Could this be the most beautiful toilet in the world? (Could this be)

My local Thai restaurant, which is called Sukhotthai and based in the affable climes of 'Ornchurch, is a beacon of joy in an otherwise sea of blandness. A little cracker in other words. Saying that, we do have a good Turkish ocakbasi too but in general choices are limited around my neck of the woods. Unless you don't mind eating in a generic chain that is. We don't visit Sukhotthai that often these days, my wife and I. But when we do, it is always a treat, with friendly staff serving up mind blowing food. As such, to report on a startling and somewhat unsettling development seems wrong and disloyal. A dereliction of duty even. But I do feel that I have to report on a recent visit whereupon an explosion of colour assaulted my senses and blew my mind away. And if I didn't make comment on the festoon of artificial foliage that has appeared of the blue in the men's lavatories.... well, that would be remiss of me too.

To sum up the awe and bafflement I felt whilst sitting and thinking in such a room of naff beauty, I have to refer to a conversation I later had online with an old friend, which went something like this.

"You know that scene in Superman II where he flies to a tropical rainforest to collect some rare orchids for Lois for that special meal, you know before he gives up his powers in that chamber? Well it felt just that, being in there. I called for Superman but he never came."

His reply?
  

"Calling for Superman. In a flowery toilet. In a restaurant called Sukothai. We're one glory hole away from the campest start to a Saturday ever!"

Which of course is quite funny. Not to mention succinct and is worth sharing, as it certainly captured the surreal aspect of the situation. Or the photo that follows.

Like I said, I really do not want to cast aspersions on what really is a lovely little gem but I do have to ask the big question: 

Could this be the most beautiful toilet in the world? (Could this be)

Para-para-paradise
Para-para-paradise
Oh oh oh oh oh oh-oh-oh-oh

Cucumber Sandwich

Very good

A couple of weeks ago, whilst lounging low in my seat on an early morning train into work, I read with interest an interview in the Metro that featured Plebs star and comedian Tom Rosenthal. Keeping your head down on the 5:41 into London Fenchurch Street is aways a good idea because a lot of my follow commuters use the journey to extend their somnolent bliss just that little bit longer. As such, many (mainly male) passengers have a tendency to flatulate loudly during their slumber and quite frankly, the carriage usually stinks to high heaven. On a clear day, you can sometimes see a yellow cloud hovering around the level of the baggage shelves, amid a chorus of French horns. Anyway, during the Q&A Tom made mention of his experiences in Bulgaria and the fact that the Bulgarians have really nailed cucumbers, which got me thinking about cucumbers in general. As a matter of fact, the article made me sit straight back up to pay attention. At which point, I burnt the hairs in my nostrils.

Normally I don't really give much consideration towards these cumbersome green batons. In salads and as accompaniments, they work fine. Especially with Peking duck and plum sauce in pancakes, serving as crunchy counterpoint to the rich fatty meat and fruity tangy relish. Pile it all up in front of me and I could probably get through a whole bird by myself. Spooning, spreading, picking, delicately rolling, scoffing and then licking fingers thoroughly clean before moving onto the next one. "How was your duck sir?" "It was gorgeous, thank you." "And the cucumber?" "Erm......."

And yes, OK, I do like a pickled cucumber. Or a gherkin rather. In burgers, with a hunk of cheese, on some juicy pulled pork or plonked slap bang in the middle of crumpled bag of fish and chips. Asking for a 'wally' is always a true test of a decent chippie. Sadly, a lot of the glances that get shot my way from younger eyes over the counter suggest that I am the wally for mentioning it these days. But do I have any other strong feelings for cucumbers? Well not really.

However, like I said, Tom's appraisal did pique my interest with the suggestion that cucumbers can actually taste good, particularly since I have been growing them at home this year. Or at least one of them. And I have been watching this one singular cucumber with curiosity and affection for some time now. Leaving cheap knob gags to one side for a minute, I must admit that it has been fascinating watching this fruit swell and engorge over the summer months. The geek in me should have got the tape measure out to record daily progress but I was worried about what my neighbours might think. They probably think I am strange enough as it is. So I simply resolved to heap as much love on it as possible with frequent watering, careful positioning in the sun and regular chats.

The day for plucking the prized snozzcumber from its stem came some time last week. At a slight loss at what to do with it, I went on Twitter as usual for ideas and a barrage came back. "Smash it!" "Gin it!" "Sorbet it!" were just some of the more unusual recommendations. "Shove it up your backside!" was one of the more childish, immature ones.....Luc. In the end, I went out on a limb (because you know, I AM experimental and everything) and made a salad with cucumber, goats cheese, mint and lemon zest. It looked very pretty but I am afraid the heady citrus of the lemon bludgeoned out any flavour that the cucumber may or not have had. So with the few remaining slices I had left, I decided to make a cucumber sandwich, as proposed by A Rather Unusual Chinaman and self-proclaimed 'sanger-wanger' Helen, of Food Stories.

You might blech and recoil at the thought of flinging watery discs betwixt two slices of bread, recalling misshapen lumps wrapped in clingfilm for school lunches. But I'd say that tomatoes were always to blame for that and should be held accountable for the stains at the bottom of your rucksack. Whereas cucumbers have always married up well with baked white dough and I had sort of forgotten all about 'cuke' sandwiches. It's a simple combination of bread, butter, cucumber, salt and whallop, off you go really. The texture of crisp cucumber against soft bread really does feel lovely to eat, perhaps even better than crisps (although not quite). It's no wonder that they are an institution in this country for afternoon tea and er, for afternoon tea!

What of the flavour of my homegrown cucumber though? Well yes, it was fresh, clean and grassy. But did it pack the sort of punch that makes a man want to stand up and endure a sulphurous fug, knowing that at the end of his journey he could clamber into a supermarket and buy a dozen beautiful, delicious cucumbers that would soon take the pain away?

No, not really. I think I might be missing a trick though. I think I might need to go to Bulgaria.

Weiner

Pickling?

Truncheon

Pretty but overpowering

Burger Cool

This post first appeared on Great British Chefs blog

It's a long shot but I reckon the obsession with burgers that seems to be all pervading at the moment, began as far back as 20 years ago. Sure, burgers have been around for a long time. The brothers McDonald arguably kick-started the beef patty in bun revolution way back in the late 1940's but this current trend has its roots firmly based in the 1990's. Of that I am sure. And it all comes down to one magical moment on celluloid when Samuel L. Jackson, who plays hit man Jules, tries some of his intended victim's Big Kahuna burger in the film Pulp Fiction. A shot focuses on the burger in question for just a split second. Sat all squat in its wrapper with bun squashed and cracked, molten cheese and tomato sauce oozing out of the side, it is the epitome of a dirty, greasy burger. Jackson picks it up and takes a huge bite, his eyes widen and he sums up quite succinctly via a laconic drawl, his own personal opinion.
"Mmm mmm, that is a tasty burger."

That was the birth of cool for the humble burger right there. Up until that point, I don't think we gave two flying monkeys about burgers. Before that moment, burgers were simply a thing to eat, to scoff happily and cheaply off Formica tables; in pubs, restaurants and on late night trains, with no care or attention of thought. Then Jules came along, resplendent in black suit and 'Soul-Glo" wig, like a badass muddyfunkster and he made them all trendy and sexy. Which is what you would expect from Samuel L. Jackson anyway..........

OK, it is a long shot. Especially since all the bearded, bespectacled kids who queued up for two hours to get a slice of Americana at Shake Shack and Five Guys recently, probably weren't even born in 1994 when the film was released. I am grasping at straws and theorizing wildly here. I suppose what I am just trying to do is figure out why burgers are so damn popular at the moment.

What has intrigued me even more however is the business of 'smashing' burgers, a process that involves rolling up beef mince into meatballs and thwacking them once they are on the hotplate and one that is closely associated with the aforementioned Shake Shack. For some aficionados, this is the best way to seal in flavour and to create an all important crust.

Yet after making some enquiries on Twitter with regards to the science behind it, there was a bit of an outcry. Namely from food writer Tim Haywood, who claimed the practice drove out all meat's inherent juice and, in his own words, made him weep bitter tears. 

A simpler way, he suggested, was to fling a handful of mince, seasoned with salt, straight onto a hotplate and then fashion it loosely into a burger with a slice. You then flip the evolving burger over, give the surrounding surface a quick squirt of water and then cover the meat with a wok to trap the ensuing steam.

This sounded like a novel idea, so last night I tried out both methods, all in the name of research. Along with a regular burger bought from a posh supermarket, just to make sure. Yes, that's three burgers in total but if you don't exercise strict and thorough perimeters with these sorts of experiments, the results can sometimes be inconclusive (ahem).

The 'Smash' Method

So this course of action, as far as I can make out from information gleaned from the internet, takes pretty much a 'does what it says on the tin' approach. In the absence of a hotplate (I don't own one) I heated up a frying pan to a high temperature, plonked a round meatball seasoned with salt squarely in the middle and then I hit it. With a heavy potato ricer because I wanted to be sure. The important part apparently, is to do this within a 30 second time frame of the meat touching the pan. Leave it longer and the juice will come flying out. 

The mince spread-eagled pleasantly and uniformly, which was a surprise. Part of the smash method is that the burger often forms an irregular shape but my one complied to an aesthetic that wouldn't look out of place in IKEA. I flipped it over and let it cook for a couple more minutes before throwing a slice of Monterey Jack on top to melt. And then I placed it in a regular seeded bun and chowed down. I probably should have left it to grill a touch more as it was quite rare in the middle but overall, it tasted extremely pleasant. Crisp on the outside. Juicy on the inside. Brilliant.

The 'Clumping' Method

The notion of simply taking a fistful of mince, again seasoned with salt and slinging it into a pan at first did seem like I was taking a neolithic guide to cooking. I may "Ug," belch and expel wind during most hours of the day but when I am behind the stove, I do like to exude a slight degree of finesse and decorum. However, the surprising thing about Tim Hayward's method was that it all worked very quickly and easily. The burger that formed from my frantic shaping and scraping with a fish slice didn't meet your usual standard visually but hey, what are burgers at the end of the day? They are lumps of meat. 

The real fun part came from squirting water into the pan and covering with a wok and then standing back to listen to the sizzle for a couple of minutes. I should add that I used Aberdeen Angus mince that was 20% fat, as per Tim's instruction. I then lifted the wok up, gave it another flip, added the cheese and off it went into another seeded bun. Again, the burger tasted fantastic. Although I have to say, the amount of juice that flew out did catch me by surprise and Mr Haywood now owes me a new shirt but still, a lovely tasting burger.

The 'I Can't Be Bothered To Make Any Burgers Tonight So I Will Just Buy Some In Waitrose' Method

Bought from the butcher's counter, this burger on first impressions was wieldy, dense, heavy and compact and I did wonder how it would stack up against the previous efforts. It definitely needed longer in the pan and some squirty-wok action, which I was getting all trigger happy with but the end result was good. It could have done with some more seasoning but then again I think I went a bit cock-a-hoop with the previous burgers so my taste buds were probably out of tune. Or should that be in tune? Whatever, ultimately it was still a very decent and delicious burger that was juicy and beefy and gulped down with relish. So well done Waitrose.

A final analysis of what I have just written about all three burgers will naturally steer you to the fact that I am greedy so and so. A veritable Mr Creosote in fact and you would be right to assume that. I need to sort myself out really but I am also pedantically trying to make a point here. To my mind, a burger is what it is. Of course, there are lots of examples of bad burgers out there. Just go to Upton Park on a Saturday afternoon when the football season starts and try an infamous 'Dogburger' outside The Boleyn Tavern. That is a very, very bad burger that may well put you in hospital. That's if a West Ham fan doesn't first. But apply any modicum of care and attention towards a burger, the quality of the meat, how you cook it etc, well what can go wrong?

Hands up, I have yet to go down the Shake Shack or Five Guys to sample their wares but I bet you any money that the people who snaked in a line for hours on end, walked away afterwards and uttered “"Mmm mmm, that is a tasty burger." Just like Jules did, before he coolly blew his quarry away.

I put the emphasis on the word ‘cool’ there by the way.

The David Gower Selection - Laithwaite's Wines

Cricket has never really been much of a passion of mine and there is a good reason why. Some time ago now, when I was a boy, I went on a trip of a lifetime to Australia to visit family who ensconced down under way back in the 1960's. It would be fitting to squeeze in at this point, all the usual banter about them being criminals, forced to flee the country etc etc, because they were. Well, Great Nanny Clark was. She was a colossal tea-leaf in fact. She had an evil, lustful eye for the pick 'n' mix in Woolworths whenever she came home and had been known to smuggle cutlery out of Claridges in her brassiere on one or two occasions. Harmless, lovable rogues, that's all they were really though and we travelled thousands of miles to see them. 

It was a great holiday, the memories and experience of which still echo in my mind but there was a moment that came towards the end that scarred me forever. I was in the garden of an uncle's house trying to play cricket with my second cousin called Leslie, who was Australian by birth and mad on the sport. I say trying because I was a typical pasty uncoordinated ginga from the UK with little experience of the hallowed game. Whereas handsome and tanned Leslie was that all singing, all dancing kid from the Gold Coast who was good at everything and as a result, a bit of a spoilt brat. 

The goading didn't bother me at first but after a while, it began to intensify and become more personal. I think it's called 'sledging'. So, thoroughly fed up of having to scamper everywhere to retrieve a red leather ball to the sound of mocks and jeers, I decided to give Leslie a taste of his own medicine. Focusing and concentrating on three singular, wonky sticks, poking up out of the ground, I threw the ball with all my might and for the first time that day, it whizzed past his bat and smashed them to pieces.

"OWZAT YOU TWAT!" I screamed, lungs bursting with joy and I started to whip my feet around the lawn in the manner of Michael Jackson and his famous moonwalk. However, I was so caught up in celebration that I failed to notice a crimson faced Leslie who was running up towards me, simultaneously crying and swinging a bat above his head. Being the accurate sportsman that he was (and still is, I should imagine) Leslie planted a hefty piece of willow firmly into my mouth. That he didn't knock any teeth out was a miracle but a canine did pierce and protrude out my bottom lip and blood flowed freely after that, as well as more tears.

The situation was soon placated by a wet sponge, a fistful of Aussie dollars and the reassurance that Leslie would remain locked inside his room until he calmed down. By all accounts, the little cherub was still sore and sensitive after seeing his heroes fall. If David Gower and his cohorts hadn't secured a comprehensive 3-1 series win that summer, therefore recovering the Ashes, he might have been more forgiving. At least that was the suggestion at the time but I have to say, after that episode, cricket sort of lost its allure. I went on to play rugby union instead, which is a much more civilised affair.

Speaking of civilised affairs though, despite having an underdeveloped understanding of what actually happens on a cricket pitch, I rather like the idea of watching as a spectator. Any sport that breaks for lunch and tea sounds good to me but the fact that cricket fans are actively encouraged to bring along a picnic with alcoholic refreshments to serve themselves throughout the day, sounds even better. So when Laithwaite's Wines approached me with the offer of curating a celebratory hamper to enjoy at the 4th Investec Ashes Test v Australia at Durham ICG on August 10th, I leapt at the chance. 

The main deal on my part is suggest food to match wines selected by Mr Gower or Lubo, as he is affectionately and inexplicably known. Curating is an interesting word actually, as it sort of implies a considered approach or degree of artistry. I'll be honest and say that whilst testing the wines that arrived a couple of weeks ago, it was considered but I employed an artistry of a different kind. Piss artistry. But nevertheless, I do sincerely believe that these pairings would keep most members of the Barmy Army happy. This is what I came up with:

Blackstrap Shiraz 2010 - Packed with pepper and jammy fruit with plenty of length (as they say), I was tempted to make the suggestion of packing a disposable bbq into the hamper so that the wine could be enjoyed with a freshly grilled rump steak such as 60 day Longhorn from The Ginger Pig but the Durham ICG probably wouldn't be too best pleased with that idea. Sandwiches made from sourdough bread and packed with cold beef, cooked rare, a small bunch of watercress and a smidgen of horseradish would go down well though.

Villa Broglia Gavi 2012 - I got into an argument with Mrs FU over this one as she asserted that this was a "drinking" wine, which of course sounds absurd because all wines are drinking wines. What she meant was that this Gavi, which is quite fruity yet retains a dry crisp edge, is an Italian wine to be enjoyed on its own. I begged to differ and shoved a plate of marinated anchovies under her nose to try with her next glass. She acquiesced that boquerones were indeed a nice pairing and then shoved me out of the way to finish the bottle in the sunshine, in the garden.

Grande Réserve de Gassac Rouge 2012 - This rich Cabernet Sauvignon came on a journey with us all the way down to Devon, belying the theory that wines don't travel well because this red was delicious and full of bramble berries. After taking the children on their first camping trip, which lasted just two days, we settled into a little family hotel for the night and got stuck into some goodies we bought from a deli outside Barnstaple. Two choices of cheese were made, a nutty Devon Oke Cheddar and a Devon Blue and it was the subtle blue veined cheese that scored top marks so that would have to go in the hamper.

The Rustler Chenin Blanc 2012 - Dry, crisp and grassy with lots of herbal notes, this wine left us stumped (ha!) for a period and very nearly fell back into that "drinking" wine catagory but then Mrs FU came up with idea of serving something quite creamy and decadent, so that the wine would not only pair up but could also cut through the flavours. In the past we've made Salad Olivieh, a Persian salad that can be tweaked here and there but generally consists of diced potatoes, peas, mayonnaise, finely chopped gherkins and grated eggs. I made a variation at the weekend with shredded chicken and chopped tarragon and it complimented the Chenin Blanc perfectly. And vice

So that's my four pairings. The proof of the pudding will be how they all fare together along with the wines, under the heat of the midday sun (or rain) in Durham in under a couple of weeks time and I aim to report back on that. But if England continue on their current trend, then I am sure everything will work out just fine.

I am hopeful in fact that Mr Gower might grace us with his presence as I'd love to find out what he thinks of my selection of food. And I also want to collar him for what my spoilt git of a (second) cousin did to me, way back in 1985.

"See this scar on my lip Lubo," I'll say. "It's all your fault you know."

Salad Olivieh

Crispy Onions

Given that our fair and green land is currently in the grip of seismic thermals, catastrophic heatwaves and somewhat apocalyptic thunderstorms, it doesn't really make sense to do much in the way of cooking at the moment. After standing behind the stove this morning, simply frying an egg, I thought at one point it was all going to end, by way of the Wicked Witch of the West. In that I might melt into the floor, into a puddle of freckles and spectacles, glistening like liquidised lard. This was all in spite of having the fan switched on at full pelt in the kitchen; fluffing and spluttering warm air about the place, burring and wavering like a lumbering drunk. What a useless piece of equipment that is. Even stripping down to my shreddies didn't help. I did think about going one stage further but I quickly stopped dead in my tracks, for fear of spitting fat. And plus I didn't want to scare the kids when I called them to the table for breakfast.

So yes, it's hot. You know it's hot, we all know it's hot and I don't need to go on about it. But what can we do whilst this pandemonium goes on? What can we eat, whilst we slavishly remain glued to the screen, waiting for a name? Any name. What is going to help us keep our cool, in these testing times? What is going to keep us sane? Seriously, I need to know because I keep shouting, nay screaming, at Kay Burley, telling her to "F**k off!" all the time. What sustenance is going to keep me on the straight and narrow whilst the world around me dissolves around me like a Dali landscape? WHAT?!!! TELL ME?!!!!

Actually, I think I have the solution.

CRISPY ONIONS!!!!

And if you are now thinking: "Wow, that's one hell of a tangent, what is he smoking?" Please, bear with me.

Because in this steaming tumult, this concrete jungle, this seething pit of sweat, grime and hysteria, the only damn thing it seems that we can eat is salad. And in my opinion, salad ain't salad unless it's topped with thousand island dressing and most importantly, crispy onions. Ooh those little shavings of deep fried allium gold, ooh they are so delicious and tasty and are excellent for finishing off mountain bowls of leaves, beets, sweetcorn, potatoes, tomatoes, carrots and chopped gherkins. You know, just like the sort of salad you used to stack up in Pizza Hut in the 90's. Or possibly the 80's.

So given the current conditions out there, please consider this to be a public service announcement.

Don't cook. Strip naked. Keep your eyes glued to gogglebox. Eat salad.

And remember.........CRISPY ONIONS!!!

*punches air, sobs incoherently and faints*
 

What would make this salad better?

CRISPY ONIONS!! (and thousand island dressing)

Hmmmmm.........crispy onions

Aubergine Parmigiana

If you are ever in need of a boost, a little geeing up and wish to re-ignite that tickle in your stomach, akin to the feeling of standing in a sweet shop when you were five, go shopping in Aldi. Seriously, do it. It really is a veritable, bonkers paradise of hyper-consumerism, an Aladdin's cave of miscellaneous expendables and junk shop tat. I wandered in there the other day for some fruit, vegetables and what is collectively known in our house as 'sandwich stuff' ("Make sure you get some sandwich stuff") and I wandered back out with an electronic fly zaper, some Dr Beckmann Glowhite whitening detergent and a jar of Cowboy Burger seasoning by Schwartz. Because personally, I think this is the shiz that MEATLiquor has been putting into their burgers for ages now, I just need to test the theory. Ha! Your secret will soon be out boys!

Anyway, the fact is that I do love to go for a shop in Aldi and despite the moth-like attraction to power tools and comfortable slippers, we do make great savings on the food bill. For instance, I recently bought three gorgeously purple, rotund and sensuous aubergines for 49 pence each. This is an absolute bargain when you consider that other supermarkets normally punt them on for double that. How do Aldi do it so cheap? Is it down to a striped down, no-frills, super efficient teutonic business model? Or do they bring out the thumbscrews like all the other chains? I don't know but I happy and grateful to have an Aldi on my doorstep.

The interesting and funny thing about shopping there is the reaction you get from familiar faces when they get caught rummaging around in the freezers for basa fillets whilst carrying a duvet set under their arm. Cheeks blush, lips get bitten, puppy dog eyes arch ruefully to play the sympathy card and then comes the standard response:

"Oh hi, yeah, well oh God, hey, isn't cheap in here. I've just finished doing my bit in Waitrose but I remembered I was totally out of toilet roll and well, hey isn't it so cheap......so erm, see you!"

And off they tootle, waving with hand aloft and head surreptitiously bowed down in shame. I always do my best to wave back but more often than not, I am holding a fishing rod under one arm and a crate of iced tea in the other. Ah, the paradox of Aldi. We think we are saving money but really we are not. Clever Germans.

Coming back to the aubergines though, having saved some real pennies there, I decided to make melanzane alla parmigiana the other day using Mr Oliver's recipe. Now, most recipes take the route of frying slices of aubergine in oil until lightly browned and squishy and tender. However as this is a lengthy process and can often make the aubergine greasy, I decided to give his char-grilling method a go. The result was a mixed bag really as the aubergine hadn't quite cooked through, to transform into that gooey layer you normally expect but I did like in the inherent smokiness that came from the grilling them. It certainly added an extra dimension to this very comforting dish and if I were to consider this method again, I would probably whack them on the griddle and then whack them in the oven for a bit longer. Say for half and hour, in a lasagne dish, drizzled with a generous helping of olive oil.

In fact, I will probably pop out to Aldi right now and give it another whirl at the weekend, whilst their aubergines are still so cheap. Plus they've got a good deal on a bench grinder with sanding belt at the moment. I've been after one of those for ages.

Cheap aubergines, parmesan and mozzerella

Layering with cheeses

Splashing with olive oil

Crisp

Very nearly very good

Preserved Lemon

Preserved lemon and Moshi Moshi flask in the background

At some stage in my life, someone must have come up and tapped me on the shoulder and started extolling the virtues of preserved lemons. I don't know when, I don't know where and I don't know how. But someone, at some point in time, must have whispered into my shell-like about the benefits of pickling these yellow, ellipsoidal, citric fruits at home. I am sure of this. And I am sure that I listened quite intently, spellbound, mesmerised even, at what my fellow advisor had to say on the matter.

Perhaps the scenario when something like this:

"Yeah right, cos like preserving yer own lemons, well you can't beat it mate. I tell ya, for about five years...maybe six *burp* I was buying me own.... off the shelf, you know and well....they were alright but they just didn't quite cut the mustard, you know what I mean? They didn't 'ave that kick I was looking for, not quite the same as the sorta shit that goes into a proper good, decent, diamond tagine. Like the sort you might find in the ol' El-Fnna, yeah? You got me? Nah? OK, well look, do yourself a favour mate, grab a load of lemons. Not waxed! No facking wax! OK? Make a liddle biddy criss-cross of a slit in the top of one of your lemons and stuff it, stuff with salt and then throw it a jar, with a load more salt. Salt and some other shit. Coriander seed, bay leaf, chillies, cinnamon sticks....*burp*...go on, throw it in, throw it all in and then forget abahht it. Don't worry abahht it at all. Leave it in a cupboard and go for a walk somewhere. Just......just don' worry abahht it. And then......and then my sunshine, you can go back.... weeks..... months...... years later. And you can find that jar of yours and then you can prise that jar open and BOOM! Bloody hell, what 'ave you got? Preserved facking lemons that's what."

And you know, after that poetic soliloquy, I probably bought the guy a pint, shook his hand and on the way home, picked up a huge bag of lemons from Londis and carried out his instructions to a tee; repeating his mantra of "Boom! Preserved facking lemons!" With arms aloft. I probably made quite a mess later that evening, scattering aromatics and sea-crystals across the floor. I probably caused a huge clatter, throwing bits of expensive, unused toot out of the expensive unused toot cupboard. All in order to house these new jars of lemons. Jars that would remain untouched for some time, left to slowly macerate, embalm and steep. I probably fell asleep on the cold, tiled floor and then probably woke at some ungodly hour, all disorientated and confused, before making it upstairs with belt buckle loose and bare buttocks flapping in the wind.

These are all probables and whether you believe them or not is up to you. Some of the above is make believe, I'll admit that. Some, ahem, is not. However, the cast iron truth is that I stumbled across some preserved lemons the other day, which had obviously been lurking deep within the dark for some time and I honestly can't remember when I set about the task of 'immortalising' them. They were obviously part of some previous project, that shamefully didn't pique my interest for long enough. But I am glad that I found them though because it led to one of those happy occurrences when something unplanned and unexpected happens. Some chicken thighs were sitting in the fridge, awaiting their final destination and whilst they are great to enjoy on their own, (unadulterated thigh meat, dark and succulent doesn't need that much jazzing up in my opinion) I quite did fancy trying out something quite different. So after a quick rustle in the cupboards, bingo, a fortuitous solution was found.

Admittedly, I did seek further consultation from other voices (other than the ones in my head) across the internethighwayweb and Cookwitch, with her Greek sensibilities, suggested simply roasting the chicken thighs with the preserved lemon, along with garlic, thyme and olives. It was an inspired idea so I went with it. Except that I threw in some extra bay leaves in for good measure, to put my own stamp on things. "Oh yaah, yaah, it defo needs the bay."

And as with most 'one-pot, let's throw everything in and see what happens' dishes, it was very good.
It really is amazing actually, the difference you get from the intensity of flavour. A squeeze of a lemon used as a light, fresh touch doesn't really compare with the feral hit of preserved lemon, which is all heavy and condense but the one thing I did learn is that when it comes to these squalid, squashy objects of beauty, less can sometimes mean more. I used one whole flaccid, alien egg-like lemon sac for about 12 thighs when half would have done. And it could have done with a rinse to honest, just a quick splash under a cold tap to get rid of the salty residue, just to save the kidneys. However, overall, the preserved lemon did transform the already handsome chicken thigh into something altogether different and special and I plan on using up my supply quite quickly. In order of course to make plenty more, to try out with lots of other dishes. After all, preserved lemons are my new favourite thing. And this time, I won't fall asleep on the job.

Flaccid, alien egg

Chicken thighs before

Chicken thighs after

Roast chicken thigh, preserved lemon, garlic, olive and thyme (not forgetting bay leaf) with cous cous, aubergine, peppers and coriander leaf

Another photo of what I said for the photo above

Green Sauce

Fridge cleaning is a tedious yet necessary chore. As is oven cleaning. And floor cleaning. And washing up and wiping down. And all that horlicks. In fact, let's face it, it's all boring and some days would be better spent by either ignoring the tomato ketchup stains on the ceiling altogether. Or by simply starting some conflagration, good and proper, to purge the kitchen of all its sins and to start afresh. Out of the ashes and all that. The latter suggestion would probably have an impact your home insurance premiums though, so it's not probably not a good idea. Some days though, I do sort of wish that I had some form of OCD so that I could attack things inanely and without prejudice, just to get the job done, albeit over and over again. Instead, cleaning is just painful, another thing to do, in my already busy life.

Coming back to fridge ablutions for second though, it is sort of important to make sure that your cooleratory (sic) system is kept spic and span, for fear of encouraging lurgies, mould and 'matter'. I read in the news only yesterday that something like 80% of households in the UK admitted to cleaning their fridges just once a year, which is totally believable. I have seen some terrible examples in my lifetime. Incubators they should be called, not refrigerators. Propagators of exotic lifeforms. Seething after cross-contamination. Sources of bum gravy at best, death at worst. Email me and I will tell you which particular curry house on Leytonstone High Street to avoid. But that's a restaurant and not a house, so I have gone a bit off topic there. The important point is that you should really try and keep your fridge clean, no matter what.

So yes, I regularly take out the shelves and boxes and whatnot from our fridge and get them a good scrub in hot soap and water, I am proud to say. Not forgetting scooping and skirting in and around the walls of the inner white compartment with a fresh dishcloth; taking a moment or two whilst my head is stuck inside with the light on, to pretend that I am in some 60's sci-fi movie. And then everything goes back, stacked neat and tidy and all the produce goes back in. This is also a good moment to take stock of what was actually in the fridge in the first place. We are pretty good at making sure that nothing goes to waste (he says all pious and smug) but occasionally a garlic clove is found, sprouting a tall green antennae. Or a single pot of yoghurt, a week out of date, normally vanilla or something equally bland, which gets thrown away.

I do however take a different view with regards to the condiment shelf. The top shelf that gets laden with jars of jams and pickles and chutneys and mustard's and capers and olives and any other thing that you can imagine existing in a jar. You know the one. I flatly refuse to chuck any of them away for they are preserves and by the rules of preservation, they can exist in stasis forever and ever and ever. Yet really of course, they can't. Oxygen and bacteria will always win eventually, no matter how much sugar and salt has been imbued. That doesn't mean that I haven't screamed at the top of my throat before, after discovering that a 5 year old plastic ramekin of Patum Peperium's Gentleman's Relish has been wantonly tossed aside.

As I am in the habit lately of making lots of green sauce, or salsa verde if feeling all sexy and continental, there is normally a jar of the stuff on the top shelf too. Because it is gorgeous. Take any regular, mundane dish and drizzle a spoonful of this piquant, herby liquor over the top and it will be transformed. Sausages and mash, bang! Grilled mackerel, wham! Stirred into chicken soup, kajawowkerplunkapow! Recipes are pretty much the same throughout. Parsley, mint, basil, garlic, anchovy, capers, dijon mustard, wine vinegar or lemon juice, seasoning and a generous glug of good olive oil. That's green sauce in a nut shell. Though for more accurate quantities it is always helpful to refer to St Nige or Jamie and a little goes long way. So once whizzed up, or chopped up rather, this is something that you need to take your time over with a nice sharp knife and board, I often find that I have loads left over. So onto the top shelf it goes, topped and sealed with some more olive oil to be left indefinitely. Alright, a week.

I suspect the last batch I made definitely older than a week though, especially after spooning a tonne of sauce onto a plain brown bap with ham for lunch. I didn't die or suffer from some interminable squits but boy, the sauce was funky. The emulsification of flavours over time had developed into something extraordinarily pungent and powerful. So much so, that every time I breathed, I could feel my nostril hairs singe. And my eyebrows too. Which is all fine and dandy, if you can handle it, but I am acting in an up and coming play soon see and let's just say that I have to execute some passionate onstage kissing. Rehearsals later that day were interesting to say the least. My opposing actresses (I get to kiss two, what a cad) kept fainting after every embrace. And that was never in the script.

Suppose I better buy some mints. Or throw the jar away.

Grandpa Beard's upside-down ginger cake

Last Saturday we had some people over for dinner, namely Mrs FU's parents and her aunt and uncle, and bloody good it was too. I say that because I did most of the cooking. So yes, of course it was bloody good. A gastronomical triumph of gastronomy even. My starter of crab ravioli with a tarragon vinegar butter sauce went down an absolute treat. I would suggest that it's fast becoming a signature dish of mine actually and in years to come it's bound to become a classic, right up there with Henderson's bone marrow and sourdough, Roux Jnr's soufflé Suissesse and Ramsden’s fish and chips.

Mains came in the form of two exquisite racks of handsome Swaledale lamb from the East London Steak Company, cooked medium rare to pink perfection. This was served with a superbly creamy and decadent dauphinoise, potatoes sliced thin and accurate on a mandolin with no hint of fingernails or blood. Greens came in the form of the freshest French beans known to man, shipped from Egypt and plainly steamed to a very precise point, resting right on the fence between raw firmness and pallid flaccidity. All accompanied with a beautiful reduced red wine and balsamic jus (not gravy, jus) with caramelised shallots. A sauce that should have been started by my wife but she was too busy swinging from the chandeliers, swigging from a bottle of Disaronno. I forgave her though. She doesn’t let her down that often and besides, the twins were sleeping over at their other grandparents that night.

She did however find a lucid moment to cut up and serve some stupendously magnificent slices of cake to finish us all off. The cake in question was called Grandpa Beard’s upside down ginger cake, the recipe of which was found in an old copy of Olive magazine and baked my Mrs FU’s fair hand. Now the prospect of a heavy, warm, spiced, flour-based pud does sound a bit off kilter as an option to end to such a fine banquet. It’s unseasonal to say the least and I haven’t got a clue as to who Grandpa Beard is but this cake is a cracker. Naturally, it does also help that Mrs FU is a very fine baker *sound of elbow cracking behind back*. Moreish like McVities Jamaica Ginger Cake yet with the added toffee bonus of juicy pears and crunchy walnut, it is a recipe that I urge you to try. 

I find that the true test of a dish is how it affects ambient levels of sound during a dinner party. The quieter it becomes, the more successful it is and when we plonked down the plates of cake with clotted cream, in front of our guests, well you could have been heard a pin drop. Which is no mean feat considering the volume levels that my father-in-law and uncle-in-law usual talk at. Both builders by trade, they don’t necessarily talk but more like shout, especially at each other and especially when they’ve had a beer or three. I don’t know why we put them together to be honest but next time we have them over, I might just roll in a cement mixer and stack up some bricks next to the table as an extra touch to make them feel at home. Hell, they might even inadvertently start constructing a long wished for shed at the bottom of the garden for me. Now there's an idea.

However, the point is, any dessert that can shut up both these two lovely fellas for more than a minute or two, is the ultimate testimony to its greatness. So like I said, do give it a go. Even if we are in the midst of a happy summer because there is always room in the world for cake.

 Grandpa Beard's upside-down ginger cake

125g plain flour
half tsp bicarbonate of soda
1tsp ground cinnamon
1tsp ground ginger
quarter tsp grated nutmeg
pinch of ground cloves
1 egg
125g light brown sugar
90g black treacle
125ml soured milk (tp create soured milk, add a few drops of lemon juice to fresh milk)
50g melted butter
clotted cream, to serve

topping
50g unsalted butter
100g light brown sugar
400g pear halves
walnut halves, to decorate

Heat the oven to 180C/fan 160C/gas 4. To make the topping, gently melt the butter in a small saucepan, add the sugar and stir for 1-2 minutes. Smooth over the base of a 20cm cake tin with a removable base, 7cm deep. Arrange the pears on top, cut-side down, with a few walnuts around the outside, flat-side down.

To make the cake, sift the flour, bicarb and spices into a bowl, and add a quarter teaspoon of fine sea salt. Blend the egg, sugar, treacle, soured milk and butter in a seperate large bowl, and fold in the flour mixture. Beat with a wooden spoon for 1 minute, and the pour the mixture over the fruit in the tin. Put on a baking tray and bake for 40-50 minutes, until a skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean (try to skewer a patch with cake rather than a pear....like, doh!). Remove from the oven, run a knife around the edge and set aside to cool for about 10 minutes.

To serve, remove the collar and invert the cake onto a plate or cake stand. Enjoy warm or at room temperature (but avoid chilling), with a dollop of clotted cream on the side if you wish.