Braaing in Toronto

Lunch last Sunday, as you know, was at Roots, and pretty fabulous, too. However, not all good Sunday lunches require a day in the country, and a hole in the bank balance. This Sunday, for instance, we had a pretty mean Sunday lunch, too: on this occasion, deeply roasted crispy vegetables – beetroot and endives, new potatoes, red and yellow onion and shallotts – artfully arranged on square black platters with slices of just-pink barbecued kudu, coated in a crunchy paste of garlic, rosemary, olive oil, cracked black pepper and sea-salt, and accompanied with a quince and chili jam that I bought at a country deli when I was down in Durban recently. In short, this time we did it ourselves. After lunch we transferred the coals to the firepit and built up the fire and sat warming ourselves in the late afternoon sunlight – we need to do these kinds of things, you see, while we can.

For this morning, we went online and booked my ticket for Toronto – departing 13 December via Zurich, arriving on the 14th. Rob has just to change her own ticket, to coincide with mine – and suddenly, we have a date, and a deadline.

Like I say, we need to visit Kruger, and spend a winter weekend in Dullstroom, and plan a West Coast vacation as we drive back to Johannesburg after my mom’s 80th birthday in Cape Town, on 3 December – we need to do all of these South African things, while we can.

I figure it will be a little difficult, in Toronto, to pick up a fine piece of kudu rump for our Sunday braai – and you wouldn’t want to be sitting outdoors, anyway, in December.

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Butternut Soup

Tags

Forum Homini, Roots Restaurant

Rather than rattle through the entire Sunday menu at Roots, where Rob and I celebrated our first six months of married life as we basked in the golden sunshine and tawny light of the highveld winter, the mirrored surface of the dam before us and the wood-and-glass elegance of the restaurant at our backs, let me share with you a sense of just one dish: the first course, after an amuse bouche – Butternut Soup.

Not just any butternut soup: this was presented as a scoop of – wait for it – curry ice-cream (yes, curry ice-cream) in the deep centre of a wide-rimmed white bowl; and when the bowls had been carefully centred on the perspex place-mats before us, through which we could read the six-course Lunch Menu and the list of Wine Teasers, a waiter came round with a tall silver jug from which she poured a careful measure of silkily refined, smoothly orange butternut soup.

A work of art, indeed: a study in colour, texture, temperature and taste that set the scene for what was to follow – and what was to keep us occupied, interested, entertained and absorbed well into the late afternoon.

What the heck, let me spell it out for you – prawns perched on a corn salsa with squid ink pasta, hondashi froth and sauce meuniere; chive crusted cob on tomato smoor lentils with peas and lemon cream; confit duck with a celeriac puree, honey-roasted beetroot, mange tout and truffle jus; a green apple sorbet to cleanse the palate; strawberry chocolate tart with creme anglaise and pistachio ice-cream; and finally (excepting, that is, the coffee and hand-made chocolates) a Danish Blue Cheese Cake with pears, walnuts and rocket.

On the drive back home, through the fading light that spread across the ancient rolling hills of the Magaliesberg, we joked about who was going to make the supper, and what we should have. And then we did nothing. How could we, after such an experience?

Moules Mouclade

Tags

cookery, mussels, Peter Godwin, racism, reconciliation, Robert Carrier, Zimbabwe

Hands up, any of you who’ve had moules Mouclade today? This week? Does anyone know what moules Mouclade is?

Moules Mouclade, my friends, is a dish of mussels (you knew it was something to do with mussels, at least, didn’t you?), a little recipe tucked away after the moules mariniere in Robert Carrier’s Great Dishes of the World, and hitherto unnoticed in this man’s kitchen. The Carrier, you may recall, was a gift from Rob, who, since it is out of print, tracked down online a second-hand copy and brought it all the way here from Canada. Did I mention that story, before?

So here’s what you do. First, you stew some chopped onion in a little butter, until it is soft and translucent. Add some white wine, bay leaf, thyme and parsley (I used dried tarragon instead, which worked beautifully) and simmer for a good 10-15 minutes. Now you have a lovely broth in which to simmer the mussels until they are done; and when done, you remove the mussels and add some cream to the pan. Another 10-15 minutes of simmering, until you have a thick, slightly piquant, savoury sauce – I added a dash of cayenne at this point, which gave just a tiny edge to the dish – and then the mussels go, out of the shell, and covered with the sauce and a light sprinkling of dried breadcrumbs, into a hot oven to bake for a few minutes. I waited just until the breadcrumbs were toasted, and tucked straight in. A dish fit for, rich enough for, a whole tribe of kings – fabulous, ek se!

Less to my taste, I have to admit, is a book I am reading at the moment, Peter Godwin’s When a Crocodile Eats the Sun. Billed as ‘a memoir of Africa’ it may fairly be typecast as white Rhodesian lit. There is a subtly ingrained reflex in the prose which consistently portrays black people as other, which objectifies and labels them, and drains them of individuality and humanity. Less obvious, perhaps, to an overseas reader, but quite apparent to a white South African such as myself; is the absence of history. The horrors which the narrative unfolds, of life under Robert Mugabe’s misrule, are located in a country without a past. The story begins after independence; memory, history and white culpability are assumed to be erased at that singular point in time, and all that follows is the inevitable decline of a once-prosperous land under the tyranny of Mugabe and the idle and vicious mobs of self-proclaimed ‘war vets’ who invade and lay waste to hitherto peaceful and productive white farms.

Admittedly, I am only half-way through the book; but not once, I think I can safely say, have I caught a hint that Godwin acknowledges, much less feels any remorse for, the organised injustice of white rule before independence, the sins of the Smith regime during UDI, or the horrors of the chimurenga, or war of liberation, in which the white army and special forces inflicted more than their share of atrocities – as a fellow Zimbabwean, and far more honest writer, Alexandra Fuller, does in her books, for example.

There are two cautionary tales here, not one. One is the familiar tale, of ‘going the way of Zimbabwe’ – a whispered tale that white people here, too, can be heard to mutter, from time to time, when the antics of a Malema, or the corruption of a Police Commissioner, grab the headlines. The other is no less significant, no less important, however: it is the tale of forgetting, and the infinite harm we do, when we deny our own culpability, our responsibility for the past. Without acknowledgement and contrition, there can be no lasting forgiveness, or genuine reconciliation.

This does not mean, for a moment, that I condone Mugabe and his corrupt and vicious regime. Nor, however, do I believe that we here in South Africa are ‘going the way of Zimbabwe’ – unless, perhaps, through our own forgetfulness and cynicism, we end up inadvertently helping matters along.

Elves in the kitchen

Tags

elves, food, Jackson Pollock

There are elves in the kitchen.

Here’s the proof: needing some comfort food, some easy food, I pulled my home made, sauteed & refrigerated mushroom sauce from the microwave, and dropped the whole fucking thing on the floor! shards of glass, gloops of oil, three kinds of mushrooms dried and fresh, a Jackson Pollock action painting scribbled down the cupboard door and splashed across the kitchen tiles.

I did the only thing I could do – splash of olive oil on the farfalle, couple of grinds of black pepper, grated parmesan – and I closed the kitchen door.

That shit can wait till morning!

Fish, flesh and fowl

Tags

bird watching, Fathers Day, food, the human touch, yellowtail

A loud splash made me look up from the Sunday newspaper. From the swimming pool, a dark grey mass of indeterminate shape rose unexpectedly on heavy wings and flew, sodden and clumsy, to the poolside. With its yellow beak it pulled bleakly at its wing and chest feathers, and waddled, plump, pigeon-toed, a few steps forward. It was an African olive-pigeon, the largest of its kind, and I thought for a moment it must somehow have fallen out of the willow tree above. But then, to my surprise, it took to the air again, and crash-landed once more in  the icy water. A few more dunkings, and it took off, low and heavy, into the garden.

Extraordinary. I have never seen a pigeon, of any kind, land on water as if it thought it were some kind of a gull, only heavier and less buoyant, and then repeat the exercise, for all the world as if this were an ordinary, everyday event. Evolution, I thought – either this olive-pigeon will master this trick, this change of identity, and breed itself and its offspring to evolutionary success, or it will simply freeze its sorry ass off, or, lingering one day in the pool until its feathers are wet and heavy as a soaked towel, fail to take off again, and drown.

Yellowtail, with a Spanish twist

It is Fathers Day today, and I made myself rather a yummy lunch. Originally I had in mind the idea of doing duck, but yesterday, at the fishy shop, I saw they had in some beautiful fresh yellowtail, and I bought a small one, whole, and put it in the fridge for today. This morning I paged though some cookery books – Jamie Oliver, Marcella Hazan – and then, in one of my Spanish books, found just the thing: fish drizzled with a sherry-vinegar infusion of olive oil, garlic and a touch of chili, and baked in the oven on a bed of potatoes. It was fabulous – the fish firm and tasty, not dried out, the sherry vinegar giving a little lift to the oil, the chili providing a  dark warm hit, the potatoes a waxy, oily, mildly toothsome base.

There was more than enough for two, and afterwards, after a couple of glasses too of a more than passable chardonnay, I was tempted to go for a little Sunday afternoon snooze. I thought how good it would be, to curl up under the covers with Rob, and drift away – that human touch, the warmth of two bodies at peace together, so much better, much luckier, than tasty fish or sodden fowl.

Hungry Heart

Tags

birthdays, Bruce Springsteen, cookery, farewell party, gifts, music

‘Everybody’s got a hungry heart,’ Bruce Springsteen sings – Rob and I love The Boss, and this is one of his great songs. And these past few days, one particular ‘hungry heart’ – mine – has dined rather well, I have to say. Literally, as well as figuratively.

The literal part is this: braised springbok shanks, which I marinated overnight in wine with shallots, garlic, rosemary, juniper berries and lemon zest, and served yesterday, together with mashed potato with parmesan, and a salad with rocket, watercress, spinach and baby beetroot, at a 25th birthday lunch for Eve and the family. Kathy made individual chocolate soufflés for desert – light, dry, perfectly rounded and perfectly risen – all of which we washed down with plentiful supplies of wine – A 2002 Grangehurst Nikela, a 2000 Baron Philippe de Rothschild that Eve had been given for her 21st birthday, and more plonk than I care to remember. There was, by the end of this feast, neither a clean plate nor glass nor pot nor pan in the house, until Eve, bless her, took it upon herself to do some clearing up. Otherwise, I had promised, I would simply have moved out of the house for a few days, until Grace had been.

I can hear Rob now, tut-tutting off-stage about my white South African ways – and in this case, at least, I have to admit it: I hate doing the dishes, and am only too ready to leave them for my poor helper. I suspect Ms Pazdro may have a little house-training planned for me, especially if we are going to spend part of our time in Canada!

But, one must have a few small faults, non, if one is not to become wholly obnoxious?

It was a perfect day – warm, sunny weather, blue skies, and warmth and love to match, from the children. And Eve was thrilled with her camera – my Nikon D50, with two zoom lenses, a tripod and bag. I would love, I have to say, for one of my children, at least, to turn out to have a passion, and an eye for, photography: a love my grandfather Pooch cultivated in me, with gifts of cameras as I was growing up, and a love I shared with my father, too. One of the few things, in fact, that my dad and I could safely talk about, in those strained and difficult years we so foolishly allowed to come between us before we both grew up and got past it.

Talking of getting past it, Friday was my farewell party at the NBI – a cocktail for the staff and management team, to which my old colleague Ros was also invited, and my two daughters. Somewhere in our hungry hearts, I imagine, we all need to feel recognised and appreciated, and the moments when this happens are meaningful and special to us. The NBI, let me say with gratitude and deep appreciation, really did me proud. There were generous words from the CEO and a warm and heartfelt offering from my colleague, Judith; many kind words from friends and colleagues; and from Gillian, who with her team of helpers had organised the event, a reminder more than once that the whole affair had been organised with love.

It was. It was evident, there, in a dozen thoughtful touches – the delightful singer, Kirsten, who played and sang my favourite songs: Diana Krall, Norah Jones, Renee Olsted and others; in the presence of Ros and my daughters; in the good food and good wine, and simply in being there and having my years as a Director of the NBI acknowledged. There was a very special gift for me, too – a Mont Blanc ‘Starwalker’ pen, aptly named, I thought! I said to Marianne, as she admired it, my next big challenge, to myself, is to publish my novel, adding, jokingly, that when I did, she would have to buy a copy. She would, she promised – and she would fly to Toronto, if necessary, to have it autographed. There was a very generous gift voucher, too, which I only realised later that night, after I had got home, finally, happy and exhausted.

I talked with Rob, and she felt I should spend some of the money on myself, which I have done. But I have told her I want to keep some of the money for us, too, and for the home we will be creating together – the new life, that we are finally beginning.

Kathy told me on Sunday that Gillian had told her, at the party, that the only thing she was sorry about was that Jonathan, and Rob, could not be there. Thank you, Gillian, for thinking of that. And I have to say, I felt it, too. With Rob there, and Jono, this hungry heart would have really been replete.

But I have a deep sense, as I think of these past days, of my many blessings, and the many things I have, still, to look forward to. In August I will visit Rob in Canada, and meet her family in the US; and then I will bring her back with me, to South Africa, stopping off in London along the way to spend a few days with Jonathan and Hayley.

Everybody has a hungry heart; but every now and then, one finds the heart is full.

Why aren’t cookery books written like this?

Tags

cookery, family, food

I enjoy cooking, and I love cookery books. Cookery books are a way of traveling the world, of entering other cultures and histories; they are a form of play and a source of pleasure. Thinking about food, talking about favourite recipes and those chefs who, one feels, one has come to love and understand, feeds the intimacy and attraction between lovers and partners; cooking together recreates and revitalises the human bond between us.

If you are like me, however, you will need to read a new recipe several times before you feel you have gotten the hang of it, and are prepared to commence operations. Why is this so? Well, last night I had a call from Jono, in London, asking how to make chicken stock, and asking for the recipe for coq au vin. As I talked him through the proceedings, the light went on: most cookery books tell you what ingredients to use; they tell you what to do and how to do it. But they do not – and this is generally true, I think – they do not help you to understand what you are doing. You follow the ‘recipe’ quite literally; and if you are a trained chef no doubt you know exactly what is going on – but, until you stop and think about it, unless you stand back and consider the steps and the processes as a whole, you are merely a monkey imitating what human beings do.

So here is how I explained Robert Carrier’s coq au vin, from his Great Dishes of the World, to my son, over the telephone last night to London:

First: the ingredients:

1 chicken, cut up into pieces.

3 tbs butter
2 tbs olive oil
125g good bacon
12 button onions
12 button mushrooms
Seasoned flour
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 sprig thyme
2 bay leaves
2 sprigs parsley
4 tablespoons brandy or cognac, warmed
1/2 bottle red wine
1 lump sugar
1 tbs butter and 1 tbs flour, blended together
A further 2 tbs parsley, for garnish

The first thing you’re going to do is sautee the vegetables in a nice bath of oil, butter and bacon fat. Melt the oil and butter together, and lightly brown the bacon, to flavour the mix. Then add the onions, cook for a bit until they are glossy and take on a little colour, then add the mushrooms. Sautee gently until the mushrooms have browned, then remove all the vegetables and set aside in a warm place.

The next thing you’re going to do is sautee the chicken pieces in the same oil and fat. You want the pieces to ‘stiffen’ nicely in a coating of seasoned of flour, so you need to handle them carefully, without breaking the surface of the flour or puncturing the skin. First you roll the chicken pieces in the seasoned flour, shake off the excess, and then slip them gently, using tongs, into the simmering oil. Turn them over when done on one side, taking care not to puncture the coating, and brown nicely on the other side. As each pieces is done, remove and set aside, until you have browned all of the pieces.

At this point you reassemble the dish and get ready to pop it into the oven to bake. Return the mushrooms, onions, bacon bits and chicken pieces to the casserole, together with all their juices, and sprinkle generously with salt and pepper (I’d use Maldon salt) and add the garlic, thyme, bay leaf and parsley. Cover the casserole and put it into a moderate oven (180 centigrade) until almost tender.

Now for the final step – the vin component of the coq au vin. Remove the chicken pieces (remember, they have been baking nicely in their coating of flour) and the vegetables and bacon once more from the casserole, and skim off any excess fat from the liquids left behind. Put the casserole back on the stove, turn up the heat, pour in the brandy, and light it. Allow the brandy to burn for a minute or two and then extinguish it by pouring in the wine. Add the lump of sugar, bring to the boil, and reduce to half the original volume. Thicken this sauce with the butter and flour mixture, adding it one small knob at a time and whisking to make sure it is properly dissolved and blended into the sauce.

Finally, put all the chicken and the vegetables back into the casserole, with the wine sauce, cover, and allow to simmer in a very slow oven until you are ready to eat. Garnish with finely chopped parsley.

See – it’s easy! So what time should we come over for dinner?

Discovering oysters

Tags

family, food

Sunset at Camps Bay

Cape Town yesterday was a copperplate engraving, precisely delineated in the bold sunlight, washed in the colours of sea and sky, the oak trees flaking green and rust and the clean blue scaffolding of the mountains.

After work I drove my mom round Hout Bay and Llandudno to Camps Bay for a glass of wine and an early dinner. We sat at a pavement café, with our chardonnay, as the sun went down over Camps Bay beach and the evening crowds came out. We ordered crayfish and prawns for our dinner – mom declined at first, saying it was too expensive; but when I asked her, ‘how often do you get spoiled?’ she gladly accepted and, when the food came, tucked in with little exclamations of appreciation.

But the main event, as it were, was the discovery of oysters. Mom confessed she had never had them: and agreed to try one if I ordered a plate. I ordered a half dozen; she slipped one down her throat, and promptly laid claim to half of the remainder. I ordered another plate, and we downed those too – they taste of the sea, she exclaimed, with delight, and they did: meaty, silky, tasting of sea and air.

At the age of 78, mom has discovered oysters! As my kids would say, how cool is that?

Driving back home over the mountains, a huge yellow harvest moon – that is what the Canadians call it – hung low over the darkened peninsula, familiar and friendly, yet a token, too, of our place in the universe.