Twinkle twinkle Michelin star

March 24th, 2012 § 4 comments § permalink

The best experiences in life are often unplanned. As was the case with my meal at Nerua, the Michelin-star establishment at the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. I’m not shy to admit it was my first meal at a Michelin restaurant. We have none in South Africa. Now that I’ve experienced the attention to detail that this accolade requires, I understand why.

 

God is in the detail

 

I snapped this photo in the service area and my expectations were instantly a-tingle. The glove did it for me. Nerua’s philosophy can be summed up as clean, delicate, light, balanced and fresh. Both in decor and food. The delicate simplicity of the dishes belie an intense and rigorous design process, with a dedicated space where five chefs focus solely on innovating and perfecting. Appetizers were served at a counter with a view of the kitchen. And the best beer I’ve ever tasted.

 

Crisped cod skin with pimenton dust

 

I love craft beer and Il Baladin Wayan from Piozzo in the heart of Piemonte’s wine country was a taste revelation. Creator Teo Musso, son of an Italian wine-making family, decided to go with the grain and focus his blending skills on beer. An apprenticeship with Belgian brew masters followed. Wayan is a multigrain organically brewed beer with the flavour complexity, balance and vital freshness of an award-winning wine. We loved it so much that we chose to enjoy our first few courses – normally paired with white wines – with this brew.

 

Mecca for craft pilgrims

 

We moved to the dining room which is completely unadorned so as not to detract from the main act: the food.

 

The stage is set. Not decorated

 

Most importantly, the chairs are perfectly comfortable. So many establishments get this wrong. And as far as I’m concerned it’s a near inexcusable misappropriation of priorities. But before I morph into Miss Rottenmeier, let’s move on to the good stuff….

The team under the direction of head chef Josean Alija served an 11 course product-driven tasting menu. First up, 30 month-matured Parmesan curd with truffle tears, mini bread sticks and shiso.

 

Understated elegance

 

After six weeks in Spain my Spanish is…. pequeño, almost nada, so I didn’t quite understand that it was a curd until I tried it. In spite of the Parmesan being mature, the flavours were subtle and beautifully balanced.

 

Cry me a truffle river

 

Next up was leeks on egg rice with a sheaf of dried Iberian pork juice. A very clean dish with low intensity flavours but not as profoundly so as its parmesan predecessor. To create a symphony, not every note should ring out. And this dish was more of a pause than an accent. If I hadn’t know the sheaf was dried pork juice I would have guessed it was a lick of Bovril. Meaty and salty.

 

A clean green interlude

 

The borage with grass broth, clams and coastal garlic had more personality. I love clear soups and this one tasted of crisp new growth tempered with a bit of marine minerality. But the dish really worked its magic when each spoonful was accompanied by a shred of  borage. The immense thought and restraint present in each composition dawned on me

 

Borage, clear grass broth and clams

 

Nerua’s cuisine is ‘rooted in Basque culture but open to the world’ and as demonstrated by the following, also capable of tongue in cheek trickery. Bilbao is famous for its salted cod or bacalao, prepared al pil pil. A classic consisting of four ingredients: cod, olive oil, garlic and green peppers and the ‘pil pil’ refers to the twisting motion of the pan to emulsify the oil and cod proteins.

 

You've been punked!

 

A humble white onion with a cod skin coat and a puddle of green pepper sauce passes itself off as that classic of Basque cooking… bacalao al pil pil. Very clever indeed. Onion layers masquerading as flaky cod. The señor was extremely impressed with this dish. And he has serious culinary chops so I acquiesce to his superior knowledge… but, dear friends, an onion is an onion and soft fish skin does not rank high on the list of things I love to eat. So once the novelty of the concept wore off, I let most of the onion pass me by. I include a photo (poached from the net) of the real deal.

 

The real bacalao al pil pil

According to Google Translate our next dish consisted of ‘grilled hedgehog-bottom algae’. I’m ever so glad Google is wrong. We had sea urchins. In a theatrical dish.

 

Where did you say you studied drama again?

 

The variety of seafood in Spain, compared to what I’m used to in South Africa, is quite staggering. I hope they leave some in the oceans for the 50′s. Like the 2050′s. Sea urchins have a slightly funky aftertaste that does not appeal to me but more than that, I struggle with the texture. Soft. Slimy when it’s raw and spongy when it’s cooked. It looks like a little tongue, complete with mini buds.

 

Sea urchin in algae broth

 

The dish was perfectly executed but I am incapable of ‘letting go’ and enjoying urchin. We’d finally progressed from the delicious Wayan beer to a vino tinto and with a two-sips-to-one-urchin ratio I made it through most of the dish.

 

A pleasing wine

 

The little crab balls with slivers of sweet potato, white bean broth and sea lettuce was a favourite at the table. The natural sweetness of the crab was complemented by the sweet potato and the subtle earthy broth. Most delicious.

 

Medley of delicate natural sweetness

 

With the mackerel, grilled onions and green olives, I suffered a bout of appetite failure. This invariably happens after three appetizers and 6 courses. For the life of me I can’t remember if it was slightly smoked, or pickled. I think the latter. But I do remember that the flavours were surprisingly subtle and more enjoyable than expected. Funny how appetite failure and information overload tend to hang out together…

 

Submissive mackerel

 

Finally it was Iberian pork time! With the tiniest of carrots and an artichoke emulsion. Cooked to perfection. They managed to crisp up the sides whilst leaving the meat juicy. Great taste, although the dish was served a tad cold.

 

HRH prince Cerdo, ruler of Spanish cuisine

 

The first dessert course consisted of avocado, coconut ice cream and grapefruit tears. Very interesting flavours and textures. Creamy, almost not sweet avocado mousse with coconut ice cream and crunchy tart and salty grapefruit ‘tears’ that popped and vaporised on the tongue. Definitely one of those dishes where your eyes widen as you try to discern flavour components, but not uncomfortably so.

 

Avocado, coconut ice cream and grapefruit tears

 

 

I’m not a huge fan of dessert but the next dish was my favourite of the entire menu. I like pumpkin and I love bergamot and beer so this combo absolutely rocked.

 

I could have licked my plate

Subtly rich and earthy pumpkin mousse with hints of bergamot, a chewy biscuit by chef Enkir and beer ice cream. Such clean and gratifying flavours, delicate and robust, so damn delicious I dreaded seeing the bottom of the plate. We had one more course to go but to me, this was the highlight and full stop of my meal. My attention wandered to the monstrous 30ft high, 33ft wide bronze spider on the other side of the window. Created by French artist Louise Bourgeois as a tribute to her mother, Maman is a wicked piece of sculpture to dine with. It was a misty day but the Guggenheim adds further drama to Maman’s display by releasing clouds of fog from a nearby bridge that envelope the spider at times. You don’t need to be haute on Italian craft beer to fall for her creepy charms…

 

Mommy dearest

 

Before you think Louise had serious issues, here’s why she immortalised her mother-love in such a way: “The Spider is an ode to my mother. She was my best friend. Like a spider, my mother was a weaver. My family was in the business of tapestry restoration, and my mother was in charge of the workshop. Like spiders, my mother was very clever. Spiders are friendly presences that eat mosquitoes. We know that mosquitoes spread diseases and are therefore unwanted. So, spiders are helpful and protective, just like my mother.”

Why do I digress? Because the point is, Nerua is part of the Guggenheim museum. And what a special place that is. Surrounded by some of the best art ever, the Nerua team goes all out to create a multi-dimensional sensory memory. It’s not just the food.  There’s the individually wrapped toothbrushes in the bathroom (I was too shy to take my camera to the loo) the service team’s gorgeous three-piece suits in thick weave, the gloves, the heated cutlery and napkins… the attention to detail that makes that little star twinkle so brightly. And that’s why Nerua in all probability won’t remain a lone star establishment for long.

But not to be rude… the last course:

 

Thousand leaves of potato, apple and lime

 

Potato, apple and lime piped and layered with wafers. Interesting as you can clearly taste the potato, tempered with apple and with lime to add zing. The quirky end to an 11-course journey into the essence of ingredients. I’ve used the word ‘delicate’ too many times already and I can’t quite bring myself to construct a sentence with ‘sensitive exploration’ but, I think you get the picture?

 

A layered experience

 

When we finished the museum had closed. Pity, but I wouldn’t change anything about our day in Bilbao. And as far as I’m concerned, food of this caliber is art. Gracias señor for my first taste of the North. I hope it’s not my last. I do need to actually go inside the museum… I leave you with another piece of exterior art. Puppy, the 12.4 meter topiary dog by Jeff Koons. Do you see him there? At the end of the road, guarding the Guggenheim with the green hills of Bilbao in the background?

 

Hasta la vista Puppy

 

For more info on Nerua or the Guggenheim click on the names to visit their respective websites.

As always, click on images to enlarge.

NO MAS PAN! she cried

February 29th, 2012 § 3 comments § permalink

Seriously, Europeans eat a lot of bread. White bread. With every meal. They seem to live on permutations of cheese and ham sandwiches, mostly without tomato or lettuce or anything juicy. So that, dear friends, was my dough-weary battle cry one chilly morning as I stomped my foot on a pavement in Ibiza. No more bread! The señor just laughed because it was also my first unbridled attempt at Spanish after three weeks in the country.

BUT… then I had pan con tomate - bread with tomato – a Catalan classic that is greater than the sum of its parts. Plus it’s hands-on messy. Serve this at the beginning of a meal or with cold beers while the sausage sizzles on the grid. You’ll need good bread, toasted, a ripe squishy tomato, whole unpeeled garlic cloves, good olive oil and salt.

 

Humble stuff

 

Slice the garlic in half and scratch the bread with it. Do the same with the tomato. Really wreck it. Then drizzle with as much olive oil as the bread will hold and sprinkle with salt. Be liberal.

 

My new best friend

 

It’s the taste bud equivalent of a great family reunion and I urge you to try it. My buds have been battling the last few weeks. There are many many restaurants in Barcelona and most of them should be avoided. Food can be very oily and if you love fresh zingy flavours, winter food in this town will break you. Barcelona has incredible culinary aces up her sleeve but the likes of Tickets and Dos Palillos are a far cry from what the average Jose eats. I had this gem at a lovely tapas restaurant, Casa de tapas de Cañota, owned by the Iglesias brothers who also co-own Tickets with the famous Adrias. Casa de tapas serves traditional tapas, made well. At affordable prices. Patrons are invited to rate individual dishes and the results are displayed.

 

Tapas hit parade

 

Tapas isn’t really an option if you’re eating solo. The idea is to have one or two bites off each plate and not a whole plate of say, croquetas. But the tacos de cochinillo caught my eye and I mistakenly assumed ‘tacos’ meant, well, tacos. They way Mexican restaurants in South Africa do them. But in Spanish it also refers to little blocks of meat. Although the pork didn’t look the way I expected, it was delicious. Rich, succulent and crispy on top.

 

You say taco I say... block

 

Most of my food woes this time around are simply due to not knowing. Almost no Spanish and even less Catalan. When I visited Barcelona the first time as a tourist I took taxis and ate at some of the best restaurants. Now I live like a local, taking the metro and hunting for cheaper but good ways to feed myself. Everything’s different, of course. I have yet to see a loaf of rye bread. And Spanish supermarkets are a far cry from the Americanesque food cathedrals we have at home. There’s a lot less packaging in the veg section and meat is not as fussily clipped and stripped of all indication that it once was animal. It’s all pretty darn real. Sections of my local market are downright scary. And when I hit the fish aisle I’m ever so grateful I can block my nose from the inside.

I’ve also realised that my perception of Spanish food was just plain wrong. I’m holding back on any sweeping statements until I’ve eaten the North but at this point, suffice to say that not only is their food not spicy, they actually dislike it. Which is why I’m really excited about a little restaurant we’re going to on Friday. Mexican street food by real Mexicans. Come to think of it, it’ll be the first time I ever eat Mexican prepared by Mexicans.

Living and learning.

If anyone’s still reading, please hold thumbs that we find a really nice apartment soon – with an oven – because I’m craving bobotie! Although I suspect the señor won’t like it…

 

Nobody’s ouma’s milk tart

December 9th, 2011 § 2 comments § permalink

To appease my acid levels after my bitch session in Do I look bloggered? and because I was feeling nostalgic, I decided to bake a milk tart for the first time in twenty years. Milk tart. That cornerstone of Boere culinaria and the absolute antithesis of newfangled confectionary. Even in our mothers’ era milk tart was considered a tad oudoos. It’s more of an ouma thing. It is currently enjoying a retro-cool revival but I have encountered a few pasty, gelatinous offerings in restaurants. Of course, always pimped as The Best Milk Tart Ever Made With Grandma’s Recipe. Did grandma have a rough time of it during the Great Depression… or are you just skimping on eggs and butter?

 

Mom's much handled recipe tome

 

I was convinced me and my grandma’s recipe could do better. And that I would find it in my mom’s big black book. Quelle horreur when a definitive family recipe was nowhere to be found! I found a milk tart crust on page 4 and further on my old neighbour tannie Evelene’s coconut milk tart, followed by aunty Elsabe’s regular milk tart towards the end of the book. All I know is I like my tart with a Tennis biscuit crust. And enough cinnamon on top. So I took Evelene’s crust and Elsabe’s filling and baked a tart that eclipsed any of my sepia-toned, butter and eggy custard memories. I will give you the recipe. If you don’t have a memorable milk tart recipe in your family, please adopt this one. Pretend. Copy and paste it any which way you like. Don’t bother with credits because this really is nobody’s ouma’s milk tart.

 

She's plain but all heart

 

Universal ouma’s milk tart recipe:

CRUST 1 packet Tennis biscuits, reduced to fine crumbs; half a cup of sugar; half a cup of flour; 125g soft butter

Cream butter and sugar together, add dry ingredients, mix well. Line a standard pie dish (pictured above), including the sides and press down gently to create an even crust.

FILLING 1 litre full cream milk; 125g butter; 1 cup sugar; 4 very heaped tablespoons flour; pinch salt; 4 eggs separated, whites beaten to soft peaks; vanilla (I used two vanilla pods but would guess a quarter teaspoon of vanilla essence should do it); cinnamon

Heat oven to 220 degrees Celsius. Pour most of the milk into a pot, leave a cup aside to add to dry ingredients. Add butter to milk and bring to the boil. Remove vanilla seeds from pods, add seeds and pods to milk. Let milk boil for a minute or three to absorb the vanilla flavour, stir to keep from burning. In a bowl, make a dough with the flour, sugar, salt, egg yolks and remaining milk. Once milk has boiled, strain through a sieve, pour over dough. Mix well and pour back into pot. Medium heat and whisk like hell otherwise you’ll have lumpy custard in no time. Allow to thicken, then add whipped egg whites.  Pour into pie dish, sprinkle with cinnamon and bake for about 20 minutes until set and crust edge is golden.

I strongly recommend you have a slice while it’s still warm. Delicious. My neighbour Simon described it as ‘quite possibly the best milk tart ever’ and Lord knows Simon’s a tough dessert diva to please.

Do I look bloggered?

December 7th, 2011 § 15 comments § permalink

I haven’t blogged for so long I damn near forgot my password. So I went to Barcelona, ate at some fine restaurants, did the write-ups and stepped away from the machine. I could say it’s because I discovered I was totally iron-deficient and only ate liver, spinach, steak and almonds for a month. Or that I was hopelessly in love for the first time in centuries and turned into the oldest teenager on the block. Or maybe it’s just that I had the one under-whelming restaurant experience after the other.

How pretentious. Go overseas, eat at a couple of great restaurants and now nothing here is good enough? Not quite. It’s just that when I started this blog, restaurant reviews weren’t really going to feature. Due to my involvement with the Expresso Show on SABC3 that changed. The blog became restaurant review-driven. But successive mediocre over-priced meals started chipping away at my initial resolve to not bitch about other people’s efforts.

Now I feel like a cheap vacuum cleaner stuck in a corner. The following must be said.

I am totally gatvol of pseudo fine dining. It’s like a hologram of the real thing. Except for the prices. They are very real. An assemblage of decor, verbose menus, flavourless and overly engineered plated ‘elements’ that add jazz-hands visual appeal with no integrity. I feel so cheated when I eat this crap. It’s the food equivalent of Hong Kong Vuitton. And I don’t even like Vuitton. I know the South African public is gullible and tourists go far far away soon after they’ve been ripped off…

But enough of that. Unlike the predictable big five list of usual suspects that feature on too many mains menus. Hmm…. let me guess: duck, pork belly, springbok, linefish and steak. What do they do with the rest of that pig because everyone is so stuck on pork belly these days. With star anise and five spice? Now where have I seen that before….  EVERYWHERE!

Why is this getting to me now? Am I eating out too much? Probably. Which accounts for most of the bitterbek food critics out there. They’re just not hungry enough. For the record, I’m very happy with simple food, done well. The key is honesty. Walk your talk. Which brings me to my next point. Talk. I know food is bigger than sex these days and chefs are the new rock stars but try and be more like a drummer than a lead guitarist, okay. Just a thought. You never know when humble pie is served again.

Am I done am I done? No. Dammit. It’s almost too easy to take potshots at waiters in this country but this deserves a mention. I recently ordered shrimp cakes with an avocado salad as a main. Cakes. That’s plural, right? Shrimp. Undefined multitude, maybe? I received one large family-sized viskoek. Shrimp are small, I know. And they come frozen and devoid of mega flavour. But they’re cheap so given the price of the koek (R95) I expected it to be packed tighter than a bulimic’s tuck box.

The koek consisted of kingklip and mashed potato with max 5 fingernail-sized shrimp. I was disappointed. When I inquired as to the whereabouts of the shrimp in my shrimp cake, I was told by a slow and overly-familiar waitress that I should be grateful for the abundance of fresh kingklip in my cake. This pearl of eschewed logic was delivered as she spun her weighty self around on challenged ankles. To illustrate how silly I am? THIS IS NOT A GAME OF WHOTHEFUCKAREYOU LADY I felt like shouting at her. Bring the shrimp.

 

Exhibit A: half a cake splayed open to reveal its shrimp content

 

Another attempt at shaming her into admitting that the dish was a farce resulted in an explanation that the shrimp was chopped finely to ‘spread the flavour’. Micro-science is alive and well in Seapoint. No, I don’t want a complimentary dessert. Bring me a drink.

I first coined the term food fraud in Stellenbosch in the mid-nineties when I ordered a toasted baguette with mozzarella, sundried tomato and basil and got a floppy supermarket hot dog roll with cheddar cheese and tomato, microwaved to a radio-active pulp and then artfully wrapped in tin foil to resemble a giant metal sweetie.

I hate it when pretty words pimp nasty food.

Like a dessert I had at an otherwise nice establishment in Constantia recently. Don’t you think ‘Thyme brioche with lemon cream, blood orange jelly and meringue’ sounds nice? I did. An interesting departure from the usual dessert line-up which always includes some death-by-chocolate tart or fondant, pannacotta and/or crème brûlée and a berry mess.

 

Exhibit B: Trifle with borderline personality disorder

 

In the words of the late great Amy Winehouse, what kind of fuckery is this? Scatterlings of dry left-over breakfast brioche with not a hint of thyme, instant pudding-like custard with a limey twang, rock hard segments of blood orange jelly and the inexplicable addition of micro greens as garnish. Bwegh. As mentioned, this is an otherwise nice establishment so one can only hope this colourfast flavour-conundrum soon finds its way to the recipes-never-to-be-repeated file.

Does it feel good to get my bitch on? Not really. I’d rather have good food. I stopped blogging at about the same time Another Damned Food Blog appeared. It’s hilarious. An anonymous author rips into everything that’s fake, faddy and fraudulent in the food industry. No, it’s not me. I’ve been asked a few times and though flattered (bitch can write) I would never use the word fuck so much. Because I know like…you know, lots of words like adjectives and shit.

 

O where was I where was I… am I done? NO!!! How could I forget?! Cookbooks. Dear Lord! Please save us from the tsunami of mediocre google-cut-and-paste easy-as-microwave-pie bullshit books hitting the shelves roundabout now to fill the Christmas stockings of unsuspecting folk that really don’t need another potato bake recipe. I love Deon Meyer’s crime novels but why… WHY a cookbook by Deon Meyer? I recently looked at a food author’s work and got the sneaky feeling a brief sleuth session on google would deliver most of her recipes, sans minor adjustments. I didn’t bother. I did however bother to make a dish from a recently launched cookbook by one of our very own celebrity chefs. Much like Anthony Bourdain’s most recent literary offering Medium Rare, I got the feeling this chef was prompted by his handlers to produce a cookbook because it would be the money-savvy thing to do, rather than the expression of a soul brimming with culinary inspiration. I made a lamb knuckle dish that asks for 100g sugar to 600g of knuckle. What the… protein rich malva pudding? All I’m saying is people are gonna wise up. So surf this wave of indiscriminate consumption but just keep an eye on the rapidly approaching shoreline.

Funny how the guys at the top – apart from being really good because they are simply propelled to care more, try harder – usually don’t indulge add-on fuckery. Thanks David Higgs for creating a truly delicious and well-priced menu at your new joint in Joburg, thanks Bertus Basson for keeping it rock and roll real, thanks George Jardine for your individualistic flavour profile, thanks Richard Carstens for being the bravest food dreamer, thanks Luke Dale Roberts for spinning the funk into fine dining (your gourmand menu remains top of my bucket list), thanks Kobus van der Merwe for your articulate take on our orphaned food history, thanks to the Italian family who own Asta la Pasta because I eat there more than anywhere else, thanks Toerie from Umami for the best lunches in town, thanks Baker family from Wild Peacock for being real time food heroes, thanks Margot Janse for being the only woman to have truly given the boys a run for their money. There are many more… especially cooks rather than chefs, that feed us nicely.

Cheers to you

 

Your ever-lovin Kitchen Vixen

 

 

 

 

Two sticks happy face

October 1st, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

Chopsticks and toothpicks. Food-handling tools in two different cultures. At Dos Palillos in Barcelona, Japanese cuisine is presented tapas-style. It’s the fusion of one cuisine with another’s way of eating, rather than a confusion of two food cultures. Owned by Albert Raurich who cheffed at elBulli for 11 years, you know you’re in for something special when you slide behind the bar at this voyeur-friendly kitchen.

 

Precision poetry in motion

 

I was damn near hypnotized by the measured, calm fluidity with which the chefs worked. If I ever had to fall prey to insomnia, I’d watch footage of Takeshi Somekawa (pictured above) working because it can only be described as kitchen Tai Chi. Yet the dishes appear at a rapid rate. The chefs at Dos Palillos are also known for their interesting hairstyles. » Read the rest of this entry «

La Vida Tapas

September 20th, 2011 § 9 comments § permalink

Expectation is the blow-up doll of idealist emotions but how can you approach the new restaurant of the past decade’s greatest chef without a few projections? I was nervous, excited and hungry when I walked through the door of Tickets in Barcelona. Tickets is the brain child of Ferran Adria’s younger brother Albert, owned by both, and with ex-elBulli chefs and staff in key positions.

 

Showtime menu and napkin holder

 

Located in the old theater district of Barcelona, Albert and his team went all out to create a vaudeville-style food fairground with witty detail and playful references to put you instantly at ease. So, there’s misconception number one cleared. You don’t have to get uptight about going to Tickets because they aren’t. After years of performing a tightrope act in the international culinary arena, Tickets is were the Adria brothers get to play.  With La Vida Tapas emblazoned on uniforms, they’re going back to their roots and honoring the gastronomical heritage of Spain. Tapas is a way of life, of caring, sharing and savouring each bite.

 

Albert Adria

 

There are several service stations, each decorated to a theme and responsible for  a different style of tapas. We sat in La Presumida that references the beach bars of Barcelonetta, the city’s beach front. » Read the rest of this entry «

Bavarian blitz

August 26th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

Touchdown! I like Germany, specifically Bavaria. To be exact, I like Kempten in the Allgäu. Because that’s where my sister Libby lives whom I last saw at my mom’s funeral fourteen months ago. This reunion was highly anticipated so a night out was in order, despite my near-zombie state after 24 hours in transit. My timing couldn’t have been better as it was festival week in Kempten. Everyone in high spirits, wearing Tracht (trad German clothing) and drinking tankards of beer.

I was an exchange student in Germany after school so it’s almost like a second home to me. My German is a fast-flowing grammatical calamity but who gives a kartoffel about grammar? We had dinner at the Altstadt Wirtschaft which, as the name implies, is in the old part of town, situated in a thick-walled underground cellar. They serve classic German fare made from scratch with only the purest local ingredients. Their veal schnitzel is legendary and everyone at the table had it. Served with cucumber and potato salad, of course.

 

Local is lekker all over the world

 

The welcoming posse with a thirsty gentleman in the background.

 

Libby, Rosi, Rita & Birgit

 

Owned by two brothers, Peter and Florian Geissler, the Altstad Wirtschaft is German hospitality personified. My inquiries about Riesling lead to Florian giving me a fine example of the wine to enjoy at home. Good man. In fact, they were so hospitable we only left after two… many pear schnapps later. Go ousus!

Plans for Libby and I to dress up in Tracht the next day didn’t happen. For obvious reasons. But I did make it to the town festival with my bro-in-law Bernd and nephew Paul. My sis says that when she arrived in Kempten twenty odd years ago, the town festival was a sad show. Not well attended and lacking in traditional spirit. Today, everyone is once again wearing Tracht. In this tech-savvy age of global culture I think it’s super cool that tradition is enjoying a revival. Besides, how can you look at someone in Lederhosen and not smile. I went off on Tracht-spotting.

 

Tracht made trendy with tattoos

» Read the rest of this entry «

Blommetjies & Braais

August 12th, 2011 § 1 comment § permalink

We had a day of winter last week so I bought a bag of waterblommetjies at the Spar. It felt like bredie time. And with such an oldskool dish I consulted my newly acquired C. Louis Liepoldt cookbook Kos vir die kenner, a book with over 1000 recipes that proves that at least one Afrikaner knew what mirepoix was in the 1930′s. Afrikaners, nay all white folk, may have benefited from Apartheid economically but culturally, it dumbed us down something awful. Like rocks on an island.

Savvy as Leipoldt was, cousin J warned that his book had to be taken with a pinch of salt. ‘Some of his combos are dreadful.’ Waterblommetjiebredie is a dish best prepared with restraint. Don’t innovate or deviate. It’s just blommetjies, lamb, salt, pepper and lemon juice. Maybe potato. She’s the queen bee of bredies. Leipoldt provides a few options and recommended the addition of anchovy, which I fell for. He advocates the use of suurings – those soft little wild stems with pink flowers that we used to eat as kids, before toxic sourworms hit the scene – to add zing to the stew. It rained cats and dogs so instead of picking suurings, I zested a lemon and added a bit of juice later.

But the blommetjies… Leipoldt wouldn’t have touched the gnarly old Spar blommetjies. My buds looked like cold-chain cadavers but at least they were picked early enough (pre-bloom). Soak them in vinegar water, rinse under a fast-flowing tap, top and tail the gnawed, tough bits and they should do.

 

Cap Classique

» Read the rest of this entry «

D-Day

August 1st, 2011 § 6 comments § permalink

Demo day arrived. Duck and Pinot Noir pairing for an audience of 30 at the annual Stellenbosch Wine Festival. Thanks to chef Mark Radnay and his ICA students I didn’t have much cooking to do. I prepared the beetroot relish and the jelly in advance (several times, as documented in The Jelly Olympics), which is a good thing as I had to interact with the audience for 45 minutes. I think the whole thing about women being such great multi-taskers is complete crap. Devised by men in the sixties to encourage us to do both paid and domestic work and not moan too much about the increased workload. I’ve worked in the film industry and publishing and can assure you that women in demanding positions are invariably… tricky. I for one lose my top lip when strung out. It’s a family thing.

 

But I gain a chin when baffled

.

I never went to the Stellenbosch Wine Festival as a student* because I only started drinking wine at the ripe old age of 27. I know. Missed out on years of booze cruising through the winelands. So I was ill-prepared for the onslaught of very young wine lovers. Fortunately my audience was mostly mature and sober. Even the young ones. I had the 12 o’clock slot. Here’s me pretending to read a Clover cookbook while they filed in.

 

» Read the rest of this entry «

The Jelly Olympics

July 29th, 2011 § 2 comments § permalink

Yes, I shall make a wine jelly… In fact, a pinot noir jelly! Paired with duck. And something earthy and seasonal. Like beetroot. I mean, what would you do for your first ever live food demonstration at a wine festival? Absolutely nothing else came to mind. I love Pinot Noir. And duck. So look no further.

Ever made a wine jelly? Me neither. Even as a kid I didn’t like jelly. Compared to malva pudding it’s a sad excuse for a dessert. In fact, jelly was the reason I refused to eat trifle. But a wine jelly… now that I could consider. All my recipes called for pectin. But somehow pectin has fallen out of favour and is nowhere to be found. ‘Wat gebruik al die boervrouens deesdae?!,’ my inner voice squealed. Leaf gelatine was also not to be found in the village so I opted for the powdered variety. My first attempt (made with Noble Savage, a lovely affordable Cabernet Sauvignon) looked like chopped liver. I didn’t bother straining it as it was just an experiment. I then bought a little sachet of agar agar from the health store and made a sheet of jelly from Stark-Conde Pinot Noir – my wine of choice for the demo at the Stellenbosch Wine Festival. Agar agar is derived from seaweed and with a 50g sachet you could build a tornado-proof two-bedroom dwelling, seal the cracks in a family-sized swimming pool or stop the flow of the Orange river in flood. Plus it has a nasty aftertaste. I was luckier the third time around with a mixture of leaf gelatine (kindly donated by Richard Carstens of Tokara just up the road) and half a teaspoon of agar agar but the jelly was still too sour. The aim was to retain as much of the Pinot flavour as possible but nobody wants to eat sour jelly. Behold, the first three attempts:

 

Three bottles down and still no strike

From right to left: chopped liver, the Fountainhead of jellies made with agar agar and on the left, getting there with a mixture of leaf gelatine and a pinch of agar agar. But then a road trip to the Swartland lead me to the kind people of Fynbos Foods, where I managed to score 50g of pectin! Serendipity or what? As I sit here, a container with pinot jelly is setting in the fridge… or not. I’ve added more sugar and am quite frankly too tired to care. That’ll be tomorrow’s little drama. My demo at the Clover Kitchen at the Stellenbosch Wine Festival kicks off at 1. The audience will enjoy a glass of pinot with their portion of duck breast, beetroot relish and pinot noir jelly , courtesy of the kind people of Stark-Conde. It’s a food and wine pairing session after all.

On Tuesday night I subjected a few friends to a trial run. After a terrible day, Katie really took to the wine jelly. Especially the first one. I suspect a fuller bodied wine like a Cab makes for better jelly, although I hate admitting it now with so much vested in Pinot jelly. Or maybe she just needed the sugar. » Read the rest of this entry «

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