken, beef and egg. Or just leave it out and have
vegetables, maybe with nuts added. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In fact, one of the most memorable dishes I had was <b><a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/why-is-there-so-much-self-indulgent.html">fried cabbage and rice</a></b> with lots of chilli on the side, cooked as a staff meal at one of the
restaurants I was working in. It doesn’t get much simpler than that, but they
do say the secret of being a good cook, or any other artist for that matter, is
knowing when to stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Again, for the vegetables, it really doesn’t matter which
ones you use. Cambodians cooks are very skilled at making the best of what they’ve
got, which for the vast majority of Khmer people is usually very little. I used
broccoli, onion, cabbage and carrot, and a few slices of roast pork that were
left over from the weekend. The secret is to cut everything small, so it cooks
quickly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nearly all Cambodian dishes start with fried garlic, so I
heated some oil in a pan, sliced two fat cloves of garlic, and fried them,
stirring away until they were just turning nutty and brown. Then I added a few
thin strips of roast pork. Probably no more than about 50g or so – in keeping
with the Cambodian way of making a little meat go a long way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After all, it’s the flavour that is the main thing – and there
is no better way of ruining a stir-fry, aside from burning or over salting it, than
drowning it in meat or fish. I fried this for a couple of minutes until the oil
was frothing, then added the vegetables, and fried them for a couple of minutes
– they generally need very little more than this if they are cut properly. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Just before the end, I added the seasoning – two level tablespoons
of oyster sauce, the same of water, then a good sprinkle of fish sauce (about
two level teaspoons) and the same of lime juice, and finally half a teaspoon of
sugar, and a good grind of white pepper. It went on a plate with rice, and of
course thinly sliced chillies, and was demolished quickly, harkening back
memories of warmer times.</div>
Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-29459837205011302392018-02-28T13:44:00.000+00:002018-02-28T13:48:56.232+00:00What’s All The Fuss Over Nando’s Using McCain Frozen Chips – Top Restaurants Are At It As Well<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUny9dDI8-qOKwz3Om2d-bQS2grgrdh7rhCYAHhspp12KzGxIZ57C0S618uIp65xMS35jWbwPHEaaKDVJ_NhnIvKvMK9eSWom3x2dvok7PPb_rx6fFJksfK-Ucr3CApzBIoQhkNFmlePgl/s1600/nando%2527s.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="552" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUny9dDI8-qOKwz3Om2d-bQS2grgrdh7rhCYAHhspp12KzGxIZ57C0S618uIp65xMS35jWbwPHEaaKDVJ_NhnIvKvMK9eSWom3x2dvok7PPb_rx6fFJksfK-Ucr3CApzBIoQhkNFmlePgl/s320/nando%2527s.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Anyone who has ever eaten at Nando’s will know the chips are
the soft, puffy, mulchy sort that bring back unpleasant memories of school
dinners. You know that sort of half-baked, oven chip taste. A film of jaundiced,
fried potato barely holding in a pillow of tasteless white mush.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, it is perhaps no surprise that the chicken chain has
admitted using McCain frozen chips in its restaurants. It came after a student
working at Nando’s grassed them up to the Leicester Mercury newspaper, and
other media outlets lifted, I mean followed up, the story.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nando’s was quick to point out that these were not the sort
of McCain chips you might bung in the oven at home. But instead were a “specific
recipe” exclusively made for the chain – which does make you wonder just how
much effort went into making the chips as unpleasant as they are.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It hardly needs to be said that the outrage over this
damning indictment caused much merriment and vitriol on Twitter and other
social media dungeons, perhaps more so than usual because the snow meant more
people than normal were sitting in their underpants, firing off tweets that
no-one would ever read, rather than braving two inches of snow and struggling
into work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I haven’t the fortitude of character to bother checking
whether there is now a chipgate hashtag in circulation, as I suspect there
probably is. Just a handful of quoted tweets, for what now passes as journalism
on the BBC website, was enough to put me off, with one moronic tweeter going as
far as describing it as the “revelation of the year”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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KFC staff caught gobbing into chicken buckets or McDonald’s workers
filling salt sachets with ricin might be worthy contenders for revelations,
perhaps even of the year. But buying in chips from McCain is hardly a hanging
offence, and Nando’s could help itself much more by simply training its kitchen
staff to cook the chips properly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To say the story is overdone is an understatement. What I
find interesting is the attention these reports about what goes on in the
kitchens of budget restaurants get. You can sense a definite snobbery and
delight in middle-class foodie circles (i.e. foodie circles), presumably from
people who would never lower themselves to eat in Nando’s or KFC, or at least
would never admit to doing so. The schadenfreude at such ‘revelations’ is
palpable among those who dine in far more expensive restaurants.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What I have never understood is how this level of outraged, puritan
scrutiny rarely targets the top restaurants. Perhaps these places are just far
better at concealing their tracks? Surely it is far more of a crime to pay ten
times more than you would at Nando’s and then be served bought-in food. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At Rick Stein’s Seafood Restaurant, the chips arrived in sealed
plastic bags ready to be fried – <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Down-Padstow-London-Alex-Watts-ebook/dp/B006PQGY4O">or at least they did when I worked there</a></b>. They
are not from McCain. Instead they are made at an industrial estate on the
outskirts of Padstow, by Stein’s staff who also churn out all the Cornish pasties
and chutneys that have made him one of the richest men in Cornwall - upsetting
the locals no end (and not for just using the wrong type of pastry).<o:p></o:p></div>
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He can hardly be criticised for that. The explanation when I
asked was that it was a space-saving ploy and there was not enough room in the
seafood restaurant’s large, airy kitchen to peel potatoes and hand cut chips.
Same as much of the other veg. <o:p></o:p></div>
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However, what did slightly irk was seeing other food come
directly out of a jar or packet. As I say, you’d forgive this in a café selling
£6 or £7 lunches, but not in a restaurant that charges Michelin star prices,
without actually having one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I did my brief stint in the kitchen there (admittedly a
long time ago, but I’d be surprised if much has changed), if you ordered the
potted shrimp, all the chef had to do was open a bought-in pot and put the contents
on a plate with (home-made) toast. You could have saved yourself a small
fortune just by going to Asda. The seafood pasta dish was almost as easy. But
for that price you might think Stein’s staff were making the pasta themselves.
Instead, they just boiled up packets of dried De Cecco linguine, which is a very
good one, but you take my point.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have heard countless tales from chefs working in many of
the top restaurants in Britain, who can tell similar stories. Even the three-star
Fat Duck was no stranger to the practice. The bread arrived each morning,
supplied by a boutique baker, which is forgivable given the size of Heston Blumenthal’s
coffin-sized kitchen. And Waitrose helped out with the sardine on toast sorbet.
The pastry chefs could never have been accused of shouting it from the
rooftops, and you got the feeling that any bought-in food would have been kept
under lock and key away from prying eyes, as the great and the good were sometime
given tours of the kitchens.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was only when the pastry cooks on ice cream duty said they
had run out of tinned sardines one day, that a hapless chef was sent off to the
nearby Waitrose in Maidenhead for a few tins of own-brand fish, that it became obvious. </div>
Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-70640189469617724012016-12-09T18:20:00.000+00:002016-12-09T18:20:25.297+00:00Salted Cod And Cashew Nut CurryThis recipe was partly inspired by Cambodia's national dish, amok - river fish cooked with mild spices and coconut. Amok varies enormously from home to home over there. Most resemble a sort of runny, yellow curry, but the supposedly authentic ones are steamed in banana leaves and, with the addition of beaten egg, come out like souffles. So chaotic is the dish, you could say it runs ... oh, never mind.<br />
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Salted fish is also an important ingredient for the Khmers, and works well in this curry. As for the cashew nuts, you can pick them off the trees over there. Remember to only add salt at the end, if necessary, as it is difficult to estimate how salty the fish is and how much soaking it will need. Obviously the saltier you like it, the less soaking it needs.<br />
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300g salt cod or pollack, skinless and boneless<br />
2 medium onions, finely chopped<br />
6 garlic cloves<br />
4 green cardamon pods<br />
4 cloves<br />
2 tsps ground coriander<br />
2 tsps ground turmeric<br />
1 tsp cumin seeds<br />
2 tbsps olive oil<br />
6 red chillies, fewer if you don't like heat<br />
1 tsp vinegar<br />
1 tsp sugar<br />
1 large yellow or orange pepper, diced<br />
1 bay leaf<br />
120g tinned tomatoes, chopped<br />
400ml coconut milk<br />
20 cashew nuts<br />
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Soak the salted fish overnight in a saucepan full of cold water. Change the water a couple of times. Heat the oil in a pressure cooker and add the chopped onion. Stir and cook over a medium heat for 10 minutes until reduced heavily in size. Add the diced pepper, bay leaf and garlic and cook for another few minutes, stirring regularly.<br />
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Add the cardamon, cumin, turmeric, coriander, sugar and vinegar. Stir for a minute, adding a splash of water if the spices start to catch. Add the tomatoes and coconut milk.<br />
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Cover the pressure cooker, bring up to pressure, and simmer for 30 minutes, stirring half way through. Then add the fish, cut into inch-wide pieces, cashew nuts and whole red chillies. Stir well and cover the pressure cooker again. Simmer for 30 minutes, stirring half way through.<br />
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Serve with fresh coriander, salad and boiled rice.Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-68590000268960117332016-12-08T14:40:00.000+00:002016-12-08T14:40:35.078+00:00Vintage Cheddar And Parmesan LeeksIf you're lucky enough to have a garden, you may be fortunate enough to pull a couple of fat leeks out of the ground for this delicious recipe, as they're in peak condition at this time of year. If not, you'll just have to rely on the local bearded grocer like me.<br />
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It goes very well with roast pork and crackling as I knocked up for a meal last Sunday, with apple sauce, steamed kale, roast spuds and other trimmings. In fact, it's not often that a side dish takes centre stage, but it certainly gave the pork leg a run for its money, and if anything was almost as popular as the crackling. It doesn't require a lot of cheese, but the cheddar you use should be as full-flavoured and vintage as you can find.<br />
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2 large leeks<br />
25g butter<br />
25g plain white flour<br />
350ml milk<br />
250ml water<br />
2 tsps wholegrain mustard<br />
Few dashes of Worcestershire sauce<br />
Salt and white pepper<br />
3 tbsps breadcrumbs<br />
50g vintage cheddar, grated<br />
25g parmesan, grated<br />
2 tsps fish sauce<br />
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Cut the leeks lengthways into four (keeping them attached at the root) then wash well in a tub of water to remove any grit and mud. Slice the leeks into inch-wide pieces. Boil 250ml of water in a saucepan, add a little salt, and then the leeks.<br />
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Stir well, then cover the pot over a medium heat for 30 seconds. Stir again, then cover for another 30 seconds. Do this for a total of five minutes - the leeks should have reduced in size by about a half. Remove the leeks and remaining water (which will have turned a pale green).<br />
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In the same (dry) pan, melt the butter and then add the flour. Take off the heat, and stir well with a wooden spoon to make a blonde paste (roux). Return to the heat and add the still-hot liquor from the leeks. Once the water is absorbed, add the milk, a little at a time, using a whisk to break down the lumps.<br />
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Once you have a thick sauce, add the mustard and fish sauce. Then add the grated cheese, stirring until you have a smooth sauce again. Check the seasoning, adding salt and white pepper to taste.<br />
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Add the leeks to the sauce and simmer for two minutes. Transfer to an oven dish, top with breadcrumbs and a few splashes of Worcestershire sauce, then cook in a pre-heated oven at 170C for 20-30 minutes until the top if golden.Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-77243560599289977262016-11-21T18:29:00.003+00:002016-11-21T18:38:29.652+00:00Broccoli Stalk Stew<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfUpBHfl8xVHcnOqLk9l3Ri8Gtkq2hTO4zc_6DBd1qKNM3svOU73Ycf_Ev4e_i4Q1SB4vBZd0uxtAZ4QqvJet1p1x2V_U4lUNSDtEYoRCNuBOebDQnaDOZrruFNLcfC9ShXA-jZ435CMW/s1600/IMG_0033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfUpBHfl8xVHcnOqLk9l3Ri8Gtkq2hTO4zc_6DBd1qKNM3svOU73Ycf_Ev4e_i4Q1SB4vBZd0uxtAZ4QqvJet1p1x2V_U4lUNSDtEYoRCNuBOebDQnaDOZrruFNLcfC9ShXA-jZ435CMW/s400/IMG_0033.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Broccoli stalks, if you ask me, are the best part of the vegetable, and perhaps any vegetable. They can have a sort of pak choi flavour and texture if you don't cook them too much, and slice them thinly.<br />
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This is a take on a soup/stew I had a number of times when I was living in Cambodia. There, they use the stalks to good effect, slicing them to the thickness of a beer bottle top for want of a better, but all the same as appropriate, image - then cooking them in soups, fried rice, noodle dishes, and probably a lot of other dishes I've forgotten since those impecunious, halcyon days.<br />
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I've used potato here, which doesn't grow well in Cambodia, but the ingredients are far from consistent there, to be sure using whatever is cheap in the market that week, so I've tweaked accordingly.<br />
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It is usually served with a small bowl of chopped red chillies topped with a chunk of lime, maybe a side plate of a few leafy vegetables or herbs like they do so well in neighbouring Vietnam, and of course the ubiquitous, plastic (often red) basket containing fish sauce, soy sauce, sugar, black pepper, toothpicks, and pickled green chillies if you're lucky. As dishes go it's got to be about as cheap as it comes, but it's very good all the same.<br />
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Stalks of two large broccoli heads, sliced thinly<br />
2 large potatoes, each cut into eight pieces<br />
1 small onion, chopped<br />
1 tbsp vegetable oil<br />
500ml water<br />
Salt, pepper to taste<br />
1 tsp chopped fresh ginger<br />
1 tbsp chopped garlic<br />
Chopped red bird eye chillies<br />
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Prep the vegetables then fry the onion in a pot until it has softened and is beginning to colour. Add the potato pieces, garlic, and ginger. Continuing frying for a few more minutes. Add the water, bring to the boil, cover the pot and simmer for 15 minutes.<br />
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Add the broccoli stalks, recover the pot and cook for another five minutes or so until the stalks are tender and the potato still firm. Add a little more water if necessary. You don't want it swamping, but there needs to be liquor. Season with salt and pepper to taste, then serve with chillies, fish sauce and all the rest. Then imagine you're sitting on a plastic stool in 35C heat.Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-91952652218574910852016-11-19T17:17:00.005+00:002016-11-19T17:30:07.050+00:00Snakebite Lamb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYAB8RjsfumyJpgEZ6vmbNnxX80Q34EhGD4zrwbvzDijP5Y9f7ze-Pu1_5iHc4Sr2TfZBWeQPX0kWf6_4WRucvpzB932UsNi8BEdIb49Sod_WeonyOBHqWXnNKLv3P_i52-tleavtCD1kl/s1600/IMG_0028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYAB8RjsfumyJpgEZ6vmbNnxX80Q34EhGD4zrwbvzDijP5Y9f7ze-Pu1_5iHc4Sr2TfZBWeQPX0kWf6_4WRucvpzB932UsNi8BEdIb49Sod_WeonyOBHqWXnNKLv3P_i52-tleavtCD1kl/s400/IMG_0028.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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This is a take on an old English recipe for boiled mutton. You might think I've added an unnecessary, not to say dubiously fusion, twist with the tablespoon or so of fish sauce. But fish sauce, or nam pla in Thailand, is nothing more than anchovies and salt, with the final addition of a little sugar, left to naturally ferment for months, and sometimes years, dripping forth its pungent red-brown liquor.<br />
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It is little different to the many European fish sauces made with anchovies and salt, brought by the Romans to Albion, and known as garum and other names. Many are the robust, devilled English recipes that demanded fermented fish sauce, and later its distant niece Worcestershire sauce, and there are few finer combinations than roast lamb studded with anchovy fillets and garlic. </div>
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Yes, rosemary if you will, but it's the salty fish and lamb/mutton taste that makes the dish, which is why saltmarsh lamb that stuff themselves on samphire and seaweeds on places like Romney Marsh and the Gower provide such wonderful feasts. </div>
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The snakebite combination of cider and lager, of course, works well too. The lamb is first simmered in sharp scrumpy and then is improved with the bitter taste of fermented hops later on. A little mustard, thyme, and lots of garlic, and the dish is complete.<br />
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1kg boned leg of lamb</div>
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500ml scrumpy cider</div>
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250ml lager beer</div>
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10 cloves of garlic</div>
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10 whole peppercorns</div>
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2 bay leaves</div>
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2 tsps English mustard</div>
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1 tsp dried thyme</div>
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1 tbsp fish sauce</div>
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1 large onion, chopped roughly</div>
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2 medium carrots, sliced diagonally</div>
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1 tbsp olive oil</div>
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Salt to taste</div>
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Heat the oil in a pressure cooker on a medium-heat hob and fry the onions for a couple of minutes, stirring all the time. Tilt the pan and push the onions to one side then brown the joint of rolled lamb. Keep turning the joint, making sure it is brown all over, and the onions don't catch. </div>
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Add the carrots and bay leaves and fry for another two minutes, adding a little water if the bottom begins to catch. Then add the scrumpy, peppercorns, mustard, fish sauce and five cloves of garlic. </div>
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Put the lid on and cook under a medium pressure for 20 minutes. Then open the cooker, turn the lamb, and cook under pressure for another 20 minutes. Take the lid off and add the beer and the other five clove of garlic. </div>
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Simmer uncovered for one hour, turning the lamb regulary, until the liquid is reduced by a third - this should take between 40 minutes and an hour, depending on the heat of the hob.</div>
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Allow the lamb to rest for 20 minutes in the pan, then carve into thick sliices and serve in a bowl. Add a couple of ladles of the lamb liquor, and serve with boiled potatoes and green vegetables.</div>
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Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-60178760480071690492016-07-08T11:24:00.000+01:002016-07-08T11:24:15.510+01:00Food Banks And What The West Could Learn From Asian Cooking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ-1rtPtbR4m6un0qv5cyvE5QrW2Vv7sjgCCnjgzDo9in_DCmNvvY9igWSonLVsMinV0LNX50qqWFR8Vldf7A0YyctsLRBp2A6iXNFeNHZWSdkcM74IFVsilkRmDPyiofs1xaefHE8PeIf/s1600/Cambodian+street+food+stall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ-1rtPtbR4m6un0qv5cyvE5QrW2Vv7sjgCCnjgzDo9in_DCmNvvY9igWSonLVsMinV0LNX50qqWFR8Vldf7A0YyctsLRBp2A6iXNFeNHZWSdkcM74IFVsilkRmDPyiofs1xaefHE8PeIf/s400/Cambodian+street+food+stall.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There is a lot of talk about obesity and healthy
eating in the West. There is also a lot of talk about rising food prices, food
banks, unemployment, benefits cuts and other austerity measures sparking dubious
claims from millionaire, silver-spooned Tories that they could survive on £53 a
week, while maintaining a reasonably nutritious and varied diet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now comes the news that a staggering 500,000
people in the UK - the seventh richest country in the world, it’s worth
remembering - are relying on food banks to survive as welfare cuts bite and food
prices continue to rise (having already soared by 35% over the past five years,
far outstripping wage increases). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And the way things are going, it’s only likely to
get worse. As John Harris wrote this week in The Guardian about the growing use
of food banks in Britain, there is a perception that “hunger is something that
happens only to the poor and unfortunate overseas. It’s now here: outside
everyone’s door, gnawing away, ruining lives.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Overseas places like <b><a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2012/10/cambodia-kings-face-appears-on-moon.html">Cambodia</a></b>, for instance, where
I am currently working. A third-world country ranked as one of the poorest in
the world, where many villagers struggle to get by on less than $2 a day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There is no doubt that even the poorest Britons
live a much better life than the poorest Cambodians. But it makes sense that the
hundreds of thousands of Britons now struggling with “destitution, hardship,
and hunger on a large scale”, as key poverty charities warn, could learn a thing
or two from SE Asia’s most vulnerable - who for years have had to cope with
extreme hunger, and have become skilled at getting the most out of the little
food they have.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A good start would be removing the ‘meat and two
veg’ mantra and embracing an Asian diet and <b><a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2012/04/samlor-ktis-cambodian-soup-youve-got-to.html">Asian cooking</a></b> techniques - none
more so than the wok: an extremely versatile cooking pot that can be used to
fry, steam, and braise, and is very useful for serving up tasty, nutritious
food on a tight budget.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Asian cooking, in general, uses more fish and has
a higher ratio of vegetables per serving - and vegetables are often overlooked
in the meat-obsessed West as an excellent way to naturally boost flavour.
Likewise, wok cooking uses little oil, making it healthier. It’s also blindingly
quick - meaning it takes less of a chunk out of gas or electricity bills. And I
say this without sarcasm or irony in these days where you can’t switch on the
telly without hearing the word sustainability - something that may help save
the planet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As food and fuel become more scarce, populations
grow, and climate change pushes up temperatures and leads to more flooding, making
traditional staples like rice less and less of a staple, people will be forced
to eat less meat and more vegetables, fruit, and perhaps <b><a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2011/08/novel-way-to-catch-crickets.html">insects</a></b> - which happen
to be a very good source of protein and nourishment. It’s unavoidable - there
aren’t enough resources to go round as it is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">People in the West could do themselves a lot of
favours if they simply ate less, and saw meat as less of a main ingredient and
more of a flavouring, as it is in SE Asia. When I arrived in Cambodia in 2011,
I tipped the airport scales at a whopping and technically obese 93kg. I’m now
77kg, and feel a lot better for it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yes, I miss meat feasts and dirty kebabs. But after
a while your stomach and appetite changes, it takes less food to fill your
belly, and the endless discussions about double cheese burgers and monstrous
steaks leave you frankly bored, if not a little disgusted, by the gluttony so
often espoused on foodie havens like Twitter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Read any interview with someone surviving on food
aid in the US or Europe and they will say the same thing - that they have been
forced to abandon, or heavily cut down on, meat for cheaper ingredients like
pasta, rice, noodles, pulses, cereals, and vegetables.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Over the next few blogs, I’m going to post a few
recipes I’ve picked up on my travels through SE Asia - not gourmet meals, far
from it, but delicious all the same. They are meals that can be made in minutes
and are extremely cheap to make.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s one of the many things people in the West could
learn from the far flung East, along with swapping toilet paper for bum guns, the
importance of families and spirituality, and being less obsessed with celebrity,
to name but a few.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The first is a dish that comes from a great Chinese-Cambodian
street food stall in Phnom Penh. It’s called char trey cor compong (fried
tinned fish). Doesn’t sound great does it, but it’s a wonderful meal. All you
need is a tin of mackerel in tomato sauce (or tinned pilchards or sardines), tomato ketchup (tuk peng pong - the Hong Kong influence in the
dish), onions, chillies, rice, and a few minutes with a wok.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">CHAR
TREY COR COMPONG<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">(serves
2)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">400g
tin of mackerel in tomato sauce<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">1
large or two medium onions<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">3
tablespoons tomato ketchup<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">2
spring onions<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">1
teaspoon fish sauce<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Salt,
Pepper, Sugar<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Juice
of two limes<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Two
red bird eye chillies<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">1/2
tablespoon vegetable oil<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As with all wok dishes, it’s important to prep the
ingredients first - the best cooks over here say 90% of the cooking is done on
the chopping board, and 10% in the wok. But they also say the blacker the wok,
the better the chef, so knife skills are very good by that stage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Open the tinned mackerel, and carefully fork out
the fish and put on a plate. Half fill the tin with water, and using a wooden
spoon scrape up the tomato sauce from the sides and bottom. Chop the onion in
half, then finely slice. Cut the white part of each spring onion into two
pieces, then finely chop the green part to use as a garnish. Finely slice the
chillies and put in a small saucer or dipping bowl. Cut the limes into six
pieces, and squeeze each piece into a bowl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Heat the wok over a high flame until the metal
begins to smoke, then add the vegetable oil. Toss in the sliced onion, and stir
continuously with the wooden spoon until the onion is soft but not browned -
this will take about two minutes. Then throw in the liquid from the tin, and
the spring onion whites, and boil for a minute.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Add the ketchup, lime juice, and fish sauce, and
boil for another 30 seconds, topping up with a little more water if necessary,
until you have a sauce about the thickness of double cream. Add salt, sugar,
and ground black pepper to taste.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Turn off the flame and put the fish in the wok,
and cover with the sauce. Put the lid on the wok and then leave for a minute. The
fish should be warmed through but not hot. Tip the fish on to a flat serving
dish and scatter with the spring onion greens (the stall uses chopped
Chinese chives as a garnish - so use those if you’re lucky enough to have them).
Serve with sticky rice and the saucer of chopped chillies.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>MORE</b>: <b><a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.com/2013/05/cambodian-food-eating-duck-embryos-and.html">Eating Duck Embryos And Cow Guts </a></b></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><b></b></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;">:: My new, bestselling food book </span><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Down-South-East-Asia-ebook/dp/B00CLHIPFC" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><b>Down And Out In South East Asia</b></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"> is an adventure story, spiked with a heavy dose of backpacker noir, through the eateries, street food stalls, and hazy bars of Cambodia, Thailand, and Vietnam.</span></div>
Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-76557225716397416622016-01-28T18:46:00.000+00:002016-01-28T19:20:59.989+00:00Chicken And Asparagus Pie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The pastry for this pie comes from one of the apprentices on my cheffing course. He modestly says he's only good at turning potatoes, and jokes that if he was a superhero his one special power would be the ability to instantly turn vegetables into perfect, seven-sided barrels. However, he's pretty good at making pies as well.<br />
<br />
He should be really, because the rest of the week, he works at a gastropub that specialises in pies. Every morning, he makes the pie dough using this recipe below. The chef assessor spent a few hours in his kitchen, ticking off units in his apprenticeship file, and came back raving about the pie crust.<br />
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It was deemed so good, he asked the apprentice to fill in for our masterchef lecturer one morning to show us how to make the perfect pie. "I don't want to blow smoke up your arse, but that's probably the best rough puff pastry I've ever tasted," the masterchef told him afterwards before trying to sell us the pies we'd made at a fiver a pop, pointing out that they'd probably be £25 in a deli.<br />
<br />
At the gastropub, they use shortcrust pastry for the bottom of the pie and rough puff for the top. But we used rough puff for both. It rises very well and is deliciously crispy owing to all the butter in it. The pies in the picture above should probably have been cooked about five minutes less, as the pastry is a little too brown, but some idiot, uh hum, forgot to put the timer on the oven. I had nothing to do with the ludicrous Man U decoration though.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Rough Puff Pastry</b><br />
<br />
1kg plain flour<br />
750g butter<br />
Cold water<br />
<br />
Cut the butter into cubes, about the size of Oxo cubes. Sieve the flour into a bowl and add the butter cubes. Mix briefly with a wooden spoon until the cubes are evenly covered in flour. Add cold water, a little at a time, and stir until the pastry comes together in a ball. Don't over mix it - you still want pieces of butter in the pastry.<br />
<br />
Cover the pastry in clingfilm and chill in the fridge for 20 minutes. Take out, flour the work surface and roll out into a long rectangle. Fold the top third into the middle, the bottom third into the middle. Fold in half, then turn 90 degrees and roll out into a rectangle again.<br />
<br />
Repeat this three more times, then put the pastry back into the fridge. Chill for another 20 minutes, then take out and repeat the procedure. Chill until ready for use. If you have more pastry than you need, wrap it in clingfilm and freeze.<br />
<br />
<b>Poached Chicken</b><br />
<br />
I whole chicken<br />
2 onions<br />
4 sticks celery<br />
3 bay leaves<br />
10 peppercorns<br />
<br />
Put your fingers under the skin at the neck end and carefully pull the skin from the chicken. Chop off the feet and pull the leg skin off. Put the whole skinned chicken in a stock pot and cover with water. Add the celery, onion and spices. When the water starts to boil, turn the heat down and cook for one hour.<br />
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Take the chicken out, and using a probe, check the inside of the thigh is at least 65C. Even when it is 85C, the chicken meat is still moist because it has been cooked in a wet heat rather than dry heat. But I find about 70C is the best.<br />
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Pick the meat from the chicken carcass, and lay on a tray then chill in the fridge. Return the chicken carcass and bones to the stockpot. Continue simmering the stock until you are ready to make the veloute sauce (see below).<br />
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<b>Asparagus</b><br />
<br />
Cut off the bottom inch or so of the asparagus. Then boil the spears for two minutes. Take out and refresh in iced water. When cold, slice into discs, about the thickness of £1 coins. Put in the fridge.<br />
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<b>Onion Veloute Sauce</b><br />
<br />
1 large onion<br />
100g butter<br />
100g flour<br />
1 litre chicken stock<br />
<br />
Chop the onion very finely and fry in the butter over a low heat until the onion has 'melted'. It should be soft and very yellow. Add the flour and stir well. Cook the roux over a low heat for three minutes until coloured slightly - make sure it doesn't catch on the bottom of the pan.<br />
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Heat up the sieved stock from the chicken if it has gone cold, and add a ladle at a time to the roux, stirring constantly, and adding the next ladle when the water is absorbed. Then whisk the rest of the stock in, and simmer for 10 minutes. Add salt to taste. Chill the sauce in the fridge.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTvaW31Cn6A13Ni45sEyBJrLaN3R2KRWYeI-wxFgkyooHgRTeFVNmUaMZ4RZz0nv7ma-QGojRkwoKFGSyqAxPhFP9jQIpeDU3fhtP9RquhOtrAVpQs7BACwOCqkk88HqoBnHJFTo7PMihv/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTvaW31Cn6A13Ni45sEyBJrLaN3R2KRWYeI-wxFgkyooHgRTeFVNmUaMZ4RZz0nv7ma-QGojRkwoKFGSyqAxPhFP9jQIpeDU3fhtP9RquhOtrAVpQs7BACwOCqkk88HqoBnHJFTo7PMihv/s400/photo.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<b>Pie Filling</b><br />
<br />
When the chicken meat, asparagus and veloute sauce are all chilled, mix together in a bowl. Add salt and pepper to taste.<br />
<br />
<b>Making The Pie</b><br />
<br />
Lightly flour the work surface and roll out the pastry to about 1/2cm thick. Cut out a circle three inches wider than the pie dish's circumference. Grease the pie dish with butter and sprinkle with flour. Then lay the pastry circle in the dish, pushing down into the corners. Leave the extra pastry hanging over the edge of the dish. Fill the pie with filling.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdh8lYAID5hkBxc2XcgtAEmxQFhhjG7TcU_Dio4VUHJcObwf8DnGfQiSYVA6GAHKOsAVGACuucddJ4oZTR8tA7jkCUNRsPnh9QfVVudYGFlWL2qUq_soc-3tNydDPJ50_aZYJ_vvYNx8_7/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdh8lYAID5hkBxc2XcgtAEmxQFhhjG7TcU_Dio4VUHJcObwf8DnGfQiSYVA6GAHKOsAVGACuucddJ4oZTR8tA7jkCUNRsPnh9QfVVudYGFlWL2qUq_soc-3tNydDPJ50_aZYJ_vvYNx8_7/s400/photo.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
Roll out another circle of pastry the same thickness as before, and lay on top of the pie. Push it down on the pastry beneath. Then hold the dish up with one hand and with a knife in the other, neatly trim off the excess pastry. Crimp the edges together using your thumb and index finger on your left hand (if right-handed) and thumb on your right hand. Glaze the top with beaten egg yolk.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrMK0vn2P1bo_EmTbiFQo6TGyjAs5Q5Epw1ejF6c4xN_KwQKdOEXgVCVDKSzkAFeZnVi8i2Pv3xch-USIE69nYLaxJm6bhyN3waR8VsjTyJFzO-kNG5V-haM9m3NKUDKA6brNXq5RMWZlC/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrMK0vn2P1bo_EmTbiFQo6TGyjAs5Q5Epw1ejF6c4xN_KwQKdOEXgVCVDKSzkAFeZnVi8i2Pv3xch-USIE69nYLaxJm6bhyN3waR8VsjTyJFzO-kNG5V-haM9m3NKUDKA6brNXq5RMWZlC/s400/photo.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<b>Baking The Pie</b><br />
<br />
Put the pie dish on a tray. Bake in a pre-heated oven at 180C - or 160C if you've got a fan-assisted oven - for 45 minutes.Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-70661583873810063262016-01-25T17:47:00.003+00:002016-01-25T17:47:38.411+00:00January Vegetables And The Healthiest Ways To Cook Them<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivY3uY7e94JojCIw_L3EsNFQ9bPtw1-izlzc5iwA3Ju3g18z8mz-cQvSee5E7I3djYdUreRNm64fAtt7TPrL87IUgH4Ny9rVE9SSyCZtmRJl-iZk72nBcDiUJgEh6FXQLxKx5dD53ykeru/s1600/800px-Brassica_oleracea_var._laciniata%252C_boerenkool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivY3uY7e94JojCIw_L3EsNFQ9bPtw1-izlzc5iwA3Ju3g18z8mz-cQvSee5E7I3djYdUreRNm64fAtt7TPrL87IUgH4Ny9rVE9SSyCZtmRJl-iZk72nBcDiUJgEh6FXQLxKx5dD53ykeru/s400/800px-Brassica_oleracea_var._laciniata%252C_boerenkool.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The following are some of the main seasonal vegetables for
January:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Kale</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Type: Leaf vegetable<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cooking: Kale can be cooked in a number of ways, including
stir frying, steaming, microwaving, and boiling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The healthiest option is steaming over a couple of inches of
water, rather than boiling. Because the kale is not submerged in water, it loses
less of its water-soluble nutrients such as vitamins B and C.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some people eat kale raw by adding it to smoothies, but
research shows cooking can actually make some vegetables healthier by boosting
certain nutritional components. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cooked kale, for example, has a higher level of
carotene than in its raw state. Carotene is converted by the body into vitamin
A, and is important for eyesight and the immune system. Cooking also boosts other
fat-soluble nutrients like vitamins D, E and K.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So steamed kale – the healthiest cooking option – has far less
vitamin C than raw kale, but has more carotene. This means it’s probably best
to eat a diet of both cooked and raw kale.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Carrot<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Type: Root vegetable<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cooking: Like kale, carrots can be cooked in a number of
ways, including stir frying, steaming, microwaving, boiling and poaching. The
healthiest option is steaming. Carrots can also be roasted or grilled.
All three methods destroy less nutrients than boiling and do not have the added
fat needed for frying. Roasting also gives carrots a great taste, extracting
their natural sweetness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Leek<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Type: Bulb and stem vegetable<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cooking: Again, steaming is the best method for leeks
as less water-soluble nutrients are lost compared with boiling. This is
also healthier than frying as it does not require the addition of fat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Cabbage</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Type: Leaf vegetable</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cooking: Steaming would once again be a healthier method of
cooking than boiling or frying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cabbage can also be eaten raw as a salad,
preserving its water-soluble nutrients such as vitamins B and C. If it is going
to be boiled, a healthier way of doing this is to the reduce the amount of
water it is cooked in – which decreases the loss of nutrients – and also
reducing the cooking time so the cabbage is not cooked longer than necessary.
The cabbage water can also be used as a base for soup.<o:p></o:p></div>
Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-55572948391010440862015-11-23T13:29:00.000+00:002015-11-23T13:29:26.702+00:00Jeremy Clarkson Fracas Hotel Gets Plaque<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ghz42_7wzg4e1EOQu__CEHUeFP83kqH-ZL_wwA9XJoiXEEokQVOg3qdnSzRTAXFbw0824wYR3N2YwcEbFvLmEBXCBTiTkTaD-r8EPyN7z3AF-7_pzmUJcnj3DgMh80CP_UnGoF-gaLWI/s1600/jeremy+clarkson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ghz42_7wzg4e1EOQu__CEHUeFP83kqH-ZL_wwA9XJoiXEEokQVOg3qdnSzRTAXFbw0824wYR3N2YwcEbFvLmEBXCBTiTkTaD-r8EPyN7z3AF-7_pzmUJcnj3DgMh80CP_UnGoF-gaLWI/s400/jeremy+clarkson.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
The hotel where Jeremy Clarkson threw his toys out of his V8 pram and punched a Top Gear producer has been given a plaque to commemorate the end of Clarkson's BBC career.<br />
<br />
Managers at Simonstone Hall, in the Pennines, say a guest gave them the shiny plaque on Sunday night, and they plan to put it on the patio where the "fracas" took place.<br />
<br />
Clarkson punched Oisin Tymon in the mouth after he told him he couldn't have a steak because the kitchen had closed and the chef had gone home.<br />
<br />
Tymon, 36, was forced into hiding after receiving death threats from online trolls blaming him for Clarkson's sacking from the BBC2 car cockfest show.<br />
<br />
Simonstone Hall - which brands itself as the "perfect haven to relax and unwind" - has not revealed who the plaque giver is, but seems chuffed with the gift.<br />
<br />
"We think it would be quite appropriate to put it on the patio where the fracas took place," the hotel said on its Facebook page.Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-89476324125798011682015-11-12T20:05:00.001+00:002015-11-13T09:50:43.298+00:00How To Fillet A Flat Fish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/lkhRYSZzb-M/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lkhRYSZzb-M?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "trebuchet" , "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">The trouble with learning how to fillet fish is there are so many different methods. But if you really want to know how to do it, ask a fisherman - they do it every day.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "trebuchet" , "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">Here, Billy The Fish shows how to prep a flat fish into two or four fillets...</span>Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-15796050815151840662015-11-12T19:52:00.000+00:002015-11-13T09:51:19.478+00:00How To Fillet A Round Fish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/3W1Boorr654/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3W1Boorr654?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<br />
The trouble with learning how to fillet fish is there are so many different methods. But if you really want to know how to do it, ask a fisherman - they do it every day.<br />
<br />
Here, Billy The Fish shows how to fillet a cod the right way...Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-36261396806880940482015-11-12T16:58:00.000+00:002015-11-12T16:58:27.949+00:00Bulletproof Recipe For Pate Brisee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSPL5hIzLM3z4-tWnrriWKTx7FxDTugFrDidpjktqjfkIExJgDx6Zyn_HkQLYSHniq-2l3xP3WZN0DQIk0LZwgeN78v_l6XnInnVaLAMseVcIYGNad2b2xueRDFwAxIa3WQpszQ96biAse/s1600/photo+%252817%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSPL5hIzLM3z4-tWnrriWKTx7FxDTugFrDidpjktqjfkIExJgDx6Zyn_HkQLYSHniq-2l3xP3WZN0DQIk0LZwgeN78v_l6XnInnVaLAMseVcIYGNad2b2xueRDFwAxIa3WQpszQ96biAse/s400/photo+%252817%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This is a classic French pie pastry, which works well for both sweet and savoury dishes. It's almost the same as traditional short crust pastry - which uses one portion of fat to every two of flour - but uses egg and a higher fat ratio (64% rather than 50%) and rolls much better.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
It also has a richer flavour and crumblier texture, and is perfect for Cornish pasties or similar. Indeed, we used this to make amuse bouche pasties filled with confit pheasant and grapes for a function at the college where I'm studying my Level 2 NVQ Diploma in Catering (see pics below).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidSttWQHV1XKqoJ4uHU4jqxGWWnbs5DpuHD7xqhJV18TCys-BPr1Sn57aPCmBL81c0aWSuI_WcZd7fxG9wheZ08JAAkID4j2IhVKGooAadf4BCREprVztzL8Tni_IcKi8eKfjOUhYBioIv/s1600/photo+%252815%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidSttWQHV1XKqoJ4uHU4jqxGWWnbs5DpuHD7xqhJV18TCys-BPr1Sn57aPCmBL81c0aWSuI_WcZd7fxG9wheZ08JAAkID4j2IhVKGooAadf4BCREprVztzL8Tni_IcKi8eKfjOUhYBioIv/s400/photo+%252815%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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</div>
<br />
<br />
As with all pastries, it's vital not to overwork the dough. Just bring it together with a spoon, and when using your hands, use your fingers rather than the heel of your palm <b><a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/irish-soda-bread-tarragon-and-roasted.html">as you would with bread dough</a></b>, as the heel is the warmest part of your hand. It's also essential to chill the dough well before you roll it out.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Pate Brisee</b></div>
<br />
<i>160g butter</i><br />
<i>5g salt (or one level teaspoon)</i><br />
<i>250g plain flour</i><br />
<i>1 egg</i><br />
<i>1 tbsp cold water</i><br />
<br />
Use chilled butter straight from the fridge and cut it into small squares. Sieve the flour and salt into a bowl and add the butter. Using the tips of your fingers, crumble the flour and fat together to make breadcrumbs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHD2oUvuuSzSBtR0I6pFjuWy9Br_s9LBH1UkHaTTaDXZCXW4gtv7ij9B5GGzSyKZTWnFHVXIhaKdnENeULM9oms3DgO_8mBhaciRk-JgYZFCkbDpENvdUmueEVJTH775VR2PE_a6GJLT7/s1600/photo+%252812%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHD2oUvuuSzSBtR0I6pFjuWy9Br_s9LBH1UkHaTTaDXZCXW4gtv7ij9B5GGzSyKZTWnFHVXIhaKdnENeULM9oms3DgO_8mBhaciRk-JgYZFCkbDpENvdUmueEVJTH775VR2PE_a6GJLT7/s400/photo+%252812%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
Then add the egg and water, and using a spoon, work it all together into a ball. Wrap in clingfilm and leave in the freezer for 20 minutes.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTV62boQjZtYTjJNsfbsL-ERAxqPidYlqZdcv9_bPQrXVec2xsAzyEhUDTMQdCA-3Wpuea8Qc72CUuzSObHAQBTpCpcLt2aOfMUx5VWnccX7mcvjnapda4SvfmI-4y7zmp7QTr2lUQ94k/s1600/photo+%252814%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTV62boQjZtYTjJNsfbsL-ERAxqPidYlqZdcv9_bPQrXVec2xsAzyEhUDTMQdCA-3Wpuea8Qc72CUuzSObHAQBTpCpcLt2aOfMUx5VWnccX7mcvjnapda4SvfmI-4y7zmp7QTr2lUQ94k/s400/photo+%252814%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Roll out the pastry to about the width of a £1 coin and use for tarts, pasties, pies etc.Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-34783112393823648222015-11-11T17:48:00.001+00:002015-11-11T17:48:31.608+00:00Venison And Wild Boar Pie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKgT9ui2CFE-5DCZfEj-yw5_V13VbaeKesOo18q074BvTk3gBsBm4hIEu41-ncIGi0bq9wzyc7JbOOJ_26TKzzBH-dj8U-N3GnQhRoo7bFZHCWwvz1lg7VRbtjwbf57rW9emZh84zOsnt/s1600/P1000136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKgT9ui2CFE-5DCZfEj-yw5_V13VbaeKesOo18q074BvTk3gBsBm4hIEu41-ncIGi0bq9wzyc7JbOOJ_26TKzzBH-dj8U-N3GnQhRoo7bFZHCWwvz1lg7VRbtjwbf57rW9emZh84zOsnt/s400/P1000136.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
We made this for a mediaeval banquet for the catering college's restaurant - I'm not sure what is particularly mediaeval about it. But it is a great recipe nonetheless, and a fantastic winter warmer.<br />
<br />
It uses hot water crust pastry - and it worked really well. It had the sort of crunch you get from a good pork pie, but was still moist and not too biscuity. We cooked the pies in a steam oven, but you can get near this by using a normal oven and putting a tray of water on the bottom rack.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Hot water crust pastry</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(<i>makes one large pie</i>)</div>
<br />
<i>500g plain flour</i><br />
<i>200ml water</i><br />
<i>120g butter</i><br />
<i>70g lard</i><br />
<i>1 tsp salt</i><br />
<br />
Sieve the flour and salt into a bowl. Heat the water in a pan, and when boiling, add the butter and lard. Stir until the fat has dissolved, then pour into the flour. Let it cool slightly, then knead it for a few minutes to form a ball with the consistency of Play-doh. Cover the dough to stop it drying out while you get on with the rest of the ingredients.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dr-XxKmTfQc7Gm6KvXQibpl3nKKIO5QnOX0sP_nNKRhIYvG9msMiPiVNzMTY2f32mQvloy0n-EFZf5lVH1-aDRW-RO1eAGdNWNxXMM7kU1Vsmz4nv1RW4x9qbCC7HP93Z-gjuunVQ3Oa/s1600/P1000110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dr-XxKmTfQc7Gm6KvXQibpl3nKKIO5QnOX0sP_nNKRhIYvG9msMiPiVNzMTY2f32mQvloy0n-EFZf5lVH1-aDRW-RO1eAGdNWNxXMM7kU1Vsmz4nv1RW4x9qbCC7HP93Z-gjuunVQ3Oa/s400/P1000110.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Take a medium-size loaf tin and brush the inside with oil. Then cut a piece of greaseproof paper the width of the tin base, but long enough so it hangs over the ends. Line the tin making sure a few inches of paper are sticking out on either end - you'll use these as 'handles' to remove the pie from the tin. Brush the paper with oil.<br />
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Then this is where the Play-doh consistency comes in. Take pieces of dough, and flatten into patty shapes and form the pie crust, making sure you push it into the corners. Make sure the crust is about an inch taller than the loaf tin. You want the crust to be about the width of a pencil.<br />
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Next fill with the meat mixture. You can use whatever you want for this - thinly-sliced pork loin with finely chopped bacon and onion works very well. For ours, we used freshly-minced venison and wild boar. We put sage, pepper and salt in the pork, and nutmeg, salt, pepper and mustard powder in the venison.<br />
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We then fried off a little of each to check the seasoning. The tutor said the venison was too "tight", so we added eggs, breadcrumbs and red wine to loosen it up.<br />
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We then built up the pie, starting with a 100g layer of pork, then a 100g layer of venison, and so on, so the pie had a two-tone effect. When the pie was filled an inch past the top, we rolled out the rest of the dough and cut out a piece for the lid. We moulded the overhanging dough into the lid and then trimmed and fluted the edges.<br />
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We cut a hole in the top to allow the steam to escape, and baked the pies at 160C in a steam oven for about an hour. You know it's ready when the middle of the pie is 75C. Take the pie out of the oven and carefully remove from the tin using the overhanging paper. Then let them cool on a wire tray.<br />
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Meanwhile, we had made chicken stock from trimmings from a dish the other Level 2 NVQ Diploma in Catering class had made. When this was ready we boiled down a couple of litres and added enough gelatine so it set easily in the fridge. We poured this through the pie holes and then let them sit in the fridge for the jelly to set.Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-12206784664930187842015-11-11T13:33:00.000+00:002015-11-11T13:33:03.172+00:00How To Smoke Salmon In 13 Minutes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is a dish we knocked up for a function night at the college restaurant - a supreme of salmon smoked in lemon and ginger tea, and then pan-fried until the skin is crisp. It was served with roasted cherry tomatoes and spinach.<br />
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You start by scaling and filleting a salmon and then cut each side into supremes the width of your middle three fingers. As you slice each supreme, turn the filleting knife with a hand motion as thought unlocking a door and this will give you a nice, curved effect to the pieces.<br />
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If you don't have a stove-top smoker, you can easily make do with a metal tray, foil and a wire tray to put the fish on (the wire tray obviously needs to be small enough to fit inside the metal tray). You also need oak or similar saw dust or wood chippings and/or tea leaves for the smouldering of.<br />
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Put a couple of handfuls of saw dust in the metal tray and spread over the bottom evenly. Then sprinkle three lemon and ginger tea bags - or a similar amount of loose tea - over the wood. Put the wire tray inside and cover tightly with foil. Put the tray on a medium heat on the hob and wait until you can see smoke escaping from the foil.<br />
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Lay the salmon pieces skin side down on the wire tray, and then recover with the foil. Put the tray back on the heat for one minute to let the smoke build up again.<br />
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Then take the tray off the heat, and leave covered for 12 minutes. Remove the salmon and you'll find it has a yellow-orange patina of smoke.<br />
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We then vac-packed ours, two in each bag, ready for service.<br />
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When you're ready to serve, brush a frying pan with oil, and also brush the skin of the salmon. Sprinkle the fish with salt. Heat the pan and then lay the fish in skin side down. Leave for two or three minutes, then turn over and fry on the flesh side for two or three minutes. Finish it for another minute on the skin side and serve.<br />
<br />Alex Wattshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17366709486870706027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-609131527796792369.post-65079599167199313392015-10-14T21:47:00.002+01:002015-10-14T21:47:52.891+01:00Cooking In A Kettle: Cheese And Ham Omelette<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I watched a documentary the other night which featured a former jailbird who was giving advice to his wayward, younger brother in an attempt to keep him on the straight and narrow. He was having little success, despite his accounts of how grim life behind bars could be.<br />
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But he said it had made him a better cook, and boasted of the number of dishes he could cook in his cell using just a kettle. He seemed very proud of his "apple crumble", which involved putting slices of apple in a plastic bag, and them boiling for a couple of minutes in a kettle until they had turned into a "mush". "You then crunch loads of digestive biscuits and bung them in for the crumble bit," he told the camera.<br />
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It reminded me of my attempts at <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/cooking-home-made-soup-in-hotel-room.html">cooking in a kettle</a> when I <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Down-And-South-East-Asia-ebook/dp/B00CLHIPFC">lived in budget hotels in Asia for a couple of years</a>. And after flicking through some photos of Cambodia I thought I'd lost, and feeling a wave of numbing nostalgia taking me, I thought I'd have another go at 'cooking in a kettle' - this time a foray into the realms of the omelette. I must say it tastes better than it looks, but it works and, more importantly, you'll win the bet.<br />
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<i>One kettle (preferably one where the element is concealed)</i><br />
<i>1 litre cold water</i><br />
<i>One zipper-seal freezer bag</i><br />
<i>2 eggs</i><br />
<i>2 slices of serrano or similar ham, sliced</i><br />
<i>8 thin slices of cheddar cheese</i><br />
<i>Salt and pepper</i><br />
<i>1 tbsp oil</i><br />
<i>A small glug of cooking lager (optional)</i><br />
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Crack the two eggs into the freezer bag, and gripping the zipper end, mush them with your other hand. Add the salt and pepper, and oil and shake the bag again,<br />
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Add the cheese, ham and beer (the latter is a nice touch I got from watching the French film Le Diner De Cons, when two of the characters discuss the best way to make an omelette) and scrunch up again.<br />
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Seal the zipper on the bag, making sure all the air is removed - you can do this by keeping a corner open and sucking any remaining air out of the bag. Put about one litre of water in the kettle - it should be about two-thirds full. Then roll up the sealed bag into a sort of cylinder shape as best you can, and pop it into the kettle.<br />
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Put the lid back on. Switch the kettle on and let it boil. When it has switched itself off, leave the bag in there for one minute, then switch the kettle on again. When it has boiled again and switched off, leave the bag in there for another minute and carefully take out and serve.<br />
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:: <a href="http://chefsandwich.blogspot.co.uk/2014/07/cooking-in-kettle-perfect-soft-boiled.html">Cooking In A Kettle: Perfect Soft-Boiled Eggs</a><br />
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