Ripe London

Parisian Slip

Oops, I did it again.  I’m in Paris, but this time on business.  I tried to communicate this to an inquiring employee at the spectacularly pretty food shop Fauchon.  “Je suis en affaire,” I announced, recalling the phrase book I devoured along with a brownie on the Eurostar last night.  He nodded and politely left me alone, at which point I proudly concluded my French was coming along quite nicely.  Only later did I find out I had come closer to saying I was having an affair, rather than “Je suis en voyage d’affaire,” which means business trip.  I think.  Funny how one little word can do so much!

Fauchon is at 26 & 28-30 pl de la Madeleine, 75008.  These generous spears appeared at an undisclosed market on the other side of town, as one would whether on business or pleasure.

Freeze Frame

Men are born with another, not so obvious, apparatus.  I’m talking about the switch.  You know, the emotional one they can turn on and off.  Quickly.  I was going over this with John while we were having lunch at Whole Foods – he a burrito, me brown-rice sushi.

“You girls analyse far too much.  We find it easier to move on.”

This, of course, was nothing new, though the point bears repeating.  Flashback to a conversation I had weeks earlier with another male friend.  I asked him what makes a man come back to an ex.  “Simple,” he said, “It’s the best sex he ever had.”  Now that was a revelation.  Hmm.

Hmm that I’m about to walk over to the gelato counter.  I ask John what flavour he wants, and he tells me to surprise him.  Astonishing.  I could never leave such a thing up to someone else – holiday destinations, pieces of jewellery, burial plots maybe – but my ice cream flavour?  Never.  But you see, John has the switch – the attachment switch.  Meaning he doesn’t get as attached as we do, because it’s biologically built into him not to.  Survival of man depended on non-attachment – no point standing around waiting to see what the big bear was going to do or why he did it.  This also explains their single-minded focus.  We however, were back at the hearth, mashing the maize, suckling the kids and concocting whatever hijinks must have been needed to keep the hunter bringing back his kill (see: "what makes a man come back" above).

I’m standing at the gelato counter.  I’ve looked at the creamy clouds of colour many more times than I’d like to admit, and John’s scoop comes easily: passion fruit.  It makes me think I should try something new.  Come on, Jess, you can do it.  Just this once.  You can have the usual stuff next time.  Nope, it’s one scoop chocolate, one scoop coconut.  I can’t switch.

By the way, as you’re walking around town make sure you stop and worship wisteria, this gorgeous climbing vine.  It only flowers until June and then it’s gone, until next time…

Blogs on Film

Ripe London made an appearance last night on UKTV Food's Market Kitchen.  Thanks very much to Kevin Braddock for braving it with me and to all the kind people at the show for having me.  I've just spent an absurd amount of time navigating the techie booby traps involved in getting this tiny clip on here, so I hope you get a giggle out of it.  Oh yeah, and don't ever take cake on a date.  Or give away all your pancakes too quickly.

Made to Order

The last time a man chased me down the street, he took off with my bag.  My friend Andrea, however, recently had a man run after her on the street, grab her hand and ask her for a date.  She told me the story at Notting Hill’s Lazy Daisy Café.

“I was walking home wondering why I’m still single when this John Lewis delivery guy stopped me, held my hand and asked my name.”

I put down my forkful of broccoli and feta quiche.  It looks like it has been nuked in the microwave, the natural bright green of the vegetable desaturated to a greyish gunk.  I beg her to tell me more.

“Well, I asked him if he normally holds random women’s hands on the street.”

She’s over-analyzing him, I think, as I peer down at the lacklustre assortment of tinned beans they’ve thrown together with red-pepper flakes and called a salad.

“And he said no, that I was amazing and he couldn’t let me go.  That he had to take me to dinner – if I wasn’t married, that is.  He looked at my finger and said that if I was married he’d go away and be a gentleman, but that he couldn’t let me go without trying.”

This isn’t the first time this has happened to Andrea.  She’s gorgeous, can easily get away with subtracting ten years and always looks like she lives in a fashion photo shoot, which is especially annoying when we’re at something like the Lazy Daisy Café and I’m in my standard can’t-cope-with-transitional-London-weather turtleneck, skinny jeans, furry boots and bike-helmet hair.

Anyway, you may have heard of cosmic ordering, a.k.a. “The Secret” a.k.a. the law of attraction.  Same thing, different marketing spin.  Andrea put out a simple-enough directive to the universe: I want to meet someone.  And the universe delivered swiftly, with brilliant intentional comedy.

My friend rejected the dotting deliveryman, even though she admitted – more than twice – that he was quite good looking.  Why did she say no?  Because he didn’t really fit with her idea of how her man would show up.  That’s the other thing to remember about this cosmic ordering business:  focus on what you want, but leave the how to the powers that be.  Otherwise you turn intention into control, and trying to meddle with Mother Nature always messes things up.

Bottom line: be specific about what you want; you’ll probably get exactly what you ask for.  Now that's service. 

Lazy Daisy Café is at 59a Portobello Road, W11 3DB.  Now you know why they call it “lazy.”

Double Timing

“Listen, I don’t want anything serious.  Just so you know.”

Ah, the eligible bachelor’s disclaimer.  I’ve lost track of how many friends have told me they’ve heard it from men they’ve just started getting close to.  Not that it’s unfamiliar to me.  What’s brand new is that I finally understand these men, because I am these men.

It dawned on me as I was getting ready to order breakfast at one of the few places I am a regular: The Plum in Hammersmith.

As a freelancer, I’ve been playing the field and fobbing off offers of going permanent for years.  The second I hear the word I get shivers up my spine, much like I imagine men feel when they’re hit with the eligible bachelorette’s “where do you see this going?” 

Am I commitment phobic?  Anything but.  I have no trouble – and relish – ongoing dedication to the myriad of people and projects that make up my life.  You know what's coming next: commitment comes when the right one comes along.

Hmm.  Will it be my usual scrambled eggs with smoked salmon – swapping the buttered toast for spinach – or will I go for the more generous veggie breakfast with the beans that bleed onto the potatoes?

It’s not that men are non-commital.  The reason they choose not to commit to certain women is so that they have the space to find the woman who makes them want to commit – either because of actual or perceived freedom.

Oh, but those pancakes over there look nice.  Nevermind, I can make them better at home.

We need to re-plate commitment.  I’m not talking about long-term.  Commitment isn’t about looking five years ahead, it’s about deciding to be fully present in the moment.  And you can’t really do that when you’re otherwise engaged.  Try typing an email and having a phone conversation at the same time.  Our brains aren’t wired to do it.  You end up cheating at least one other person as well as yourself.

I’m staring at the menu even though I’ve seen it a hundred times.  It hits me that while I’m pondering the array of options, the more I hesitate the further away I am from actually enjoying any of them.

Funnily enough, we’re programmed so that commitment to a single focus at any given moment – whatever it is – is the only way to gain the most enjoyment from it.  For our ancestors it meant the difference between having lunch and being someone else’s breakfast.  But men are far from being the only ones to blame.  Women must take responsibility for fostering this ovary-minded mentality that forces a displaced focus on an infinite number of variables rather than what’s actually on the table right now.

Café Plum is at 17 Crisp Road, London W6 9RL.  I go for my usual but throw in a hot chocolate just because.  It’s a good thing the Plum will be there for me next week, and the week after next.

Room for Seconds

A few weeks ago I hatched my plan to set up Krista with a fellow gastronome of the male variety.   No experience needed – Krista would take care of that – only a hearty appetite and oh yes, good teeth.  Well, she has just posted about her first date with The Economist; and, even though I am intrigued by this "time and aggravation theory" and am certain they enjoyed a nice banter about maternity benefits over the baby squid, I'm feeling there might yet be room for another hungry gentleman to, as they say, get in there.  In other words, I think Krista is still on the market.  So what's your amuse-bouche waiting for?

Paradise Waiting

Maybe you’ve heard it before, but only last month I came across a theory about heaven and hell that has completely re-framed my view of existence.  The idea goes that this is heaven if we choose to make it or, as my friend Jen said when we were munching on Exmouth market salad the other day, “Everything is right here.”

It’s easy to see the validity in this if you just look around.  I mean really look around.   A perfect cluster of grapes, the beauty of flowers that no painter can improve upon.  Is this not heaven?  And if you want more proof, just travel.  Yesterday I happened to run into someone I met in Thailand.  It took me a few moments to place the face; after all that was a timeless time of sand between my toes and coconut shakes within my grasp.  Now, I was at Canteen in Southbank on a still-wintry day, deciding whether to have smoked mackerel and potato salad or the eggs Florentine – a quite heavenly circumstance in itself.  Still, memories of paradise came in waves.  The bursts of colour, the way the beach turned to liquid silver at sundown.  Was that not heaven?

This is heaven if we choose to make it.

It’s at once an uplifting and terrifying proposition considering the world’s state of affairs.  As for hell, the theory goes that it isn’t a place but rather the inability to experience the heavenly pleasures we have right here.  In other words: death.   But would the scores of oppressed people alive today call this paradise?  As another friend always said, “It’s all relative.”

This is heaven if we choose to make it. 

I chose the mackerel and potato salad that came out of the sea and out of the earth and out of…what?  We don’t know.  What we do know is that we have an amazing creative intelligence to use the mystery and wonder of our existence for the greater good.

The myriad of expressions we can use to love rather than hate. 

This is where we go wrong, and where the theory gains even more strength. This is heaven only if we give up the fruitless struggle for power and treat each other with the kind of reverence you’d reserve for heaven.

Canteen is at Royal Festival Hall, Belvedere Rd, SE1 8XX.  But only if you go see Mark Ravenhill's important short plays first.

Halve Your Cake

My good friend Jamie likes to remind me that I refused to share a single dessert the first time we met for lunch at a “Cuban” restaurant in New York’s East Village.  I must admit it’s true.  I argued that not sharing this course is a selfless act rather than a selfish one  – ordering two meant there was more for everyone and the chance to try someone else’s.  Yes, that was it.

How things change.  Eight years later and metabolic rate slowing, I find myself in Fulham with Joanne, my new Irish friend and natural-born comedienne.  We’re at Del’aziz, a Mediterranean market/café that happens to serve enormous pieces of cake.  I wish I had thrown something in the photograph for scale: these things are at least two-and-a-half times the size of ordinary portions.  I’ve never even seen anything in America like it.  When I ask Jo if she wants to share, she doesn’t find it very funny.

She gets the vanilla one, which of course leaves me no choice but to go for the chocolate – both layered with meringue bearing jewels of strawberry and dried apricot.  Jo is tiny, but I watch her demolish her slice at an impressive rate.  As she does, I tell her about my plan for fixing up Krista and ask her why her many male friends haven’t set her up with one of their own.  She puts her fork down and picks up the phone.  “I’m sitting here with my new friend Jess, and she has just rightly pointed out that you should set me up.  Why haven’t you set me up – do you secretly fancy me?”  Genius.  I was in awe of her confidence and directness.  But you definitely need an Irish accent to pull something like that off.

Her friend answered with an “Uh, I don’t know.”  I soon realised that all the blind dates I’ve been set up on have been instigated by women.  And here’s Jo, whose male friend had never thought to offer a piece of his own cake – I mean clan.  For the first time in a few minutes, I peeled my eyes away from the last bit of frosting on my plate and saw that the entire room was mostly filled with swarms of women bent over their massive slices, forks guarding them like daggers.  Obviously, it was lost on the few men in the room that this might not be a bad place to bring a single friend.  Or was it?  Was Harry right when he told Sally that men secretly desire their women friends, or do they just not like to share?

Del’aziz is at 24 - 32 Vanston Place, SW6 1AX. …and eat it two.  Sorry, I couldn’t help it.

Everything Counts in Small Amounts

It was about halfway through our, oh, third amuse-bouche – a miniature fish bowl swirled with custard and coulis – that I realised this wasn’t right.  It was a Saturday night.  This was The Ledbury in Notting Hill, sparkling with as many accolades as the series of delights that dotted our table.  It was romantic, mood-lit, and the food was so well plated it could have hung from the walls.  And I was sitting there with Krista.

What the hell was going on?  Why wasn’t Krista there with one of the sensitive, yet street-savvy men who must read her daily gastro musings?  Where is the lucky guy who’d lend her a sip of his lentil and truffle soup, cleverly costumed as cappuccino?  How come he’s not there ordering her third bitter lemon (Krista has worryingly given up these days)?  Why isn’t a thoughtful man contemplating the layers of sea bream, Poilâne and crab with this most curious diner?  Who is meant to be pushing that last melting dollop of orange and cardamom ice cream onto her creamy vanilla date tart?

As our bellies swelled and we dunked our spoons into the final petite surprise of crème brûlée with green apple sorbet – in the kind of slow motion you use when you know the pleasure is coming to an end – I vowed to rectify the situation.  So here’s mysinglefoodiefriend missive: if you’re a man anywhere in your thirties, available, have a discerning appetite and good teeth to indulge it (Krista’s special request), then email the answer to this question to me at ripelondon[at]btinternet[dot]com:

What amuse-bouche would you be and why? 

And I’ll set you up.  Do it before Krista changes her mind, and certainly before she decides to pull something like this on me.  “But I need to help you, too,” she said after I came up with my plan.  “Don’t worry about me, Krista,” I replied after a mouthful of sorbet, “It will come."

The Ledbury is at 127 Ledbury Road, W11 2AQ.  Arrive with an empty stomach and an open mind.

In Due Course(s)

I’ve talked about time before – both its relevance and relativity – but not so much about timing.  You don’t plant a seed in the ground and dig it up the next day to see why it hasn’t sprung.  There’s an innate intelligence there that makes it happen.  Yet we ignore this all the time in our lives: pushing and prodding so that we stunt things before they have a chance to bloom.  Why do our species believe we are beyond the laws of the very nature we are inextricably a part of?  Patience is not merely a virtue; it’s vital.

And then there’s timing.  At a group dinner at Haozhan in Chinatown, the conversation turned towards meeting “the one.”  I put it in quotes, because most everyone agrees that the idea of there being a single match is a fantasy, and a destructive one at that.  It’s both encouraging and completely self-defeating when you’re single.  When you’re coupled up, believing the one you’re with is the only one for you at once drives you to commitment and sets up expectations that are impossible to fulfil.   You can’t win.  And, given the fact that the only constant is change, the idea of “the one” becomes even more preposterous.

Chilli soft-shell crab arrives.  I zone out of the conversation for a bit.  The batter is airy and sea-salty; the crab pulls apart without resisting.  In one mouthful my mind fills with memories of both South Thailand and Tomoe in New York. 

“It’s all about timing,” says a friend.  The crab is crumbs now, and I’m chasing them around the plate with chopsticks. “Yeah, you can meet the right person at the wrong time,” adds another.

Pause.  I’m not sure about this one.  In my mind, there is no wrong time.  Life gives you exactly what you need when you need it.  Every moment is the right time.  If not, it’s not the right person.  And even that’s not entirely accurate, because “the wrong” person was still exactly right for you at that time in your great journey.

I’ve read that soul mates are the people who come into our lives to mirror what needs changing, and the connection is so intense it’s naturally short lived.  These are the people you’ve been with where the fire burned so bright you eventually have scars to show for it.  It feels like pulling teeth, because it is – it’s your old self making way for the new – and then there’s more pain when the new teeth grow in.  You’ll remember these connections as the hot stuff in your life, and they’re your greatest teachers – somewhat like my crab, which pales in comparison to the truly searing stuff I had at Bar Shu in SoHo. 

Had I not met Bar Shu before, I might have thought Haozhan was the deal.  It was Bar Shu that showed me I could do spicy without a glassful of water between every bite.  But it was Haozhan that proved to me there’s no need to prove anything at all.

Haozhan is at 8 Gerrard Street, W1D 5PJ and Bar Shu Bar is at 28 Frith Street, W1D 5LF.  Take your pick, any time.

Carrot or the Shtick

I really dislike the expression “working from home,” not least because it implies skiving off and that it’s inferior to working out of the office.  I much prefer “working at home.”  I could write a dissertation on why I think offices should be banned, but I don’t think that’s why you’re here.  Or that I really need to tell you.  So just lean back into that ergonomic swivel chair, and we’ll get down to business.

I’ve been working out of my favourite office this week: i.e. my dining table.  It means I’m spending quite a bit of time in the kitchen.  And since a reader recently asked for more recipes, I thought it was the perfect time to experiment – that and the fact that I subscribe to a vegetable box scheme and was drowning in organic carrots.

Ooh, allow me to indulge the at-home thing for another minute.  I’m sure many of you get your fruit and veggies delivered from a farm, and they’re waiting for you on the doorstep or in the bikeshed when you come home from the office.  Hopefully, not behind the bikeshed.  I had someone explain this to me recently, and it was a bit embarrassing. 

Anyway, coming home to your box of goodness, thrilling as it is, is nothing compared to being there in the flesh – bathrobe and slippers strategically left on – to welcome said delivery.  It fills me with happiness to no end.  I mean, there really should be no other way.

In case you’re wondering, I’ve gone the popular Abel and Cole route for some time, but someone recently tipped me on to Riverford, so I decided to give them a try.  They have a farm down in Devon, and I’m already liking what I see – and taste.

It was time to roll-up the waffled-cotton sleeves and dust off my cookbooks.  The one I keep turning to again and again is Mollie Katzen’s Moosewood Cookbook, one of the few items that made the brutal cut in my move from New York.  I bought it at the legendary Strand bookstore, and if I think too much about the place it’ll make me cry.

The amazing thing about Mollie’s Gingered Carrot Soup is its creaminess without a drop of cream.  The secret?  Cashews, lightly toasted in a skillet before puréeing them with everything else.  And since I don’t think I’ve ever been faithful to a recipe, I tweaked it a bit – including substituting leeks for the onions because I love them and because Whole Foods had them on sale.  Here’s my version.  Eat it at your cubicle if you must, but at least promise me you’ll slip off your shoes.

Gingered Carrot Soup
Adapted from The Moosewood Cookbook by Mollie Katzen
Makes six to eight silky servings

2 lbs carrots
4 cups water
1 tbs butter
4 leeks, ends trimmed
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbs ginger, minced
2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp cumin
1/4 tsp cinnamon
handful of fresh mint leaves
half a lemon
1 cup cashews

*Slice the green parts from the leeks, rinse and wrap in a cheesecloth.  This step is actually optional, but it gives the soup more flavour. And how many times do you get to use your cheesecloth, anyway?  Slice remaining white parts lengthwise and rinse to remove any trapped dirt.   

*Peel and trim the carrots, then cut them into one-inch chunks.  Place in a medium-large saucepan with the water, cover and bring to a boil.  Add the cheesecloth of leeks, cover, lower the heat, and simmer until very tender (about 10-15 minutes).

*Meanwhile, heat the butter in a small skillet.  Slice the white part of the leeks, add to skillet and sauté over low heat for about five minutes.  Add the garlic, ginger, salt, spices and mint and continue to sauté for another eight to ten minutes, or until everything is well mingled and the onions are very soft.  Turn the heat off and squeeze the lemon over.  Pour over carrots.

*Dry-fry the cashews over moderate heat, shaking the pan frequently so they don’t burn.  Purée everything together in a blender.  You will need to do this in several batches.  Eat right away or transfer to containers and freeze. 

The colour of this soup reminds me of the saffron robes Buddhist monks wear in Thailand.  I tell you, robes are destined to be the new business casual.

It's Not Them. It's Me.

I’m breaking up with Covent Garden, at least for the time being.

Will the Brazilian waitress at Hazuki wonder if I grew tired of my usual sea-salted mackerel and bottomless cups of green tea?  “Maybe it just wasn’t exciting enough for her,” she’ll worry, as she dashes between the lower and upper floors with trays of tempura and spreads of silken sashimi.

And I can just picture the overzealous Philippine and Italian waiters at Masala Zone, looking glumly out the windows for my small self, thinking perhaps they heaped on the charm – and the chapattis – a bit too much.

Or maybe the busy, well-travelled cooks at World Café, witnessing yet another week go by without my patronage, finally take chalk to board and slash those filet-mignon prices from their mini falafels.  On the other green-thumbed hand, is it finally time for Food for Thought to ponder giving me some breathing room down there?

Will Kastner and Ovens of Kastner and Ovens think their addictive offerings put me over the glycemic edge – I mean index – propelling me to seek refuge in the arms of something more (blood-sugar) stabilising?

I highly doubt it, and they’d be wasting their time if they did.  It had nothing to do with any of them.  My freelance gig there has simply come to an end, and it is time to move on.  So whether or not I need some space, I’m getting it.

I was thinking about this on Valentine’s Day, as one would.  How many times have we, as dumpees, agonised over what could have driven our love away?  We re-play scenarios to pinpoint the exact axis of interaction that made our beloved decide they just weren’t into us.  And if you are usually the dumper, don’t feel left out – what goes around usually comes right back at you.

There is a particular species of monkey that can be trapped and captured quite easily.  All you have to do is take a box and carve a whole in it just big enough for the monkey to put his hand through.  You drop a nut into the hole and wait for the monkey to grab it.  When he tries to pull his hand out, guess what?  He can’t.  Gripping the nut, he tries and tries to release himself from the binds of the box.  What’s the one thing he needs to do?  Drop the nut.  But he won’t, because at that moment he acts like it’s the only nut in the world.  He’s willing to forsake a whole future of nuts for that one inside the box.

Can you imagine if we refused to leave the womb because it was so cosy in there?  Or mourned the loss of our baby teeth because we thought we'd never chew again?  So why do we often act like that monkey?

Sometimes you need to drop the nut and walk away from the box.  It's the only way to live.  There are lots more nuts out there; I guarantee it.  Make sure you try them before you just can't chew no more!