Cook The Books

Notes From My Kitchen Table by Gwyneth Paltrow: The Review

I’m not sure if it’s the resemblance that is frightening about this pic, or something else I can’t put my finger on

There’s a story doing the rounds of the London media about how, at Philip Green’s party on some exotic island recently, Gwyneth Paltrow was quietly jogging down the beach when she happened to run past Kate Moss, eating crisps and smoking fags on a sun lounger. “God, why are you running?” Kate is supposed to have asked sneerily, laughing with her Mean Girls gang of friends. “Because I don’t want to look like you,” Gwynnie allegedly replied. One version of the tale claims Kate then threw her crisps at her, another that they had to be kept separate for the rest of the party, but one fact is clear. Despite what you may imagine, our Gwyn has sass.

And for that reason, I love Gwyneth Paltrow. But it’s not an easy thing to do. For every time she’s seen jiggling her non-existent jelly with Jay-Z there’s a moment where she says “I first had a version of this [recipe] at a Japanese monastery during a silent retreat—don’t ask, it’s a long story.” For every far-better-than-the-show-itself cameo on Glee she’ll counter it by saying “One cold wintry day in London, I was dreaming about salad nicoise—one of my favourites.” And it’s hard to recall just how fun and bubbly she was on Graham Norton when, on another occasion she drones on about how, “during the strict macrobiotic chapter of my life, I ate miso soup every day for breakfast and sometimes with dinner as well.”

All three of the above examples are taken from her cookbook, Notes From My Kitchen Table, in which she opens her perfect life unselfconsciously for all of us to stare at. And stare we did – having gawped at Goop, her so-bad-it’s-incredible website, every newspaper rushed to serialise it, every fashion hound was suddenly spotted toting a bottle of agave syrup around town. No one cared whether the recipes were any good – they were written by a film star, and nothing else really mattered, right? With ingredients such as sautéed dandelions, and an entire section devoted to what to do with the wood burning pizza oven in your garden, this book was not for actually cooking from, but for gaining a greater insight into everyone’s favourite caped crusader.

Captain Gwynnie to the rescue - no more unhealthy suppers for us!

Until I decided to put her to the test, and serve up a Gwynnie Special for six last Friday night. Astonishingly, I managed to buy all the ingredients in Tesco – I avoided any recipes which sounded too outlandish – and could cook them all in my boyfriend’s kitchen – even though it doesn’t have its own pasta maker, or Oscar sitting above a sous vide machine.

Gwyn’s Ivy Chop Salad

And actually, everything was pretty straightforward. Because my boyfriend was still at work when I started the prep there was no one around to shout at, so instead I just calmly got on with it all. The Ivy Chopped Salad, which The Goopster name droppily says is “inspired by the famous vegetable grilled salad at the Ivy restaurant in Los Angeles,” was a summery mix of lime juice, lettuce, grilled courgettes, salmon and beetroot. “You can’t beat the beets,” one guest claimed, which was when I noticed the empty bottle of vodka which had been full when people had arrived just an hour before.

My version. I don’t know why the salmon looks like chicken, but it tasted ok

You see, my boyfriend loves to play host. He’s happiest when mixing up extra-strength martinis, or Cosmopolitans with double shots in them. As people got stuck into Will’s fourth, fifth, maybe even sixth round of drinks, we started to have the sort of fun that probably never happens in the Paltrow household, the sort which only follows twelvety glasses of my boyfriend’s special shock-tail. We began a photo shoot, copying the earnest shots of Gwyneth in the book as an homage to the great actress.

Note that her and I have the same olive oil. We’re Oily BFFs!

Yes, that’s little girl Gwyn second in from the left

Yes, that’s Elle Decoration’s Designer of the Year Lee Broom second in from the left

“Gwyneth is out of control,” claimed one guest, quite rightly, when we came across the shot of her throwing all her actress-y pretentions out the window and thoughtfully smelling some cherry tomatoes.

Unlike Gwynnie, I don’t grow my own basil

But back to the food, which in Gwynnie’s case no one ever really cares about – what we all want to know is why she fell out with Madonna, and what her and Beyonce actually talk about.

GP’s Duck ‘Cassoulet’

Her Duck ‘Cassoulet’ (inverted commas are all hers) was fine – the bean mixture was quite tasty but the duck could probably have been cooked a little longer, and the caramelised Brussel Sprouts, which she claims have converted many a “sprout cynic” were simple and surprisingly tasty.

My version. Slightly raw duck never hurt anyone, right?

Her Blueberry Pavlova, however, was superb. I’ve never made meringues before – my mother makes such a big deal about how much of a fiddle it is every year when she’s wheels out her Raspberry Pavolva at Christmas that’s I’ve always assumed it was impossible.

Her Blueberry Pavolva

Maybe my mum’s doing it wrong – or I’ve just proved where I get my skills at playing the martyr in the kitchen – but this recipe was such a doddle, and produced the lightest, fluffiest, most perfect meringues ever.

And mine. Despite drunken photography, deffo worthy of a Foodie Oscar

The next day, I woke up, still feeling drunk. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so mocking of Gwyn’s lifestyle diet after all.

Cost of ingredients (not including items already in store cupboard) £48.44

First course * * *

Main course * * *

Dessert * * * * *

Overall: 6/10 – minus a point for  “A lecture from Leonardo DiCaprio (when he was nineteen and I was twenty-one) about how such animals are kept and processed, made me lose my desire for factory farm pork and beef right there.”

Notes From My Kitchen Table by Gwyneth Paltrow (Boxtree, £20) Original photography by Ellen Silverman, homage shots by Charles Rudgard and Polly Broderick

The Little Paris Kitchen by Rachel Khoo: The Review

“Nothing here is styled”

By now, you’ll have had the perfect life of Rachel Khoo rammed down your throat by the BBC. Fancying herself as Croydon’s greatest export since Kate Moss, she uses her TV show and new book to swan around her home of Paris on her bicycle, buying baguettes, drinking coffee, probably having winsome affairs with existential poets she happens to meet on the Montmartre. She so carefully  and contrivedly markets her slice of the good life that she  makes Amelie look like she should star in her own ITV2 show When French Bitches Go Bad.

But I’ve seen One Day. I know you can go to Paris a disillusioned teacher and emerge as a best selling author. Perhaps this former nanny really had become a domestic goddess, and her carefully-styled floral dresses and cutesy kitchen (“Nothing here is styled,” she claimed disingenuously to a journalist recently) really were part of a perfect life. And with my parents meeting my boyfriend’s parents for the very first time, I needed all the help I could get.

Of course, I knew they’d get on. Parents have an endless capacity to talk about gardening, and what plays they’ve seen lately, and when they’re planning to retire. There are so  many pleasantries to exchange that there need never be a quiet moment with parents around – they’ll talk about anything so long as to avoid the blatant fact that the their respective sons get naked with each other.  

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” I rounded on my poor boyfriend, as the dessert, which I was making first, with two hours before arrival of the guests, became apparent it was going to be a lumpy mess. “Who cares if our parents ever met, why does it even matter?” “I thought it would be nice,” he replied lamely, staring at the brown sludge which was meant to be a light, fluffy mousse. “Stick it in the fridge, perhaps it will look better once chilled?”

My parents arrived just as I was putting the main course in the oven, his parents were moments later. The dads stood on the balcony and discussed all the London landmarks which could be seen across the skyline, the mums stood in the kitchen and talked about films they’d seen at the cinema. “I thought The Artist was ten minutes too long,” said his mother. “Oh, we loved it,” replied mine, and so on.

Meanwhile, I was slicing up the pears and potatoes thinly for Rachel Khoo’s Potato and Pear Gallette. “Is everything ok?” Will asked, putting his hand on my hunched shoulder. “Don’t talk to me,” I hissed, shrugging him off. “Take my dad out that coffee. For God’s sake.” You can see why he wants me to move in.

Rachel’s Potato and Pear Gallette with Roquefort

But actually, there was no need for much stress – all the gallette required was to place raw slices of potato in the oven with chunks of pear and cheese crumbled over the top. “This is a slightly more sophisticated French homage to my humble childhood favourite of baked potato and melted cheese,” Khoo blithers in what you imagine she thinks is an adorable way. Perfect for an informal but impressive lunch then, you’d suppose.

My version. And hers wasn’t styled, apparently

As the first forkfuls were eaten, silence fell for the only moment so far. “I’d give this one five out of ten,” my mother in law eventually said, diplomatically. “Perhaps the potatoes could have done with a touch more in the oven,” my own mother ventured, with tact. She wasn’t wrong. Almost raw wedges of potato, it turns out, is edible – just – but not enjoyable. “I think the flavours might need a little bit of something,” said Will’s dad. “Yes, but it was a very light starter and I don’t feel too full, which can sometimes happen with these things,” Will said optimistically, demonstrating his ability to find the silver lining in every cloud, and one of the reasons I love him.

Rachel’s Duck a l’Orangina

Khoo’s Duck a l’Orangina was more successful in that the duck, which had marinated over night, was perfectly cooked and full of a lightly spiced flavour. However her Orangina sauce, which could only have been easier if it had been poured from a jar, essentially bubbled away into nothing. Duck a l’Orange is covered in a gooey marmalade-y jus.

And mine. The sauce you can see was actually fat from the roasting pan, desperate as I was for something to drip over it

This was like eating cooked meat without any condiments – nicely flavoured but missing that vital last kick. “Well, the meat is very tender, much better than the starter,” said my dad, appreciatively, as the polite conversation about his new job faltered for a moment.

Khoo’s Chocolate Mousses

It was time for the dreaded dessert. Khoo’s Chocolate Mousse had sounded fiddly – and with every stage there was more possibility to go wrong. Her crème patissiere (one component of the mousse) was lumpier than a bowl of sugar cubes. “Give it a whisk with a fork to break make sure it is smooth”, her recipe had advised, but it was like stroking a vat of hardened cement with a feather. When I eventually managed to combine it with the cream and meringue it took on the texture of school custard, so I covered it with nuts like she recommended and consigned it to the dustbin of TV “chef” recipes – all style, but the only substance coming from the nobs of chocolate-y cornflour in her dessert.

Hmm

“This has a lovely texture,” Will’s dad said, incredibly, dousing his mousse in cream. “Yes, the lumpy bits are real chocolate!” I lied, taking another swig of wine. It did taste good, if you pretended to yourself you weren’t chewing on dry powdery lumps, that perhaps they were stray nuts from the topping, or real bits of Green and Blacks. “Yes, well done,” everyone else chimed in. “A delicious way to end dinner.” It was fundamentally a sham, of course, but I had just about managed to pull it off. Any parallels between that and Khoo’s Parisian perfection are merely coincidental.

Cost of ingredients: £25.47 (not including items already in store cupboard)

Starter *

Main course **

Dessert * (unless you pretend it was meant to be like that, in which case it tasted good enough to get a charitable * * * *)

Overall 1/10 Well, she’s nice to look at.

The Little Paris Kitchen by Rachel Khoo, published by Michael Joseph. Original photography by David Loftus 

Seasonal Spanish Food by Jose Pizarro: The Review

Artful artichokes resting on some tiles. Who cares why?

Sarah Beeny may be wrong about a lot of things – you don’t always need to be preggo on TV, you don’t always need to offer the death stare whenever anyone disagrees with you and you don’t always have to back people into submission (something she once did to me terrifyingly down the phone. She tried to convince me it was ok for her house to appear in Style after it had been in Hello, and I agreed with her gravelly voice of authority even though I knew my editor demands exclusivity. I then cowardly emailed her PR afterwards to say it was a no goer, feeling like that family on Property Ladder who put cladding on the house when they promised Sazzer B they wouldn’t). However, she’s right about one thing – you really do need to knock down all your walls and build a kitchen/diner/whatever, especially if you’re going to cook from Seasonal Spanish Food by Jose Pizarro.

After all, if there’s one sure fire way to lose points at Come Dine With Me – apart from falling asleep and dripping your hair in your avocado like Dawn from Preston – it’s when the host is constantly in the kitchen. “As the host was always in the kitchen, I’m giving him a……4” some drunk will slur in the back of the cab, holding the number card the wrong way up. Also, finishing off the dinner means that you miss out on all the action.

Some of the snippets I just about overheard going on at the dining table were:

“Was it worse than the time you accidentally shagged a junkie in his crack den?”

“Happiness is not meant to feel this way.”

“His penis is too big for that position.”

And by the time I was back in the room, serving up one of the many tapas courses (of which there were five) the conversation had moved on. So thanks, Jose. Because of your recipes I’ll never know when large becomes simply too much.

Let me explain. I’m in a book group – three girls, two gays, one book every six weeks or so. We probably spend about five to ten minutes each time on the book which only most of us have usually read, the rest of the evening is for drinking fizz, discussing boys, and eating food. But oh, the food! Since we’ve started we’ve had summer roasts, homemade pavlovas, even quails – it’s almost got competitive. With Jose’s two restaurants on Bermondsey Street being my favourite places at the moment I thought his new book would be ideal to uphold the standard.

But of course, I didn’t get home until 6.30pm and with guests arriving at half seven it didn’t give me much time to set the table, fluff the cushions and pick the perfect playlist – and pull together five courses.

I’d started the pudding the night before (it required part of it to rest 12 hours in the fridge) but everything else had to begin from scratch. Calmly rolling up my sleeves (there’s no point having a meltdown if my boyfriend’s not around to be at the receiving end, and the third rule of Book Club is that boyfriends are deffo not invited. The first is that you do not talk about the book at Book Club, and the second…well, you guessed it).

Jose’s Courgette Soup with Cheese

The soup was incredibly easy. Boiling some courgettes with chicken stock and then blending it with cream cheese, I began to think the evening was going to be ok. “This is delicious,” everyone cried, slurping it up in seconds. But then it was 8.50pm, and there were already three empty Proseccos nestling in my Recycling.

My still relatively-sober version

“Excuse me,” I cried, jumping up to head back to the kitchen. “Don’t talk about anything interesting!” The croquetas are practically Jose’s signature dish at the restaurants, so I was worried mine wouldn’t live up to his. I needn’t have – the recipe was straightforward, if time consuming.

Jose’s Ham Croquetas

The leek and ham innards had to rest in the fridge for an hour (they were the first thing I made after the playlist) but the dip n dunk approach to rolling them in breadcrumbs was fun – or about as much fun as being stuck in the kitchen can be when everyone else is swapping stories about dating Brazilian doctors (that was the most detail I ever really gleaned on that).

My version. Just pictured: The Book: Postcards from the Edge by Carrie Fisher, in makes-a-surprise-appearance-at-Book-Group shocker

“Don’t take this the wrong way, because I really like them, but they taste like an upmarket Findus Crispy Pancake,” said one guest. “Can I be really uncouth and ask for ketchup?” said another. It was 9.30, we were all pissed, of course she wanted ketchup.

Jose’s Deep Fried Goat’s Cheese With Orange Blossom Honey. If only mine had turned out like this

I blame the alcohol for ruining the next course. It was all going a bit too well  - the recipes working just that bit too perfectly. I’d fried my beetroot crisps like I was meant to and then chucked the goats cheese into the pan. It turned into a white, sloppy mess. “Oh, shit!” I shouted, re-reading the recipe. “I was meant to cover them in breadcrumbs.”

What necking two bottles of bubbles turns it into

Still, deep fried cheese goo with beetroot actually tastes pretty good, especially if it’s 9.55pm and your insides are sloshing with Champagne (we’d moved on to the good stuff by now).

Jose’s Pan Fried Pimenton Chicken with Mashed Potato.You want to dive in, right?

The chicken was easy, too. The only bit that took any time was peeling the potatoes (“He left me to go and be sick and then came back and carried on with the date” I heard at this point, as I snarled to myself, feeling left out). Doused in paprika and sherry they had a syrupy glaze which meant we ate them even though we were drunk-full, because they simply were that good.

Ah, the main reason for the book - as a placemat

“When are we going to get something green?” one of my guests asked, not outside of her rights of expectation. Fortunately the spinach, which I’d stirfried so sloppily that most of it littered my hob, was light and delicious.

Jose’s Apple Pie

I don’t remember much about pudding, other than it had to be prepared in three stages, and then took half an hour in the oven. Forcing it down at 11.30pm, I only remember that it tasted incredible, really vanilla-y, and that the pastry had kind of broken up as I’d heavy handedly rolled it on the only bit of my worktop not covered with dirty bowls.

And my version. See also: empty wine glasses

Eventually, at midnight, the guests left – drunk, full, and far more aware of each other’s gossip than I was. All the recipes were straightforward, successful (except when mixed with booze brain) and relatively easy. The only problem is that they all required immediate serving, so unless you have staff to cook them for you don’t really make good dinner party fare. Or simply get an open plan kitchen – something my boyfriend has, and I’m moving into his in two weeks! Did I mention that? Sorry, but I feel like I have to talk about my news now, seeing as I barely got to last night. So there you have it, Jose’s recipes. Perfect for people who actually have nothing to say to their guests.

Cost: £34.02 (not including items already in store cupboard

Soup * * * *

Croquetas * * * * *

Cheese * * (admittedly, not Jose’s fault)

Chicken * * * *

Apple pie * * * * * (probably - who can remember?)

Overall: 9/10 for delicious recipes, 4/10 for suitability for dinner parties. Maybe just go to his restaurants?

Published by Kyle Cathie. Original Photography by Emma Lee

What’s For Dinner? by Fay Ripley: The Review

Her easy recipes are the reason Mumsnet don’t go to Iceland, apparently

For members of Mumsnet there are no grey areas. Life is divided into two distinct groups - things they love and things they abhor. In the first set are Bugaboos, cafes which allow breastfeeding breeders to wop their waps out, and haranguing women who go back to work after giving birth. Things they hate include, according to recent posts, spreadable butter that “just isn’t fricking spreadable”, low rise jeans and the presenter on a CBeebies show called Iconicles.

Firmly in the “Love” camp is Fay Ripley, former star of Cold Feet, now advertising stooge for the National Lottery and reinvented saviour of all those busy mothers who feel strongly (as they do about everything) that they shouldn’t just buy ready meals from M&S but that, after a busy day bitching about the au pair over an organic extra-caff latte in Kensal Green, they just don’t have the energy for anything much more advanced. Fay’s last book was awarded Mumsnet’s coveted Best Cookery Book 2011, and What’s For Dinner, out March 1^st, looks set to win the same. It is aimed at that mythical moron who reads Grazia and actually says “OMG” out loud whilst reading about Jen’s romantic failiures, and then rushes out to buy every It shoe in the “Look! 20 New Must-Have Heels! Scream!” feature trailed on the magazine’s cover.

“It has to be said that a new handbag can lift my spirits for a week or so” warbles Fay in the intro, posing with glossy hair and what looks like a stale herby rock cake.”Obviously my children bring the usual surges of love that, in between nit combing and turning nagging into an Olympic sport, provide me with that warm glow of wellbeing.” See! She’s just like us! Only with more expensive highlights! “However, the glue that sticks it all together, that turns a moment spent smiling into a memory for life is….food.”

Oh no you dittn’t!

Anyway, her recipes are all well easy – the sort of thing anyone can follow, even those whose brain has been addled by spending entire afternoons alternating between reading the Gruffalo to their child and poring over the Daily Mail Online. And it pains me to say that they’re all actually crammed with good ideas.

Fay’s Comforting Rice and Garden Veg Soup

The aptly named Comforting Rice and Garden Veg Soup was like a risotto, only slightly more soupy. She sticks the rind of the parmesan into the soup during cooking, fishing it out at the end like an errant toy dropped by a naughty child, which gave it a wonderfully cheesy piquancy. No seasoning was needed at all – these are family friendly recipes after all – and it was ready in minutes.

My version. Also pictured, my bread maker which hasn’t been used since I went off carbs two months ago

The most tiresome part of the Crusty Pistachio and Cranberry Salmon was shelling the pistachios. Literally, all you had to do was blend them with some cranberries, rosemary and garlic, slather them on the fish fillets with honey and bake them for 20 minutes.

Fay’s Pistachio and Cranberry Salmon

The taste? Well, the honey was a bit too sweet and the sprig of rosemary per person a bit overpowering, but the idea itself was pretty nifty, and so easy that for the first time ever I managed not to have a cooking-induced meltdown at my boyfriend, innocently watching the rugby in the living room, as I brought the meal together.

My version. Ok, so I’ve not given up ALL carbs.

In fact, the Easy Lemon and Raspberry Tart was so, well, easy that I even had time to think about my relationship. We’ve been dating for a little while, the subject of living together has come up but I’ve been putting it off. We live less than ten minutes walk from each other, see each other all the time, but twice a week it’s nice to be able to lie diagonally across my own bed. “Don’t throw away the chance to move your relationship forward for two nights lying diagonally across your own bed,” my friend Ella counselled. “There’s so much more to life than that.” True, she has a point, but then she’s not over six foot, and going out with someone whose shoulders are broader than that crappy fake Manc accent Fay Ripley used in Cold Feet.

Fay’s Easy Lemon and Raspberry Tart

But over the dessert – whose pastry was a bit soggy and whose filling could have done with being slightly less tarmac-like in consistency – I began to think Fay was right. Food does bring us all together! It does turn a moment spent smiling into a memory for life! Imagine if I got to eat dinner with Will every night of the week, and smiled and made life memories every single day?

My version. I’m sure that in her pic her food stylist didn’t use the lemon rind, which made it look all messy. What a fake!

“I’d like to move in,” I said, as he was bashing his way through the lemon filling. He smiled (creating his own life memory, I’m sure) and said he’d love it if I did. We looked at each other shyly. We looked away. “We’re going to be a family,” I just about resisted from saying, as we beamed big lemony across the table.

So thanks for bringing us together Fay. Your recipes may need some minor tweaks here and there, but you have helped create one of my most happy life memories to date.

Cost of ingredients: £20.38 (not including items already in store cupboard)

Starter: * * * *

Main * * *

Dessert * *

Overall: 6/10. So easy to use, so quick to make, but so unrefined. Take it as inspiration for fast recipes and fiddle with the flavours.

What’s For Dinner by Fay Ripley, (Collins, £20) Out March 1^st. Original photography by David Munns

Gordon Ramsay’s Great Escape: The Review

Oh, Gordon. I wish you’d bat for my team

Oh Gordon, you big, sexy, sweaty hunk, you. You hulking Easter Island rockface, you domineering, sweaty man-beast, with legs as thick as a walnut tree, face as grooved as a walnut itself. You’re everything I could possibly want in my fantasy figure – you’d shout me into submission, call me a snivelling twat, throw a lumpy white roux all over me and storm out swearing at the cameras.

But you don’t make it easy for me to love you.

There’s that open letter you wrote to your mother in law. The constant gurning after the Beckhams. The dreadful Ramsay’s F word. And now…your book, Gordon Ramsay’s Great Escape. The cast list – including Mark Sargeant who wrote the recipes and Emily Quah the text – is longer than one of your Marathon training sessions. What did you actually do here, Gordo, (can I call you that?) other than hop around the Far East, playing cricket with the locals, posing for dreadful portraits like this one, above?

But then, what does it actually matter? You’ve long been merely a figurehead, off eating undressed spinach leaves with Eva Longoria, letting Stuart Gillies and the team at Gordon Ramsay Holdings quietly go about creating brilliant new restaurants like the awesome Bread Street Kitchen. Why should you, a cook, be expected to actually cook? You’re the heavily-lined face of this brand, not the workhorse who has to carry the load. Have another game of cricket, eh Gordy? Who needs to sweat above a stove?

And actually, the recipes were delicious in spite of your non-involvement – no wonder you were happy to take an expensable jolly around Mumbai in their honour. I don’t even like Indian food that much Mr Ramsay, sir, as I always find the smell of the spice comes out my hair follicles the next day. You probably know that feeling too, what with your lovely luscious locks. What shampoo do you use, by the way? Tell me you’re the secret softie we both know you are deep down. Tell me it’s Johnson’s No More Tears.

But I’m getting off the track, something your crashingly unsubtle charisma often causes me to do. Not only were your team’s recipes tasty, they were easy too. Not once did I have a meltdown at my boyfriend, which is customary in these proceedings, not once did I have to tell the guests to eat another cheese dorito as dinner wouldn’t be for another three hours. Not once did I have to curse your name, and everything you’ve ever put it to (even those awful pasta sauces) – this was  simple Sunday cooking at its best.

Gordon’s (team’s) Spiced Tomato and Coconut soup

Yes, the soup was a little on the thin side, but the creaminess of the coconut milk cut through the chilli to perfection.

And my version. Not quite so inspiring without the styling, is it?

As for the butter chicken, I’ve never eaten such a delicate dish.

The Ramsay Holdings ideal of Butter Chicken

So perfectly smooth and subtle and mild, like your pillow talk probably is, when it’s just the two of us and you can drop your hard-man image.

You like my courgette, Gordie?

And you should remember to congratulate your team on this fruit salad, too – it was as easy to prepare as it looks:

Team Ramsay’s Fruit Salad with Spiced Syrup

One guest even favourably compared the spiced syrup to Red AfterShock – “in a good way” – which I could only take as a compliment.

Healthy AND delicious. A winning combo. Just like you and me, bbs.

Thanks Gordon my old friend, your team really turned out another blinder. Look me up next time you’re in town, you can swear at me any day. And give my love to Posh!xx

Cost of ingredients: £22.73 (not including those already in store cupboard)

First course: * * *

Main Course: * * * * *

Dessert: * * * *

Overall: 8/10 – gains points for easy recipes and raw animal sex appeal, loses them for cheesy portraits

Gordon Ramsay’s Great Escape (Harper Collins) Original Food Photography by Emma Lee, Reportage Photography by Jonathan Gregson.

carved from a walnut stone, hair fashioned from 

The Intolerant Gourmet by Pippa Kendrick: The Review

Regina George: 120 calories and 48 calories from fat. What percent is that?
Gretchen: Uh, 48 into 120?
Regina: I’m only eating foods with less than 30 percent calories from fat.
Cady: It’s 40 percent. Well 48 over 120 equals X over 100 and then you cross multiply and get the value of X.
Regina: Whatever, I’m getting cheese fries.

Regina’s attitude to food could, quite neatly, be used to sum up what happens in the Sunday Times Style office. We’re as faddy as Gwyneth Paltrow, one day swapping all sugar for agave syrup, another eating nothing but beef and milk (yes, really), but then a caseload of Hummingbird Bakery cupcakes will be delivered and we’ll all fall face first into the frosting. Self-denial is just too hard. We’re competitive, egging each other on (with albumen substitute, obvs) to avoid even more supposedly unhealthy ingredients, or try some new natural diet aid just in from the States. We have good intentions – wanting a healthier body, mind and spirit - but the problem is that we simply love food too much, and our schemes rarely last past the 4pm tea run.

So when The Intolerant Gourmet by Pippa Kendrick - out this coming Thursday -  landed on my desk it appealed to the desperate dieter in me. Geared towards people who can’t handle dairy, or gluten, or – in my case - the temptation of a box of Krispy Kremes, the pictures with every recipe looked salivatingly seductive. I don’t know whether gluten or dairy is actually bad for me, but if someone is going to be cutting it out of their diet then I want in on that action, too.

The problem is that, traipsing around my local Tesco on a snowy Sunday morning, I couldn’t find such delights as oat cream, gluten free flour, or xantham gum. “Whatever, I’m getting the regular sort,” I said with my best Regina George hair toss, loading up my basket with as much dairy and gluten as I could find. Yes, fine, I know this breaks my own rules about cooking exactly as the book suggests, but having stayed over at my boyfriend’s the night before and not brought sensible snowy footwear, I was wearing his hiking boots that were two sizes too small, and mildly crippling my feet. So that makes it ok, right?

The official Butternut Squash, Coconut and Chilli Soup

Anyway, the Butternut Squash, Coconut and Chilli Soup couldn’t have been easier. Roasting the squash with some spices, and then blending it up with the coconut milk and some stock I didn’t have to deviate from the recipe at all. “I can totally do the Intolerant thing” I said, scoffing the Sweet Chilli Kettle Chips my boyfriend’s sister and her boyfriend had brought over. And it tasted divine. The squash had become all caramelised, the coconut milk added a creamy nuttiness. “I don’t know what those lactose-avoiders complain about,” I thought, stacking up the bowls, which had all be drained of their last drop. “This is easy.”

And my version. Tolerably Intolerant

The main course was similarly simple. A chicken and mushroom base with a potato topping – like a poultryfied Shepherd’s pie, and therefore the best thing in the world ever. Sure, I used real butter in the potato instead of Pure Sunflower Spread, and regular flour in the roux instead of gluten free, but what are you gonna do? Even Intolerants have to slip up sometimes, amiright? What’s crippling stomach pain compared to the joy of perfectly creamy mash?

The book’s Chicken Pie. You just want to take that spoon and dive in. And who’d blame you?

In fact, the incredibleness of the pie was so great that you wondered why no one had ever thought to do it before. Next time I’d add tarragon instead of thyme, use white wine and milk to make the sauce, but it was undeniably ace.

My pie. Phwoar, etc

After all, it was chicken, mushroom and potato. That’s the holy trinity, the ultimate Sunday lunch, the meal which actually prompted my sort-of sister-in-law to ask when I was moving in with her brother. “Um, anyone for a top up?” I asked, grabbing the wine, before suddenly becoming very busy with the sauce for the pudding.

Their Sticky Toffee Puddings

Of course, my Intolerant Sticky Toffee Pudding was made intolerable for Intolerants by the addition of normal flour, regular cream, and actual eggs. But it tasted awesome – the dates working as the substitute to actual toffee, the high level of sugar enough to send the Style office into a frenzy (but it was sanctioned by the book, so presumably not unhealthy. That’s how it works, yeah?). The individual desserts didn’t quite come out of their pots in one piece as the book implied, but with a dousing of sauce you could barely tell.

And mine. Not suitable for Intolerants, or anyone on a diet

“So, how are you finding this whole Cook the Books thing?” my sort-of sister-in-law asked, as she got the last scraping of sauce off her plate.

“Well, there is a moment shortly before the dishing up of the first course where Pip has a meltdown and shouts at me,” my poor boyfriend said sadly, harking back to the time earlier in the day when I’d asked him to mash the potatoes and he’d suggested doing it in the dirty roasting tin, of all places “but that’s ok because it means it’s nearly time to eat.”

I’m so lucky he’s more tolerant than those the recipes were intended for.

Cost of ingredients: £19.71 (not including ingredients already in store cupboard)

Starter * * * * *

Main * * * *

Pudding * * * *

Easiness * * * * *

Overall: 9/10 (as long as you substitute the suggested ingredients for the real thing, and aren’t actually intolerant)

The Intolerant Gourmet by Pippa Kendrick. Published by Collins. Official photographs by Jan Baldwin

Mini Review: Chase Marmalade Vodka

Getting home after date night, having shared a bottle of wine and losing that boozy buzz on the tube, I had an insatiable urge for a nightcap.

#danielradcliffeproblems

“Why don’t we open the Marmalade Vodka?” my boyfriend asked, as I slumped on his sofa, scrolling through all the Twitter I’d missed during dinner. That reminded me - @ChaseVodka had tweeted me earlier in the week to suggest drinking it with ginger beer and bitters, which is basically an official recipe, so following it was like doing a mini Cook The Books, yes?

Adding ginger ale: officially not an epic fail

Predictably, it was delicious. The orange tang of the British-made potato vodka and the, well, bitter of the bitters cut through the sweetness of the ginger, turning three very simple ingredients into something you’d fawn over at the Riding House Cafe. “Shall we have one more?” I asked, as the first slipped down almost immediately. “Oooh, and let’s watch Madonna’s Music video.”

“What, the new one?” he asked, mixing the second round. “No, Music. With Ali G and the cartoon bit in the middle.” I don’t know why – I’d just ingested a triple strength vodka in about ten seconds, who has time for reason? Perhaps it was because, years ago, I had a fantasy about having a boyfriend and debating the weighty issues, such as which was his favourite era of Madonna.

“What’s your favourite era of Madonna?” I slurred intensely, as we clinked glasses, again.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged disappointingly, missing the importance of the question. “But this drink is really, really good.”Well, at least we agreed on something.

(For the record, I like the sleekness of Ray of Light, but also the brazenness of Blonde Ambition. And you?)

The Fabulous Baker Brothers: The Review

Which one is the hot one, again?

I read an interview with Delia in the 1990s where she moaned that whenever she went round to someone’s house for dinner they always cooked something fancy, trying to impress her, and all she really wanted was fish and chips or something.

#firstworldproblems

But when I invited my friend the renowned-food-and-drinks-writer Douglas over for dinner, I knew how Delia’s mates felt. (Sidenote: does Delia actually have mates? She seems too robotic to have anything other than football players whom she patronises, in both senses of the word). But as Douglas is a man who knows his claret from his Beaujolais, I had to wanted something a bit special. So I picked the new Fabulous Bakers Brothers book off my desk – it had a chapter called “Things Men Like to Make,” and Douglas was a man, so it was a sure fire winner.

I’ll admit, I’ve not seen any episodes of their new Channel 4 show. I’ve meant to – they’re all stacked up and waiting on my Sky box – but, well, watching Shipwrecked has been prioritised over them (ohmygod! Anna! whaddabitch etc). Anyway, Caitlin Moran, head of that sixth form girls-esque group who rule Twitter, has already proclaimed them the worst human beings who have ever lived, so forming my own opinion on them seems pointless and obsolete. Anyway, at least one of them is quite fit (I’m never quite sure which one).

I began cooking three hours before Douglas, our friend Jo, and my boyfriend arrived. As a starter I chose their Fish Finger Sarnies with Tartare Sauce, which comes with the pleasing directive to “eat whilst looking at a rainy window and thinking the world isn’t so bad when you’ve got a fish finger sarnie.” We didn’t do that – we ate with a glass of Sunday Times Wine Club Champagne (which expert Douglas assured me “smelt pretty good”) and constant proclamations from me about how fun and easy they were to make, and gasps from everyone else how about awesome they were.

The Baker Boys fish fingers. To be eaten looking at the rain, apparently

And they were actually pretty good. “Who bothers to make their own effing fish fingers?” I grumbled to myself as I laid out a plate of flour, a bowl of milk and egg, and a plate of breadcrumbs as my action station. But the process appealed to my obsessive nature: roll, shake, dip, roll, repeat until you have eight fish fingers ready to shallow fry just before serving. As for the homemade tartare sauce, all it took was to chop a couple of capers, mix them with some gherkins, herbs and mayonnaise, and you had Douglas claiming it was the best tartare sauce he’d ever tasted. And he eats out for a living.

I felt like a proud dad. They worked! And were easy! And I almost ruined them by running out of butter and covering the bread in Utterly Butterly!

But then the night went downhill. “I’m following the book exactly,” I’d explained to Douglas and Jo as they arrived. “So anything that goes wrong is their fault, not mine. Of course, if it goes right, I’ll take the credit too.” Sadly, the good name of the Fabulous Baker Brothers got besmirched over the event of my Beef Wellington.

Their version of Beef Wellington. Mmm, meaty stuff that men like to cook…

It sounded easy enough. You seared the meet – that was fine, even when a bit of blood spattered on my fluffy white alpaca slippers – and then wrapped it in the leaves of a savoy cabbage with some wild mushrooms before encasing it in the pastry. “Don’t leave any holes in the cabbage casing,” the book warned, “that’s what will ruin the pastry!” It was impossible not to leave holes – the leaves just didn’t stick to each other. I bunged the whole thing in the oven anyway, forgot about it, and then nearly had a meltdown as I had to serve up a disintegrating mess. The meat was uncooked at the 1 hour time directive – I had to break my own rule about how I’m not meant to break any rules. “You can’t serve it this raw, you’ll poison them,” said my boyfriend as he hacked of thick chunks and quick fried them in a hot pan. The meat was tough and stringy. The pastry soggy and limp. The whole thing looked like a pile o’crap, or deconstructed, if you will.  “Your broccoli is nice,” Douglas said gallantly, as I poured another glass of fizz.

My Beef Wellington. Meaty stuff that men don’t like to eat

The Rhubarb Queen of Puddings fell somewhere in the middle. The filling, poached with vanilla, sugar, orange zest and rosemary, was possibly the tastiest version of rhubarb I’ve ever had – and it smelled incredible whilst cooking. The base was fine to begin with, although the command to cook for 10-20 minutes, or until golden, actually meant it had to stay in the oven for 40. The Italian meringue was pretty good too – prepared by melting the sugar in the water until it got to 121C, and then pouring it into the beaten egg whites. With one hand on the electric whisk and another on the thermometer I had my second meltdown of the night. “Will!” I shouted at my boyfriend, who was busy getting drunk with the others in the living room. “I need you to hold this!” Thrusting the thermometer into his hand whilst I carried on beating the eggs, he looked at it rationally as it stuck at 106C. “It’s not going to get any hotter – it’s water,” he explained calmly, as if talking to an infant.

Their Rhubarb Queen of Puddings.To be fair, it does look pretty gay

Following a verbal tirade I accepted he had a point and poured the liquid into the eggs – it created the glossiest, smoothest meringue I’ve seen. The whole thing went into the oven happily. “Well, the pudding will be a success,” I boasted.

It tasted a lot better than it looked. The base would have made a nice cocktail, maybe?

“Why is the base so watery?” Jo asked 20 minutes later, looking at her meringue-covered rhubarb soup. “Can I have more of the topping?” Verdict: it tasted good, but looked like sick. Ah, but at least one of the Fabulous Baker Boys is hot.

Cost of ingredients, to serve 4: £37.87 (not including items already in store cupboard)

Starter: * * * * *

Main: No stars

Pudding: * * (for the meringue and aromatic rhubarb)

Easiness * *

Overall marks:  4/10 – the fish fingers were excellent, some of the bread recipes look good, and one of the Brothers is kinda pretty.

The Fabulous Baker Brothers: As Seen on Channel 4 by Henry Herbert and Tom Herbert

Published by Headline. Official photographs by Chris Terry.

Full of Flavour by Maria Elia – The Review

Maria’s chicken. How hard can a spatchcocking be?

“You need to spatchcock the chicken. Calm down, it’s not as scary as it sounds!” begins the recipe, complete with its own friendly exclamation mark, for Slow-Roasted Paprika Chicken with Butternut Squash, Smashed Butter Beans and Tomatoes. Obviously I panicked. The vague instructions spoke about cutting off the wing tips with scissors and then chopping out the backbone. Mid-meltdown, I made my boyfriend do it. “Shall we watch a video on youtube?” he asked. But that’s against the rules – the plan is to cook every recipe exactly as the book says, using only the book and no initiative, to judge how good it really is.

Fortunately my boyfriend is made of sterner stuff, and with the chicken now as spineless as me I was able to make the simple marinade and stick it in the fridge overnight.

The next morning, hungover, and with guests arriving in three hours for lunch, the act of cooking felt like too much. You know when you’ve drunk too much and everything is an effort, and why is there no Lucozade in the house and who are all these new characters in Hollyoaks? Yes, that.  Anyway, I took to my bed in a fit, bemoaning that preparing the parsnips three different ways for my Truffled Parsnip Salad starter was more than I could bear. In fact, two hours later, showered and almost without the sicky feeling the previous night’s wine had caused, it wasn’t. Cubing two and frying them in a lake of butter, roasting two more in the oven (the book said for ten minutes, or until golden brown – this actually took 30) and turning two more into a puree was as difficult as the whole meal got. Every stage was simple, the flavours in each – truffle oil with the cubes, sage with the roasts, milk in the puree – seeming like they could never be anything but delicious.

Maria’s Truffle Parsnip Salad. Everyone loves a good threeway

My replica. Liderally as amazing as it looked

And the chicken couldn’t have been easier too. Slowly roasting for two hours with the butternut squash, there was nothing to do but baste it every half hour, then add the beans at the very end. Obviously, post-strop, I was behind schedule, and our two guests arrived, on time, once it had been cooking for 30 mins. “Who turns up punctually to a Sunday lunch?” I bitched to my long-suffering boyfriend as Matt and Mark arrived with two bottles of prosecco and a bunch of lillies. “Lovely to see you,” I said cheerfully. “Hope you’re not hungry, dinner won’t be for aaaaaaages.” As the whole flat filled with the smell of paprika-y goodness we broke out the cheese Doritos. They’re practically a palette cleanser, right?  

My chicken. Almost the same, right? Note the lack of crushed beans. Bitch gotta work for them

The best thing about this dinner was that there was now nothing I needed to do, except wait. We drank the fizz, had a chat, and opened another bag of salt and vinegar Kettle chips – it was the most relaxed and non-stressful three course Sunday lunch ever. The meat was tender, juicy, full of flavour, the squash and beans the perfect accompaniment. It was a dish that looked impressive, smelt amazing, and yet you felt almost sheepish for how easy it was – spatchcocking notwithstanding. The only difficulty came when the book said to mash the butter beans in the roasting dish – but they were all mixed up with the tomatoes and butternut squash, and a pool of incredible juice.  I half heartedly managed to crush a few but as they started to make a mush with the tomatoes I gave up and served them whole.

Maria’s trifles. Sweet. Yes, really.

My mother never swears, instead using “Rhubarb” as a cuss word. We don’t know why, we’ve stopped questioning it, just one of those things mums do like ironing old wrapping paper to be re-used after Christmas, or recording Songs of Praise. To me, though, rhubarb is the most perfect ingredient, so tasty and easy and versatile. The Rhubarb, Rosewater and Ginger Trifle didn’t let me down – the whole course took just a few minutes to make after I’d put the chicken in the oven and tasted as creamy and perfect as a pudding can be. Obviously, mine didn’t look as neat as the ones in the book’s picture, but then it still goes down the same way, amiright?

And the homemade version. Not *too* shabby

Every plate of every course was returned clean, and after my unnecessary strop, which I’m blaming on the hangover rather than the recipes,  it was easier than pouring another glass of wine. “I’m going to buy this book,” said Mark, leafing through it over coffee after lunch, stopping at a Middle Eastern Inspired Eton Mess which mixes Turkish Delight into the meringue. And I would recommend you do the same.

Cost of ingredients, to serve 4: £28.73 (not including items already in store cupboard)

Starter: * * * * *

Main * * * * *

Dessert * * * * *

Easiness * * * * (Spatchcocking? Really?)

Overall marks: 9.5/10

Maria Elia: Full of Flavour

Published by Kyle Cathie. Official pictures by Jonathan Gregson.

Coming Soon: Full of Flavour Maria Elia

Full of Flavour is one of those books that, hungover, you leaf through bemoaning the fact that nobody is on hand to make any - just one - of the recipes, all of which look amazing, and truly what you feel like right now, and why are they all such an effort and how come there isn’t any Lucozade left, and oh, God, perhaps you’re not quite ready for food yet after all…

Well, this Sunday I’m going to pick a starter, main, and pudding, and make all three exactly as I’m told. And there is every likelihood that yes, I’ll be hungover.