So last night we made a(nother) Jamie Oliver recipe – Salami and Fennel Linguine (Jamie calls it Spaghetti with Salami, Fennel and Tomatoes).  It was yummy, with the delicate flavours of the fennel coming through a hearty tomato sauce and fatty slithers of salami.  This is my tweaked version of Jamie’s.

Salami and Fennel Spaghetti

Feeds two

spaghetti or linguine for two
a couple of thick slices of salami (I used Milano salami and asked my deli to cut it into thick slices rather than thinly sliced)
2 cloves of garlic, finely sliced
1/2 tsp fennel seeds, crushed
small bulb of fennel, finely sliced
feathery fennel tops
1 tin of tomatoes (I used tinned cherry tomatoes)
pinch of dried chilli flakes
chunk of stale bread, whizzed into breadcrumbs
sprig of rosemary

Take your slices of salami and cut them into matchsticks. 

In a pan, heat a couple of glugs of olive oil and add the salami, sliced garlic and crushed fennel seeds.  Stir over a low heat until the fat starts to cook out of the salami and it starts to crisp ever so slightly.

Add the sliced fennel and stir – cook for a couple of minutes until soft.  Add the tinned tomatoes and a pinch of dried chilli.  Cook on a low heat for about 25 minutes until the sauce has thickened.  Season with salt and pepper.

Meanwhile, heat a pan of boiling salted water and cook your spaghetti or linguine.

In a small frying pan, heat a glug of olive oil and add the sprig of rosemary.  As the rosemary starts to sizzle and release its aromas into the oil, add the breadcrumbs and fry until golden and crispy.  Remove the rosemary sprig and discard.

Drain the pasta and toss it into your tomato sauce.  You can either stir through the crispy golden breadcrumbs and serve, or sprinkle them over the top of your pasta once plated up.  Top with a few green feathery fennel fronds.

*Taken from and slightly adapted from Jamie Oliver’s Happy Days with the Naked Chef.

(Una risposta giocosa al recente intervento della Signora G.)

A Firenze si dice che quando la carnetta è bella morbida vuol dire che “l’è maiala!”, un’affermazione che parrebbe  avventata e sicuramente poco scientifica, ma se ci riflettiamo un po’ scopriamo che la saggezza popolare conserva sempre un briciolo di verità. Ma di quale carnetta stiamo parlando, mi vien da chiedermi…

La carnetta è carnetta, al di là dell’uso che ne fai; tenera l’arista al forno leggermente rosata al centro, perché anche se è maiale non va cotta troppo. Tenera pure la coscia della professoressa di matematica e ancor più quella della supplente. Il desiderio mangereccio si confonde irrimediabilmente con quello erotico, ci va a braccetto. Meglio di tutti una fettina d’arista sulla coscia della supplente. Al sugo pensateci voi…

Dovrei parlarvi degli insaccati, dato che ci son le cosce di mezzo. La vecchia calza a rete fa sempre il suo effetto e la giarrettiera c’ha il suo perché, ma se ben rasate le gambe son belle anche nude. Come il prosciuttino dolce che richiama il grissino o la fettina di pane imburrata, ma non iniziamo a parlare del burro altrimenti si rischia di diventar volgari. Alla seppur appetitosa salsiccia preferisco comunque la succulenta finocchiona, o al limite la soppressata.

Per l’omo la scelta della maiala è quasi scontata, anche se non tutti c’hanno gli stessi gusti. Di sicuro sorprende questa lode al maiale da parte di una donna, seppur con radici emiliane (e ciò la dice lunga). Di certo il vegetarianesimo può diventare una pratica gradevole per le signore, data la presenza di zucchini, carote, cetrioli e altre fantastiche verdure, ma è anche vero che come il salame, specialmente quello duro e stagionato, non ce n’è!

Che altro dire… Potrei chiudere questo mio breve intervento facendo una veloce riflessione finale. Non c’hanno tutti i torti quelle culture che non amano questa bestia, che di sicuro necessita determinate temperature per poter essere smaltita. Indi per cui mi vien da affermare una semplice verità; è vero che il maiale non mette d’accordo tutti gli uomini, ma la maiala ne accontenta davvero parecchi!

So, I’m too lazy to sign up for a real Flickr account, and I’ve maxed out my uploads for a month.  So above you will find some new pictures.

In the doldrums between the beginning of fall and the xmas high season of consumer craziness, Turin seemed to be sleeping. (or my SADS was rearing its ugly head, and I was sleeping)  Each evening the sun goes down sooner and sooner, and most nights are  encased in a thick fog.

I was feeling pensive for much of last week.  Two of my students cancelled on me, so I had some free time.  I literally have done everything I can think of, tourist-wise at least, here in Turin, except for a couple of castles.

So, last Tuesday and Wednesday I decided to see if I could cram any more culture into my head and soul, with visits to both Palazzo Reale, and La Venaria Reale.  Tuesday’s Palazzo Reale was more of the same, with silk covered walls, giant chandeliers, ballrooms bedecked in the baroque style, and various bedrooms filled with matching furniture (the horse statue and the green ballroom pics above are from this place).  This palace in particular has not really ever fallen out of service, so is more or less intact, and has been renovated several times.  It was unfortunately a snoozefest, marked by the old Italian guide literally standing 6 inches behind me in what could only be an attempt to make me move through the rooms faster (I was in the last tour group of the day).   Um, it’s not my fault your English audio guide takes forever to describe each room, back it up old man!  [Though, you do get points for actually having an audio guide...]

Wednesday, however, blew me away.  For a variety of reasons, but mostly due to my long slow goodbye to Torino,  I have been feeling melancholy.  So of course in the middle of a rainy, grey, and foggy week, is the perfect time to visit a tumble-down palace !  In my defense, it was sunny when I woke up, and made my way towards the train station, but in true Torino style, the weather promptly turned into the background of a spooky horror film.

La Venaria Reale is a counterpoint to Palazzo Reale.  Neglected for decades, and only renovated fairly recently, it was basically a shell of a building.  The region has decided to restore it (including its HUGE gardens in order to become the “Versailles of Italy”) as they did Castello di Rivoli, with a contemporary view.  Most of the rooms are painted in white tones, highlighting what’s left (not much) of the crumbling stucco work, frescoes, and paintings.  There are projections of actors in period dress talking about aspects of court life, and an odd contemporary vision of the scullery involving burning antlers and a big slide show.  So, given that the actors were all talking in Italian, it was becoming another snoozefest.

But then you sweep aside a giant red velvet curtain and literally walk into light…into the “Galleria Grande” designed by the architect Juvarra.  Holy crap.   Yes, I was already feeling bummed, but I was literally almost moved to tears.  I believe it’s the most beautiful room I’ve seen in all of my travels.  Since I was there during the middle of the week and during the off-season, I was in the long hall by myself (especially since all the museum proctors took a smoke break at the same time) and I found I almost couldn’t leave.  If not for the sun beginning to set, and the need to catch the last shuttle home, I would have laid in the middle of the floor for hours.

But, it was time to go.

________

At home, tensions with the roommate are at an all-time high, so when Carlo ‘invited’ me over for some fun times, I jumped at the chance.  I had to walk a good mile or two to his attic apartment, and at 12 AM, the fog was the kind of fog that perhaps you could describe as pea soup. Visibility was maybe 12-20 feet, so luckily I knew where I was going, but it was rather spooky, and cold.  Alas! A combination of factors led to a complete and utter (and a first…) failure in the sex department.  Perhaps it was the spooky walk through the fog, where at any moment Jack the Ripper could appear with a gas lantern in his hand.  Perhaps it was my general moodiness or my guilt about Michele.  Perhaps it was the way that Carlo did this weird moaning thing that started to seriously get on my nerves, or that sex with him (who doesn’t own lube? I mean, really…bad gay!!) was like sticking a Genovese Salami into a cocktail straw.  Eventually, I gave up, apologized, and slunk home…

.

Thank goodness that Thursday was cookie baking day, so I was able to eat my feelings, and was well prepared for that Sunday….

Engang imellem skal der være tid til lidt selvforkælelse, og den tid var kommet her i den nyligt overståede weekend. Jeg havde lyst til lidt let, men lækkert mad, som ikke krævede noget tilberedning, så afsted på indkøb.

Jeg kom hjem med blandt andet rillettes de canard, altså ande rillette fra det dejlige Frankrig, noget som man også forholdsvis let kan lave selv, det tager bare lidt tid.

Ande rillette (det kan jo også laves med meget andet kød, sikkert mere om det senere) består af saltede og til tider krydrede andelår (igen, hele anden kan bruges, men jeg synes det er synd at bruge brysterne her), der traditionelt bliver kogt med urter og krydderier, enten i vand, fond eller fedt. Jeg har også set tilfælde på at kødet er blevet braiseret. Når kødet er kogt og er ved at være nedkølet i kogelagen og anden ikke er varmere end at man kan røre ved den, fjerner man skindet og tager kødet af benene og rykker det i lidt mindre stykker, det gøres lettest i en stor skål med en gaffel. Når kødet er ved at være rykket i passende trevler, kommer du lidt andefedt deri og rører det med rundt.

Herefter kommes kødet i en skoldet skål eller glas og dækkes med andefedt. Deri kan kødet så hygge sig i forholdsvis lang tid, så længe det er dækket af et lag fedt, men lur mig at det ikke når at blive så forfærdeligt gammelt, det smager altså godt og ryger let ned til enhver lejlighed! Vent dog et par dage med at spise af det første gang, det har godt af lige at sætte sig og trække smag.

Der var også røget lidt salami fra Aalbæk, lidt varmt røget laks og et par stykker gedeost i kurven. Monte Enebro, en kraftig sag fra Spanien og den bløde og cremede chevre d’Argental fra Frankrig. Dertil et pavé bucheron, det mørke og lækre firkantede brostens brød fra Belgien.

Vel hjemme blev det hele hurtigt anrettet på et fad, sammen med lidt dijon sennep samt cornichoner. I en skål ved siden af var der lidt dejligt romaine salat vendt med en sennepsvinaigrette. Alt dette blev gjort klar, imens brødet hyggede sig i ovnen.

Til at nyde dertil havde jeg købt en lækker, ikke for tung Gewürztraminer fra Alsace, som du kan læse lidt mere om herunder.

Så let og lækkert kan det gøres en fredag aften!

Mah.

Il nome di questo blog nasce dal nick che ho usato a lungo per intervenire, come commentatrice, su un altro blog. E’ un nick ironico, ma tutti coloro che l’hanno incontrato si sono dimostrati privi del recettore per l’ironia.

Tutta gente che ha sempre preso l’Ulisse (quello di Joyce e quell’altro, ragazzi miei) molto sul serio. La verità? Voi accettereste un cavallo di legno grande come un battaglione di Achei, al volo lo accettereste, e da chiunque. Quando imparerete a guardare dentro l’ohibò cavallo, sarà sempre troppo tardi e il vostro cittadone sarà stato bell’e bruciato.

Eh, beh, ma io non posso farci quasi niente. Se voi restate  alla lettera del nome, certo, non è mica così bello chiamarsi “La Borghesia”. Sa di sigari e panciotto. Mi fa venire in mente Boll (ci vorrebbe la dieresi, dov’è la dieresi su questo computer?). Eh, povero Boll (dieresi). Quando capirete che la televisione vi ha abituato a prendere tutto alla lettera togliendovi le parole, il senso delle parole, il suono delle parole, il TEMPO delle parole, l’era in cui le parole sono pronunciate, forse capirete anche:

perché questo blog si chiama “La Borghesia”,

perché questo nome è assurdo, bulgakoviano potrei dire (se qualcuno di voi sapesse chi diavolo è stato Bulgakov. Tuttavia non lo credo)

e soprattutto perché ritengo che comunque sia tempo sprecato.

Adesso non vi spiego un bel niente, vado di là a leggere un vecchio libro fuori mercato, quasi introvabile, soprattutto allegro (scommetto che non capite l’ironia; forse con un corsivo?): “Malone muore”, di Beckett.

Domani forse vi spiego il significato della parola “astrazione”, primo passo per comprendere, stranamente, il mondo reale. Ah, andremo giù di psicofisiologia! Di sinapsi! Di facoltà associativa! Forse.

Tornate pure alla vostra tv (non sto parlando con te, parlo agli altri), mi raccomando. Ma già che ci siamo: vi serve un cavallo?

In Sydney ist ein australischer Junge von einer Gruppe moslemischer Mitschüler angegriffen und gequält worden, weil er während des islamischen Fastenmonats Ramadan Salami vom Schwein gegessen hat. Das berichtet der Daily Telegraph. Die Vorfälle waren demnach so schlimm, dass die Eltern des Jungen beschlossen haben, ihn in Zukunft auf eine andere Schule zu schicken.

Zitat

http://noergelecke.blogsome.com/2009/11/12/australien-wahrend-dem-ramadan-moslems-schlagen-jungen-zusammen-weil-er-salami-isst/

Muslim kids bullied my son over salami sandwich during Ramadan, family claims

A SYDNEY couple has withdrawn their two children from a public primary school, claiming their 11-year-old son was bullied by Muslim students because he ate a salami sandwich during Ramadan.

Andrew Grigoriou said yesterday he complained to the school and to police after his son Antonios was chased and later assaulted by Muslim students after a confrontation over the contents of his lunch.

Zitat

November 13, 2009 6:42AM

http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/news/nsw-act/muslim-kids-bullied-my-son-over-salami-sandwich-during-ramadan-family-claims/story-e6freuzi-1225797184694

Meine Meinung:

Überall in der westlichen Welt fallen Korananhänger durch Ignoranz, Intoleranz, Gewalt und Haß auf Andersdenkende auf. Gibt man ihnen den kleinen Finger wollen sie die ganze Hand.

Felix

November 2009 Exercise – Kyle Krieger, Executive Chef / Managing Partner, Noble’s Restaurant, Charlotte, NC

Noble’s House Charcuterie with Sparkling Local Apple Cider

Fresh sausages: chorizo, mortadella, and jaggerwurst

Dried: peperone, spanish chorizo, ginger, salami, genoa, sopprasatta, rosette

Ham: Speck

Accompaniments: House Black Mustard, Pickled Root Vegetable Salad, Moustarda, Nettare Olive Oil

To participate in the next exercise, please send an e mail to: jeffrey@bauscherinc.com

See all your favorite chefs’ collections of past submissions at Deep Plate page on Facebook.  Please become a “Fan”. 

http://deepplate.wordpress.com and “Deep Plate” on Facebook

Una tipa me ha dicho hoy: “¿Dos meses? ¿Y qué haces para no aburrirte?” Hay tantas opciones en el mundo que le debería haber contestado: “¿Y qué haces tú para aburrirte?”, pero por no faltar mi respuesta ha sido: “leer y escribir, como en el cole”. Se reía, la inocente.

De hecho, mis actividades principales han sido esas y algo de cole ha tenido el asunto. Me he reconciliado con mis minúsculas, por ejemplo. Durante años he estado escribiendo con mayúsculas porque nadie me entendía de otra manera. De tanto usar mi libreta estos meses he acabado con una caligrafía más inteligible, aunque tampoco tiene mucha importancia. Hace tiempo que las cosas serias de la vida se dicen por mail o en voz alta.

En cuanto a la lectura he devorado libros que me han apasionado y otros los he leído por pura obligación, como en el cole una vez más.

Las clases de cocina no son parte de la enseñanza oficial, pero me he currado unos desayunos que no veas. El de hoy, agotando existencias, un batido de papaya y yogur y un bocata de salami y provolone. Tampoco es reglada la astronomía, y me habría gustado. Así podría haber encontrado la Cruz del Sur, que sólo se ve desde este hemisferio. Antes me sabía todas las constelaciones, cuando me dedicaba a enseñar astronomía a chavales de la ESO. Fue entonces cuando vi Saturno desde un telescopio. Creo que nada que vea me alucinará tanto como esa visión.

También he aprendido idiomas, lo necesario para sobrevivir y algo más. He recordado las clases de inglés cuando nos hablaban de los false friends, los falsos amigos, esas palabras que parece que quieren decir una cosa y son otra. Hablando de menaje, aquí un copo no es una copa, es un vaso y una taça no es una taza, es una copa. Los cubiertos de la cena de hoy, por cierto, y los de muchos restaurantes, son de comedor infantil, con mango de plástico y metal blandengue.

Cada fin de curso hay dos hechos ineludibles, que los alumnos se suban a la chepa y el festival de fin de curso. Hoy he tenido un poco de cada. Los alumnos son la fauna y ya se me pitorrean: una hormiga gigante en las sábanas, una mariposa posada en la mosquitera, un dragoncillo trepándome por las piernas y un saltamontes de tamaño percherón posado en el teclado del ordenador. El festival de fin de curso lo he protagonizado yo, han sonado seguidas unas cuantas canciones bailongas y no he podido evitar moverme. Aunque hace años que no soy dado a bailar en público y siempre soy el tipo soso de la barra, hoy no lo he podido evitar y hasta he sudado al ritmo de la música. La culpa ha sido del What a feeling. A ver quién se queda quieto escuchándola.

Y un poco de educación para la ciudadanía. Es de buen ciudadano pasar los controles de fiebre amarilla y el dengue. En cada lavabo público y en algunas de las casas donde he estado tienen esta pegatina conforme van pasando los controles. He meado en sitios que pasaron su último chequeo en 2006, pero en general la cosa está bien organizada. Es curioso que en las recomendaciones y consejos que ta da el Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores en su web para viajar a esta zona no habla de ninguna de estas dos enfermedades. Igual es que sólo afecta a los locales. Cuando vuelva hablaré con Moratinos. Lo que sí advierten en esa web es que no se deben hacer fotos por Marruecos sin consultar a la policía, no sé si el autor de este blog lo estará teniendo en cuenta.

Suena Yo soy aquél, de Raphael. Máxima, suprema, sublime. No sé si Loud, mi letrista de cabecera, estará de acuerdo pero es que a mí me puede.

Me he quedado sin desodorante. En general no soy muy maniático con los productos de higiene personal, me da igual un champú que otro y lo mismo pasa con el gel de ducha. Con el desodorante en cambio soy muy exigente. Sólo me vale mi Billy y cualquier otra marca me molesta. De hecho si detecto que alguien usa un desodorante muy perfumado casi me dan náuseas, especialmente si es Sanex o Rexona. Aún así, hoy me ha tocado comprar un Rexona, pero este es Rexona Tuning V8 for men. Lo más gracioso del producto es que en la etiqueta aseguran haberlo probado a 58ºC “la temperatura más alta registrada en la tierra alguna vez”. ¿Para qué coño quiero yo un desodorante que funcione a 58º? Yo lo que quiero es que funcione siempre y que no huela a nada, y yo tampoco.

Cuento el desayuno porque el blog va de eso, pero me esplaiaré más con la cena. He preparado un batido a base de melón y un yogur, bastante bueno. La parte sólida ha sido una especie de bikini cambiando el jamón york por salami y con queso provolone. Sin complicarme demasiado. Por favor decidme que en la tostada veis a la Virgen María o como mínimo a María Teresa Fernández de la Vega y nos hacemos de oro subastándola en e-bay. La cena en cambio ha sido la leche. Me quedan pocos días aquí y estoy empezando a repetir en mis restaurantes favoritos. Hoy he ido a A panela de barro. Hay quien me ha hablado mal del sitio pero en todas mis visitas a Pipa he ido y nunca me ha defraudado. El primer plato ha sido un poco simplón, pero creo que es algo generalizado en todos los restaurantes de Pipa. El segundo, espectacular: un guiso de pescado con gambas con una salsa tan picante que me ha hecho toser y llorar. De postre una torta de coco que no voy a olvidar en meses. La parte mala de este sitio es que me llaman “Sir”, igual que en China. Yo de sir nada, prefiero cuando las mujeres por la calle me llaman moço. Me rejuvenecen.

7 días para coger el avión de vuelta. 12 para la vida difícil.

Para difícil la nota que me ha dejado la queli. Antes de leerla he necesitado que se me pase el cabreo. Ha arrancado un trozo de hoja de mi libreta. Muchos ya sabéis que mi libreta es mi libreta, y nadie arranca ni escribe nada. Más relajado, he tenido que ir descifrando la caligrafía y palabra por palabra buscar el significado en Wordreference. Ahora ya sé que tengo que comprar lejía, limpiador de brillo y una escoba blandita. Quería poner la foto de la nota como un apunte antropológico y los de WordPress me dicen que no cumple los requisitos de seguridad. Tócate la polla, ni que fuera la receta para hacer una bomba H.

Si ayer dije que estoy de color chocolate, hoy añado que, entre la barba y los rizos, tengo el mismo aspecto que Bill Chenowith en la última temporada de A dos metros bajo tierra.

Suena Te echamos de menos de Dorian. Compradlo, esto y todo lo que encontréis suyo. Esta canción es grande.

My beef with restaurants that don’t take reservations is that it doesn’t make sense to the customer (me, at least) to stand around and wait when I know where and when I want to eat. But what if it makes sense for the restaurant? If you could be outrageously successful working 20 hours a week, wouldn’t you do it?

I sure would, which is why I was trying to be patient with Salumi.

The charcuterie shop in Pioneer Square is the retirement project of Mario Batali’s father, Armandino Batali, and for a while I tried to pretend that its popularity was celebrity-induced. But then Owen took a roadtrip for the express purpose of eating the specialty cured meat and it moved to the top of the list.

The trouble is that even at the top of the list, it took me months and 3 trips to Seattle to actually get there. Did I mention they are only open 20 hours a week? 20 weekday hours. This is great for people who work in Pioneer Square and want an awesome lunch. It’s less helpful for the rest of us and after I made it to the door a couple of times – getting there early enough to stare longingly at the greasy fingerprints still on the window, but too late to make any myself – I started to sulk. I had all but given up when my last trip took me down midday to an office only a couple of blocks away. I was twitching with excitement, then worry as meetings went longer and got delayed and when my client asked if there was anything else we needed to do in Seattle, I managed to yell I HAVE TO GET SOME SALAMI before running out the door.

There was no line, which was worrisome, because from all reports there is always a line. But no, it was open and I managed to order a sample platter of select meats. I thought about ordering one of everything, but visions of chucking cured meat out the window in the border line forced restraint.

And so you know how sometimes food tastes amazing only because you’ve waited a long time for it? I sometimes think that’s the strategy of restaurants with long lines, but that was not the case here at all. Greasy good salami, in all different sizes and flavours and all were amazing; hot soppressata, fennel and even chocolate! I ate them all happily from the tinfoil with my fingers. I can’t even imagine how good the soups, sandwiches and pasta dishes must be. Maybe next year I’ll be able to sample something else.

Salumi is in Pioneer Square, 309 3rd Avenue South, in Seattle.

Nog vlug een mailtje, een laatste telefoontje…YES! Het is weekend! Snel de kleine ophalen bij mijn schoonouders. Nog even gezellig borrelen met schoonmama en -papa en dan naar huis. De kleine is moe van een hele dag spelen met zijn lieve neefje en kruipt na een bordje macaroni lekker tegen zijn papa aan die van zijn welverdiende biertje geniet. De kleine gaat naar bed en ik ga de keuken in. Veel mensen moeten er niet aan denken om nog achter de pannen te kruipen na een week werken. Ik vind het juist ontspannend. Maar ook ik ben moe, dus vanavond een makkelijke, maar oh zo lekkere risotto.

200 gram risotto rijst
150 ml witte wijn
1 ui
1 teentje knoflook
0,5 liter bouillon (kip van een blokje)
100 gram truffelsalami (als je die kan krijgen, anders werkt goede andere salami ook. Voeg dan een klein druppeltje truffelolie toe na het bereiden).
een goede hand vol parmezaanse kaas (versgeraspt)
wat verse italiaanse kruiden (salie, oregano, tijm…net wat je kan krijgen)
olijfolie

Fruit de ui en knoflook glazig in de olijfolie. Voeg de risottorijst toe en bak deze tot de korrels glazig zijn. Maak ondertussen de bouillon met kokend water en een bouillonblokje. De witte wijn gaat nu bij de risottorijst. Wacht tot de korrels de wijn grotendeels hebben opgenomen. Voeg dan beetje bij beetje de bouillon toe. Wacht elke keer tot de rijst het vocht heeft opgenomen. Het verschilt een beetje per soort rijst, maar je bent al gauw een minuut of 20 a 30 bezig. De rijst moet nog een lichte bite hebben, maar mag niet meer hard zijn van binnen.
Bak in de koekenpan de in stukjes gesneden truffelsalami (op 2 plakjes die heel laat) licht knapperig. Bak de kruiden ook even mee. Bak de 2 plakjes salami ook knapperig.
Voeg als de risotto bijna gaar is de Parmezaanse kaas en het salami/kruidenmengsel toe. Laat de risotto nog even door en door warm worden.
Serveer de risotto op warme borden met wat extra Parmezaanse kaas en het plakje truffelsalami.
Wij vinden het lekker met glas rosé (kan ook best in de winter) of een lichte rode wijn.
Fijn weekend!

Barbara Wagner always loved a good fondue. Dried meats, toasted breads, succulent chunks of pork, slices of roast duck: she enjoyed dipping things. Taking foodstuffs in her pudgy fingers, she would renew them in a  baptism of melted cheese, cackle wildly as they emerged, and set them aside to cool. She would arrange them in a pyramid, cube or some other madly popular shape, going for the aesthetic affect of a towering establishment of curdled milk, referred to it quietly as her nativity scene of deliciousness. Seeing as how she never had guests, the creations would often get eaten by her rottweiler puppy, Turner, who in turn suffered from loathsome bouts of eye-watering gas.

Her holidays were often marked by the silence of lonely years now normalized. The coffee pot more often than not could be heard hissing its woebegone cries from the innards of the lime-green kitchen. The subtle humming of the small burner under the earthenware pot of melted cheese was like the respiration of a baby, the stalwart humming of a carpenter, the calming presence of the silent elder. It’s reverberations imbued every object in the house with a sense of pastoral continuity, grassy highlands on roaming hills, endless sighs of relief in the open lands of forever.

She dipped with fervent regard for the task at hand, practicing metallurgy with product of moo. The downward dipping motion, curled fingers backwards towards her palm, the extended index finger and thumb, the light grip touching the object to the melted mass, the release and the sigh of relief. It was in, it had been placed mindfully, it would remain for two minutes, no more, no less, soak up the milky characteristics and mix them with its own. Then the quick movements to the tray of pronged fondue forks on the right, picking up just the right one that speaks and says, “It is my turn. I am ready to dive in, to prong. I am ready to live.” The gleam of the polished silver, the ebony handle tight within her grip, she sails it downwards into the murky waters below, fishes the food item out with a perfected hooking motion, gasps every time it emerges anew. “You are beautiful,” she tells it. “You have started the day as a piece of salami and now, you are a work of art. Bravo, dear marbled sausage!” She would place it carefully amongst other dipped items, lean back in her worn, oak rocking chair and smile at a job well done.

“To fondue,” she would think to herself, “is an act of God.”

Pizza East has been on my eaterie radar for quite some time now, so when my mum came down to visit last week, I thought I would make plans and actually book somewhere in the neighbourhood, rather than trawling round Soho in the hope of finding somewhere we both liked.  Ok, my neighbourhood is actually Hackney Central, but the Kingland Road stretch just seems like a hop and a skip away when there’s good food to be had.

We tried to book a table for three and each time I rang, they only had availability for ‘early bird suppers’ at 6.30pm.  However, it was suggested that we’d have more luck if we turn up and wait for a table at the time we wanted to eat.  I guess this is quite a democratic system, as it stops the restaurant being jammed up with bookings for weeks ahead and prevents such pretentions as ‘waiting lists’.

 We were told we would have to wait an hour for a table but they would try to get us seated earlier, although it did end up this long, so we had a bottle of Peroni at the bar. The bar had a great atmosphere and was a veritable ‘who’s who’ of Shoreditch fashion and media types, with Brix Smith-Start buzzing around, waiting for her table.  Despite trying to appear patient and happily lost in conversation, everyone looked so restless that they might have grabbed one of the Italian hams hanging from the ceiling and gnawed away on it there and then. 

So, why is everyone falling over each other to dine at Pizza East when there are plenty of pizza joints in the east end?  Well, it’s the latest venture of Soho House group founder Nick Jones, also the owner of Shoreditch House, directly above Pizza East in the Tea Building (on the corner of Shoreditch High Street and Bethnal Green Road. 

The pizzas are apparently inspired by the wood-fired sourdough those at LA’s Pizzeria Mozza, with a mix of classic Italian combinations and house speciality pizzas like veal meatballs with sage, lemon, parsley and cream and another with duck sausage, artichoke, parmesan and boschetto al tartufo.

We started with two orders of garlic bread to share, which came on rustic wooden chopping boards. Each potion consisted of two massive hunks of ciabatta oozing delicious garlic butter with fresh parsley, so luckily we didn’t go for one each.

Our waiter was a chatty Italian guy with very cool Ray-Ban glasses, who recommended his personal favourites and came over almost every time he passed to see if we needed anything.

Next up was the much-anticipated pizza, although the garlic bread and Peroni had mellowed my growling stomach enough not to wolf it down without wild abandon.

I ordered the speck with rocket, my mum went for the portobello mushroom, shallot, parsley and egg, and Steven chose the hottest pizza on the menu so he didn’t have to share (sorry, maybe it’s just a coincidence), which was salami, red onion and red chilli flakes.

The sourdough base was unlike any I’ve ever tried before and had a crisp, bubbly crust and soft but not too flimsy centre. There was a generous covering of smooth tomato sauce made in-house and the most flavoursome mozzarella clustered near the middle. The speck tasted well-matured and the rocket was super fresh and robust – all in all, everything I could have hoped for in a pizza and more.

There was a bit of cross-table swappage and I can report that the salami had a much more meaty texture and flavour than the generic, uniformly thin and greasy versions and the portobello mushrooms had a slightly nutty, garlic taste.

Pizza East also claim to source seasonal and local produce, although I’m sure most of the pizza ingredients are imported from Italy, as they taste so authentic.  The guy next to us ordered the most tender and slow-cooked beef cheek, so perhaps the meat and staple ingredients are from home turf.

We were left feeling pretty full after the starter and main meal (rarely would I go for double bread action in one sitting), but it would have been a shame not to try the desserts, so we ordered the salted chocolate caramel tart on the recommendation of our ‘new best friend’ waiter.  It only seems logical that when sharing between three, you go for the richest, most decadent dessert to make up for all that spoon clashing and thimble-sized portions.

The waiter told us we would get a surprise and in fact there were two – our tart was covered in snowflakes of rock salt and we were given a taster of delightful Moscato dessert wine, that was made in the village next to where he was from.

The salt really complimented the velvety, sweet caramel and dark chocolate and the pastry was exceptional, with a sandy texture that is really hard to achieve.  With the flaked almonds and mascarpone/soured cream, the dessert took on the taste of a really posh dime bar – absolutely delicious!

I expected that due to Pizza East’s location and lineage that it may be somewhat standoffish and have the tense atmosphere of hipsters experiencing carb-guilt (a neurosis I also suffer from at certain strong-willed times of the year).  However, the staff were so welcoming and open and there was a great buzz of everyone getting stuck in Italian-style and chatting freely.  There are also small touches from Shoreditch House such as Cowshed handsoap and lotion in the bathrooms that remind you that it’s not just your regular pizzeria.

I also kind of like the communal dining aspect, as you never know who you could be sat next to, and as I usually end up next to the village nut-job, they’re often keep you entertained.  It did feel like I was sitting on a wooden  toadstool though, so a proper bench or comfy seat wouldn’t go amiss.

I’m looking forward to Pizza East’s take-out service that’s due to launch in December and I like the idea of having a deli counter where you can buy store cupboard items like oil and sauces, as well as branded products from the restaurant.  I’m also tempted by the charcuterie and cheese boards on offer at the centre bar – great for avoiding the pizza-induced mid-afternoon slump and the tedious queuing.

Not only is Pizza East the most exciting new restaurant in the Shoreditch area, but it has the friendly feel of a neighbourhood restaurant that could quite easily become my ‘local’ for years to come, and that’s not a decision I take lightly!

Pizza East, 56 Shoreditch High Street, London, E1 6JJ

A bite of Sam’s Five Guy’s

The Blue Note to see Ron Carter.  Incredible show.  Thank you Josh!

Oliver offers an Altoid in the subway.  Ate it so I could take his picture and add it to the project.
Love this guy.

Late night leftovers.

And salami sandwich.