Rhubarb

I ate some raspberries yesterday. Five or six of them balanced on top of the most exquisite galette-style biscuit that was smeared with an intensely vanillary creme patissiere. A dark chocolate web of ganache on top of the berries was literally the icing on the cake. The amazing thing was not how good the whole thing tasted together - the cakes at Clapham's Macaron are always wonderful - but how tasty those framboises were. So juicy and flavourful and ripe. Heaven knows where they got them at this time of year. They were the exact opposite of the hard, tasteless berries than spoil those Valentine's desserts.

What's that got to do with rhubarb? Well, normally February is when the red fruit lover can normally first get a fix. A hint that the fruit desert of winter will go eventually and the wild larder will be filled with juicy red flavours again. Only it comes in the form of thin sticks of light deprived forced rhubarb. Snap one and sniff. It's all strawberry, raspberry and citrus, like a young, simple red Burgundy from Marsannay or Fixin. The aromas seem to have nothing in common with the bendy stalks or the yellowing leaves. There's just too much zest and life in that smell.

The rhubarb cost a fortune (when will I learn not to shop at the greengrocer's in Primrose Hill?) but stewed gently to a pulp with some orange juice and ginger, it will lift the spirits at breakfast this week. Stirred into some creamy yoghurt or just plain in a bowl, jolting the senses awake with its tart conversation.

If Food be the Food of Love

My old friend Sarah’s Dad used to own a bistro in Sheffield way back in time, before he discovered absentee-landlordism and a love of skiing. On his first Valentine’s Day as a restaurateur, he spent most of the day sawing four-tops in half and cobbling together table legs to double the number of tables in the restaurant. And therein lies the problem with Valentine’s Day, it is an opportunity for the restaurant trade (not to mention florists, chocolatiers, greeting card manufacturers and God know’s who else) to profit from your tender feelings. Money might not be able to buy you love, but it can certainly buy you some garish commercial trinkets instead.

Having cooked my share of Valentine’s Night meals in restaurants – a staple diet of oysters, , sea bass (for the ladies), steak (for the gents) and rock-hard out of season strawberries – I know better than trying to eat out on February 14th. If the overpriced set menu doesn’t bore you to tears, the couple in the window with the psychopathic loathing for each other will at least ensure the night is memorable. When I was in the kitchen, our main amusement would come from trying to convince one of the Commis Chefs to hide a ring in some unsuspecting bastard’s girlfriend's dessert.

So what did we eat last night? A late dinner of orcchiette pasta with some early season purple sprouting and a healthy dose of garlic, chilli and anchovy alongside a half-bottle of Bisol’s unimpeachable Crede Prosecco. A simple dinner for two in the peace and quiet of our own kitchen. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

In Praise of Gastropubs

My first ever catering job was in a pub kitchen exactly ten years ago in 1998. But it was anything but Gastro. Scottish and Newcastle owned it and the only thing we had to cook were omelettes. Everything else was pre-portioned and frozen, or came in a dreaded oversized catering pack. I lived off Curly Fries and Garlic Mayo Sandwiches for the summer and learnt more about industrial cleaning products than I did about cooking. Not so happy days.

Recently I'd been lulled into thinking that things had changed. On Saturday, it all came flooding back. Driving back to London with the folks, we aimed at a pub Dad remembered from a few years back that had a gorgeous Thames-side location just outside Oxford: The Kings Arms at Sandford-on-Thames. Remember that name and file it under Never Ever. The whole place was ghastly, starting with the blackboard propped up outside than "greated" us warmly and beckoned us inside with meaningless flowery prose about tending to our needs.

All the Crap Pub alarm bells started to ring inside my head, to be confirmed by the harvest festival of mayonnaise and ketchup sachets on a table by the door. For some reason we stayed. When we came to order, I asked whether my coeliac mother could have the bacon-wrapped-mozarella-stuffed-chicken with the tomato and basil sauce.

-She's gluten what?
-Gluten free. She can't eat any wheat products or anything with flour in it.
-Oh. (Pause. Whirring cogs audible.) I'll check with Chef.

Chef my arse. In the end, two people had to go and ask The Microwave Man and eventually the answer was "We don't know, it all comes in packets". What could she eat on the menu? "How about the salad bowl?" The one with pasta and croutons? "Yes". We left hungry. Apparently we should phone ahead in future, presumably to give the time to read the ingredients on the packets and look words like gluten up in a dictionary. I doubt we will, mind.

Anyway, back to gastropubs. Yes, they have ruined a few classic old time boozers but they have rescued some shit ones too. And, anyway, what's wrong with a pub offering an edible plate of food that wasn't made in a factory? Italians have cheap, local trattorias, the French have bistros, the Greeks tavernas. Why shouldn't I eat something decent in a pub? It doesn't have to be (and bloody well shouldn't be) a Michelin rip-off with tians of aubergines or foie gras sauces. A decent pasta dish or homemade pie will do nicely, a simply grilled lemon sole or some crisply fried squid. It's not much to ask is it?

In my head, I compose the perfect ploughmans just as I imagine musicians do songs and poets haikus: a big slab of pork pie with real jelly, some properly mature hard cheese, a decent local apple, a dab of homemade chutney, a spicy pickled onion and maybe a slice of some chewy, rustic bread. One day, I'll buy a pub and do it. You watch me.

Pancake Day

Definitely in my Top Five days of the year, simply because you have to eat pancakes. I can remember Shrove Tuesday as a child as clearly as turkey at Christmas or excessive amounts of chocolate eggs at Easter, and I love that foodie nostalgia. There are so few days of the year where food traditions are still alive, that we need to celebrate and nurture them or lose them all to history. Today is just far too much fun to let that happen.

My topping of choice is lemon juice and golden syrup. I know the purists say lemon juice and sugar only, but golden syrup is sugar. Just better.

TFI February

January was a long, old month and probably the busiest in my working year. I'm glad its gone. A marathon of dinners with varying winemakers from around the world may sound like a perfect job (and I'm not complaining) but, as much as I love the likes of St John, Chez Bruce and L'Autre Pied eating in all three in just six days was a bit too much.

Like anything else, when you gorge on something it can quickly lose its lustre. I'm happy to be at home on a Monday night, cooking for myself and eating a one (rather than three, four or five) course meal. Some humble pak choi, soy and noodles will do me tonight.

But I'm still hoping for a foodie February. I've just popped some duck legs into the oven, submerged in their own fat. The start of my first homemade cassoulet. I'm relishing making a dish that will take 2-3 weeks to come together, all from scratch. It's the opposite of just selecting something quickly from a menu and waiting for someone else to do the work.

And the best thing I ate over the weekend? Gorwydd's Caerphilly Cheese. As crumbly as the English defence and as sweet as a James Hook conversion.