Ripe London

Not-Quite Whole Foods

So I move from New York to London only to wind up in…New York?  By the looks of this photo, yes.  But oh, “Whole Foods”, how you do tease me.  Look closer and you will see a British shop opposite.  And this – make no mistake – is a very British Whole Foods.

You know I have nothing against the British.  Au contraire.  I moved here, by choice.  I happen to love it here.  But if Waitrose launched in New York and I were British, I would certainly expect to find British food and British brands there.  Wouldn’t you?

Not so at “Whole Foods.”  It is a fantastic store in its own right, and I am over the moon about it.  But Whole Foods as I knew it, it is not.  When I asked one of the staff if they carried mac and cheese, I could have been speaking in Japanese (of which they actually have a very nice section).  What, no mac and cheese in a store that is obviously catering to a large number of American ex-pats?  Up I went to the little suggestion box.

But let’s talk about what’s good at “Whole Foods.”  It has only been open a week, and I’ve already been three times.  That tells you how compulsive I am, but it’s also because the place is so huge that I was there for a whole two hours the first time and still didn’t see all of it.  By the time I left I looked like a cycling street merchant with bags hanging off my handlebars, sticking out of the basket and lumped into my rucksack (backpack).

When you walk in they hit you with the bakery, presumably so you cannot fit anything else into your basket and have to come back.  Incidentally, I am loving these taller baskets that you pull along like a suitcase.  Three words: Flour Power brownies.  They have them here, 1p cheaper than at Borough!  A sourdough loaf was good but not enough to put Le Pain Quotidien around the corner out of business.  And rosemary raisin bagels: never seen them in New York, but very good.  Put a scrambled egg in it with one of the many farmhouse cheddars from the cheese room and grind some pepper on top.  Fantastic.

Amigos, there is a fine Mexican section!  Can you hear my cries of utter joy?  We’re talking organic tortillas.   We’re talking tinned (canned) refriend beans in both pinto and black.  They were on sale – as if they need to convince me.  Ha! 

Now about this egg mountain.  I want to see how long this lasts, this massive lump of loose eggs that you put into crates yourself.  Very cute, and I’m impressed by the trust they are placing in us.

Maple syrup:  I’m convinced I keep Vermont producers in business over here, and now I have about six syrups to choose from.  My banana pancake ritual just got more fun.

Granola!  Yes, and it’s not called muesli!  At least four different varieties in those handy-dandy bulk dispensers.  Again, “Whole Foods” is actually trusting that people can figure out how to weigh everything, then queue (line up) and print out little labels.  But this is Britain, and so far it’s working.

The produce department is just beautiful, though I question the prevalence of New Zealand apples in a store supposedly championing local, sustainable food.  In Britain.

The antipasto section is sure to change the face of picnicking in nearby Hyde Park.  They’ve got tubs of stuffed vine (grape) leaves here, and they’re good – plus anything else you’d want to nibble and not cook.

I’m told that more American brands will be imported by September, so I will report back.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want London to turn into New York.  I just think this shop is misrepresenting the Whole Foods name, on an unnecessarily large scale.  You can almost hear the nearby smaller health food shops shaking in their Birkenstocks.

Me?  The only reason to go to Waitrose now is for you know what.  But "Whole Foods" had better get on the mac and cheese.

Whole Foods is in the old Barkers building at 63–97 Kensington High Street, W8 5SE.  Make sure you leave a whole lotta time.

Higher Love

Once in a while, something catches your eye that actually lives up to its looks.  And so it was yesterday when I was pushing my bike through the Hammersmith farmers market, which, I may add, is never an easy task.

I managed to poke my head through the crowd just enough to spot swirls of rainbow – raw and ravishing – a kaleidoscope of greens, beans and vegetables.  And all of it was suddenly tempting me far more than the usual brownies next door.  Can you believe?!  This must be what enlightenment feels like.

I ordered the Rainforest Roti Wrap, a massive affair of practically everything in the stall tucked inside soft flat bread made of lentils.  It was divine.  I downed the whole thing. 

Looks good.  Good for me.   See, be careful what you wish for.

Rainforest Creations is at Hammersmith Market on Thursdays and various locations throughout London during the week.  Happy Easter!

Park Life

I’m starting to worry about how much I like being alone.  Is it selfish?  Antisocial?  Just plain weird?  Today I passed up friends’ invitations to Weekender Lovebox and the ponds at Hampstead Heath for several lazy, lone hours of quiet contentment under a tree facing the Serpentine in Hyde Park.  Granted the other two options were a tad out of the way, but I confess my decision had to do with religion.  That is, a faithful devotion to the Sunday paper.

My weekends are anchored by two rituals: banana pancakes on Saturday and the newspaper on Sunday.  The Sunday paper must be read almost in its entirety, beginning with the magazine—to get it out of the way—then the monthly supplement before moving on to the paper itself, which undoubtedly ends with a painful skimming of the travel section.  Reading the travel section is like walking into Harvey Nichols at the end of the month—why bother if you can’t buy?  The only thing I don’t read is the television section because, well, I don’t have one.  If I did, I wouldn’t have the time to also read the paper on Mondays through Saturdays or to make pancakes on the occasional Thursday.  The luxury of being single is that your weekend rituals can happen whenever you please.

It takes quite a while to get through the whole paper, but it must be done; and unless you don’t mind long silences punctuated every now and then by “Listen to this,” I am really not very good company on a Sunday.  So you see, my bouts of voluntary solitude, though not limited to Sundays, are actually selfless, not selfish.

It’s also obvious that, aside from spontaneous exercise, part of the beauty I’ve found in cycling is the freedom it brings from the paradoxical oppression of public transport.   Or, in other words, the opportunities it presents to exercise control freakishness without annoying anyone.  I cut through Hyde Park to get to central London and back, making it all too easy to veer off, lean the bike on the trunk of a hospitable-looking tree and camp out for a while whenever inspiration hits.  Or the hunger for an instant picnic strikes. 

There are plenty of take-away places around the capital that cater to the hungry loner, and many of them are to be found conveniently near our lovely parks.  Skip the high-street, low-on-the-meat sandwich bars, though sometimes they must do in a pinch, as will a tub of hummous and a sleeve of oat cakes. But come on, it’s Sunday.  So if you’re heading to Hyde Park from the West, as I do, pick up bright, seasonal salads and flaky, pesto-and-cheese swirled pastries at the delightful Ottolenghi.  Near Regents Park, try Villandry for quiche or substantial fillings between thick, garlicky focaccia.  Neither of these places are cheap, but when the closest you’ll get to St. Tropez this summer is a bottled tan, at least you’ll be reading Polly Vernon while chewing on some decent bread.

Ottolenghi Kensington is at 1 Holland Street, W8 4NA, with additional branches in Notting Hill and Islington
Villandry is at 170 Great Portland Street, W1W 5QB

Winging It & Wing Yip

I’ve been having lots of “what was I thinking?” moments lately.  This weekend I had several dozen of them.  At least.   I just spent the last four days as a cookery-
demonstration assistant.

Always looking for ways to better my cooking, I thought it would be fun and educational to get involved in recipe demonstrations.  And so, when food writer Celia Brooks Brown asked if I’d be up for helping her at an arts fair in St. Albans, I jumped at the chance.  After all, it was an arts fair.  At the estate of the legendary Stanley Kubrick.  How taxing could it be?  I pictured myself learning new kitchen tricks in between long, lazy wanders around the stalls, checking out paintings and mingling with people in the film business.  Sometimes, when I imagined the weekend, I’d see a twinkling glass of Pimms in my hand, my head thrown back in coquettish laughter at a joke made by a young, dashing up-and-coming chap.  Yes, it would be a lovely break in the English countryside.

Time to wake up and smell the pollen.  The weekend began benignly enough with a trip to Celia’s allotment, sprouting with fat heads of cos lettuce and red-veined greens. This was better than I’d planned—an education in cooking and a gardening lesson to boot!  We gingerly nipped off several bunches from the ground and stuffed them into bags.  And then we nipped and stuffed some more.  Several hours later, I was standing over a kitchen sink silently cursing at the roots of life while washing buckets of leaves.  It was the first of many indications that I really had not thought through this little assisting business.

Before I am accused of being a pampered princess, let me say that I have never owned a dishwasher or hired a cleaner, thank you very much.  (Disclaimer: past performance is not an indication of future results).  It’s just that once again I was filled with deep admiration and respect for those in the catering business.  It’s a tough job, and here was further proof that I’d never survive in a restaurant kitchen.

It also didn’t help that what had begun as a head cold the night before had now developed into a full-blown flu.  By evening my glands were so swollen I couldn’t turn my head.  So, picture me bent over that sink with enough dirty lettuce to fill two lawn bags and executing full-body swivels as if I was wearing a neck brace, and you get a better sense of my plight.

The rest of the weekend was spent prepping for and cleaning up after three demonstrations a day including a sushi-making workshop.  It’s always useful learning what your limitations are, and mine stretch right to the point of teaching grown men how to roll seaweed around cucumbers and sticky rice.  Especially when the activity is inching dangerously close to the start of grown men keeping the ball rolling into the quarter-finals.

I’m making this all sound pretty horrible, when the truth is I did see several artists in action and made new friends, some even in the acting business (street clowns included).  I also came away with lots of new kitchen know-how thanks to Celia's expertise.  Probably the best learning experience began even before we got to the fair when we stopped for ingredients at a huge Asian grocery store in Cricklewood, NW2.  Celia promised it would be an experience, and she was right. 

The first thing that strikes you about Wing Yip, apart from its enormous size, is the cinema-like marquee bearing the store’s name in big block letters along with “Branches in Croydon, Birmingham, Manchester.”  Once inside, prepare to spend some time getting acquainted with the masses of unfamiliar labels.  Aside from fresh exotic produce, there’s a whole aisle devoted exclusively to noodles, another to unbelievably cheap spices and a frozen food section with oodles of dim sum.  There’s also an extensive selection of Japanese products from which I picked up another brand of “wasabi,” but that’s part of a separate, ongoing investigation.

There was so much to take in that I inevitably left with too little, my biggest regret being not snagging an ultra-heavy stone mortar and pestle for an amazing £15.80.  Good thing they have a website, worth checking out just for the copy.  You leave Wing Yip with the feeling of having discovered something rather wonderful, along with a very official-looking full-page receipt that says “For genuine Chinese grocery and the catering trade.”

Another perk of my assisting gig was getting up close and personal with Celia’s addictive and simple one-pan version of pad Thai noodles, three days in a row.

Pad Thai
from New Vegetarian
By Celia Brooks Brown

4 Tbsp. sunflower oil
4 organic eggs
150g / 6 oz. thick rice noodles, soaked in warm water for 5 minutes (half- cooked)
100g / 4 oz. / 3 cups curly kale, ribs removed, or other greens, roughly chopped
4 Tbsp. prepared tamarind*, or 1 Tbsp. tamarind concentrate mixed with 5 Tbsp. water, or 2 Tbsp. lime juice
4 Tbsp. Thai sweet chilli sauce
4 Tbsp. light soy sauce
1 large carrot (approx. 200g / 8 oz. / 1 cup), grated
100g / 4 oz. / 1 cup bean sprouts
4 spring onions / scallions, cut in slivers or sliced

To garnish: 50g / 2 oz. / 1/3 cup roasted peanuts, chopped
fresh coriander / cilantro leaves

Heat wok over a gas flame until very hot. Add oil. Add eggs and noodles and stir. Add everything else consecutively, stirring in between each addition. Stir fry until noodles are cooked. Sprinkle with peanuts and coriander. Serves 4

*To prepare tamarind pulp from a slab, soak in a little boiling water and push through a sieve to remove seeds.

On Wasabi

Flash floods have given way to heinous heat, which is somewhat preferable, if I could actually lie in the breeze under a shady tree.  But no, I am a sniffling, snorting, sneezing mess.  Now, contrary to what you may think, I can assure you that the only white lines I do are in the form of buttercream piping.  I am talking about the hideous little monster known as hayfever. 

I foolishly thought that, having reached the month of June with no allergy symptoms, I was going to experience my first English summer without it.  But I was wrong.  Like everything else these days, it’s just happening a bit later.  And it has been so bad that I finally gave in to drugs. 

So, there I was, watching the World Cup kick-off game (go, England!) on a cocktail of anti-histamine, Sudafed and allergy eye drops.  I was actually doing okay until it was time to go outside for a BBQ.  A flurry of tissues, gradual reddening of the nose and nasal squeak of my voice was drawing attention from the rest of the party.  The unattractiveness of it was of no consequence.  The real issue was that I had to keep my mouth at a constant gape in order to breathe.  And with my sense of smell blocked, the daunting realization that I would be unable to fully taste my food was too much to bear.  I had to leave. 

Depressed and hungry, I sat dabbing at my nose on the crawling Northern Line when, suddenly, I remembered something at the back of my alphabetized spice drawer.  Just the thought of it filled me with renewed glee.  Wasabi.  Also known as Japanese horseradish, the sharp condiment was the only remedy that would do the trick.  A feast of sushi composed itself in my mind; and, as if by magic, the familiar sensation of salivation returned as I anticipated an extra-strong dose of the green stuff.

I can’t stand toothpaste-style wasabi and get mine in powder form from Fusebox, 12 Stoney Street, SE1. All manner of curry pastes, dry spices and bottled sauces can be had at surprisingly reasonable prices.   

Just outside Borough Market, the streamlined shop is also part pan-Asian deli, serving different hot and cold options every day.  If you’re lucky, their exceptional Thai green vegetable curry will make an appearance.  A generous portion with steamed rice is about £5.

Once home, I immediately got to work, making the sushi rice that would be seasoned with vinegar and Mirin, then patted onto nori* sheets and rolled around cucumber matchsticks, avocado slices and snips from a pot of chives.  I cut each roll into bite-sized pieces, set them hurriedly on a rectangular ceramic sushi dish, then sprinkled them with toasted sesame seeds of both the black and beige varieties.  Yes, all of this pomp and circumstance so I would have something to dunk in a (matching) little ceramic dish holding a generous amount of wasabi mixed with soy sauce.  The Japanese, who use wasabi quite sparingly, balk at this, calling it “wasabi soup.”  With all due respect, I was suffering from a lack of oxygen.  Chopsticks in hand and tissue nearby, I dipped and ate.  And waited.  Sure enough, my tongue began to tingle and my nose took it in.  Something was happening.  And it was called taste.

To celebrate, I made a mango lassi for dessert and could perfectly make out the dash of nutmeg I had put in it for kicks.  Some may say that the change in location may have caused the spontaneous clearing of my sinuses.  Or that it was simply a classic case of psychosomatics.  This called for some investigating. 

Thank God for Google.  It turns out that the heat in wasabi, like mustard, creates vapours in the nasal cavity, causing a sensation that can feel like a clearing effect.  In other words, perception isn’t always reality.  What’s more, researchers believe that it actually increases blood flow to the nose, making you more congested! 

But it gets worse.  As I clicked through pages of wasabi worship, I discovered that what I had been buying all this time probably wasn't wasabi at all. True wasabi root is rare and very expensive, even in Japan (which may well explain its frugal use).  What you get in most restaurants and shops is really a combination of horseradish, mustard, cornstarch and green food colouring.

Had I been doped, or duped?  With impending horror, I checked the label on the tin.  Word for word, the ingredients confirmed my worst fears.  I had been dealing with an impostor.   

I haven’t been taking it very well; and, like a true junkie, I can’t stop thinking about wasabi.  I need to sniff out the real thing.  And I won’t breathe easy until I do.

*It's mind-boggling what you can find while Googling.

Mamma Mia

To me, New York is a diner’s city and London is a cook’s town.  With great food at all price points to be had at any hour, eating out in New York is almost too easy.  You can find outstanding restaurants in London, too; but you’ll have to pay much more for the privilege .  And there’s the transport to deal with just to get you there.

As I’ve mentioned before, Borough Market is as good as it gets when it comes to food shopping under one non-roof.  But I’d never call it a one-stop shop.  I’m a bit of a player when it comes to stocking my kitchen.  And I like it that way.

One of the things I love about London is that, for the price of a cab home from the West End, you can fly away to a different country in a few hours.  But you can also eat like you’re in Italy tonight without any of the hassle (or carbon dioxide emissions). 

Last week I was feeling a little nostalgic about my fabled summer in Florence, so I took myself over to the West End for an Italian delicatessen jaunt.

At 61 Old Compton Street, I Camisa & Son is crammed with what seems like every kind of dried pasta shape and rice variety out there, along with sweet, organic cherry tomatoes, bushy pots of fresh basil, fat balls of fresh buffalo mozzarella, hand-made potato gnocchi and fresh stuffed pasta.  Did I say fresh?  I’d love to spend a few hours in there peeking into all the drawers and reading every single label, but the shop swarms with real Italians who look like they know what they’re doing. I grabbed a box of dried lasagne con spinaci that was at eye-level and quickly paid up.  Proof that pasta can be intimidating.

Do a bit of a zigzag down the road past Wardour Street, and you’ll find Lina Stores (18 Brewer Street), where browsing for semolina is slightly less stressful.  I ask the pleasant girl layering ravioli if she has skinny penne—without the ridges—and she points to a Barilla box by the window.  I bring it over to her; and, against my protests, she opens it to make sure I’m buying the right one.  And, what do you know—Pennette Lisce No. 69 is exactly what I’m looking for.

Tony, whose wife owns the shop (don’t you love him already?), is a bit curious about my camera. We chat for a bit, and I ask him where he likes to eat Italian food in London.  “At home,” he says, “My wife.  I am lucky.”   I ask if he wouldn’t mind posing for a shot.  “I look terrible in this,” he complains, indicating his apron. 

No, Tony, you look terrific.  And so does your wife’s store.  We are lucky.