Saturday 27 October 2012

Battered calamari and prawns

Tonight I made one of my favourite pub classics: battered calamari and prawns. Although for many seasoned cooks this is something ridiculously simple, and not something to shout about, but, for me, this was quite a feat, because, believe it or not, I've never battered anything in my life! A simple google search later, I realised I had everything for my Saturday night seafood cravings. I've watched more cookery shows than I would like to admit, but I couldn't remember whether it was the dip in egg then flour, or vice versa. The Internet wasn't particularly helpful - there were recipes for both. So I decided to do a leap of faith and (drum roll)... egg first, then flour.

Self-raising flour
1 egg
Salt
Pepper
Paprika
Olive oil
King prawns and squid rings (pre-cooked)

1. Beat the egg in a bowl; combine the flour, salt, pepper and paprika in another
2. Put 2 inches of olive oil in a saucepan and put on a medium heat to get hot (I decided to shallow fry rather than deep fry as this was my first outing into frying stuff)
3. Plonk your seafood into the egg, mix, then, one at a time, put each piece into the flour mixture, ensure each piece is covered fully
4. Place each piece of seafood into the hot oil (it should be shimmering, not boiling and not smoking)
5. After 1-2 minutes, depending on oil temperature, flip the seafood over using a fork and slotted spoon
6. Once each side is golden brown and crispy, take them out of the oil and place on paper towel (if you have it, I didn't) to cool down and drain off any excess oil (with shallow frying, this is less necessary than with deep frying)
7. Enjoy with tartar sauce - yum!


Tuesday 23 October 2012

The Chapel, Paddington

Today's lunch was at The Chapel. A dark wood-adorned, breezy gastro-pub near Edgware Road. The last time I came here the food was unfortunately rather disappointing - great big, greasy, medium steaks (when I'd asked for rare) slathered in some questionable blue cheese. Why did I decide to come back for more? Well, the decor and atmosphere is friendly and informal, and the varied menu of fresh, seasonal food changes daily, although the staple of rib eye steak with blue cheese and fries is clearly not going anywhere soon.
The Chapel consists of a large bar and a small open kitchen, frequented by two chefs. With four seating areas, the bar (small wooden tables with mismatched chairs), the main dining room (large wooden tables for bigger parties), the sitting room (tanned leather sofas for coffee and newspapers) and outside (right next to the road, so I'm not sure how restful it would be there), there is a place for all occasions, which I always like. The menu is on one large blackboard stuck to the side of the kitchen, boasting 17 dishes including starters, one light lunch and main courses. An extensive, 39-strong wine list is on another board. Although it was only fairly busy this lunchtime, it did get rather crowded around the board, which meant we couldn't peruse it for as long as we'd like, as our fellow diners strained to have a look over our shoulders. I would suggest a few other boards dotted around the pub, to make it a slightly more relaxing experience.

And now onto the really important matter of the food: Starters included baked egg cocotte with smoked salmon, spinach and Gruyere cream, £5 (although not something I ordered this time, I have tried the cocotte before - perfectly cooked eggs enveloped in a silken creamy, cheese sauce), Marsala and sage pork belly with radiccio and apple salad, £6.50, and king prawns, calamari and soft shelled crab tempura, £8. The light lunch was a goat cheese and tapenade puff pastry tart, £9, and the main courses included The Chapel beef burger with french fries and onion jam, £10.50, and seared pork chop with root vegetable gratin, creamed leeks and caramelised apples, £12.50.

Food critics often say you can tell the calibre of a place by the 'house' burger, and, encouragingly, mine was delicious. Perfectly medium rare and juicy, it came in a toasted seeded bun with salad, mayonnaise, and tomato. The onion jam was a complete treat, wonderfully sweet and sticky, with just the right amount to compliment the beef and salad. The burger, although large (I don't want any measly offerings), was not so ginormous that I needed to unhinge my jaw to eat it, although, because the bottom of the bun was slightly under-toasted it did start to fall apart when I was eating (although I am not entirely against getting a bit mucky whilst eating, finger-lickin' and all). The accompaniment to my burger was one of those metal pots of fries - hot and salty but not quite crispy enough, and miniature jam jars of ketchup and mayo. I love a condiment, and was thrilled I didn't need to ask for any.

The pork chop was met with a little less enthusiasm. Although nicely presented, the meat tasted just a tad too well-hung ('feeling its age with an intriguing gamey taste' my companion aptly commented) and was less seared and more boiled. The uniformed grey/pink flabby meat did not have the desired crispy, smokey skin and translucent fat melting into tender, juicy flesh. The accompaniments were more of a hit - thinly sliced root vegetables, including squash, onion, turnip and potato layered with a garlicky cream sauce and breadcrumb topping. The creamed leeks and caramelised apples added further dimensions to the dish.

Service: 7/10 (slow, although we weren't in rush)
Food: 7/10 (inconsistent, pork: 6/10, burger: 9/10)
Ambiance: 8/10 (informal, spacious)
Price: £26 for two main courses and fizzy water

The Chapel, 48 Chapel Street, London, NW1 5DP.




Tuesday 16 October 2012

The over-use of the word 'passionate'...

...drives me mad.


passionate (ˈpæʃənɪt Pronunciation for passionate 

Definitions

adjective

  1. manifesting or exhibiting intense sexual feeling or desire ⇒ a passionate lover
  2. capable of, revealing, or characterized by intense emotion ⇒ a passionate plea
  3. easily roused to anger; quick-tempered

Synonyms

View thesaurus entry
I think my intense hatred for the over-use of The Word (as it shall be referred to henceforth), comes from my English teacher at A Level. Whilst applying for universities, she asked to see my personal statement (remember that hell?). I'd gamely written something along the lines of, 'I am passionate about reading.' She said: 'Are you though? Do you mean you like reading? You love reading? You're an enthusiastic reader? Or do you want to hug and kiss reading?' 'No! I don't want to hug and kiss reading!' The 17-year-old me exclaimed, aghast, quickly crossing out The Word and changing it for something better. Even now, when sub-editing articles, I see The Word crop up all over the place, endlessly, and I promptly cross it out, endlessly.

So, unless you are using The Word
 in its proper place, i.e. when describing something that gives you an 'intense sexual feeling or desire, intense emotion or quick-temper' (Collins never lies), then I urge you to obliterate it from your sentences. For ever. Thanks. (And don't get me started about 'genuinely'; the word that genuinely seems to crop up in every single utterance from some people's mouths, genuinely. When it does not mean anything. At all. Grr.) 



Friday 12 October 2012

Breast Plates

Last night I painted my left boob blue, stuck it to a plate and drew on a yellow nipple. Why? For my good friend Alex. Err... Why? Because she asked me to. A weird fetish? No, unfortunately not. It was all in aid of the Beat Breast Cancer Campaign from Cancer Research UK. Let me explain:

When an invite plopped into my Facebook inbox to come along and show my support for beating breast cancer at Pottery Cafe, Fulham (one of my favourite places on earth), I couldn't, and wouldn't, say no. The deal was for £20 you would go along, do a 'boob print', have some nibbles, chat to other girls and have entry to an exhibition in a few weeks time to see the finished articles (a Gallery of Boobs, if you will). I was all for coming along and showing my support (ahem), but I was entirely apprehensive about dipping the tit. Would I have to get my bangers out in public? Or would my boob be different/weird/massive compared to others? But lovely Alex, on the door as I came in to say hello, put me at ease and within a finger click I was choosing my colours, and being escorted downstairs to a make-shift sheet-tent (very prettily decorated with appropriately pink bunting).

The girl downstairs gamely demonstrated what I needed to do (I still was feeling entirely like I was about to go into the scariest job interview ever). Then I went behind the sheet and got to it. And it was fun. Once done, my fellow paintees and I agreed that it felt a little bit naughty, ('Painting our boobs on a rainy Thursday in Fulham? Whatever next?!') but not that weird, not as weird as I, or they, thought it would be. Hurrah. Once done I was chuffed with my masterpiece: simple, direct to the point, neatly round and not too over the top. I say 'not too over the top', because as I left one girl was turning her boob print into a fried egg, another was excitedly printing stars round hers. All ingenious, and, if I'd had more time, I would have gone down that route. But with my time constraints, straight up simple was how it went.

Later I skipped off merrily into the night, buzzing from having done something different and slightly scary (I'd imagined). Alex organised this evening because her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer last year, and was inspired by her positive outlook, wanting to emulate that through the event, she said: 'Although she'd been through this horrible thing, she was still feminine. It's about all of us showing solidarity in the face of something that can leave women feeling completely helpless. Showing that no matter what, what size or shape, or whether you have no boobs, scarred boobs, one boob or two ginormous boobs, you're proud of how you look and what you've come through.' Wiser words couldn't be truer, and I feel entirely humbled, as I spend endless amounts of time wishing bits of me looked different, when actually I should be happy I've got everything in tact, and it's (so far) working! Alex and her wonderful helpers made over £550 last night, and, no doubt about it, will make lots more over the next coming weeks.

If you would like to go to Pottery Cafe, Fulham and do a breast plate, then please contact 020 7736 2157, to see if they can squeeze you in (or just pop in and ask) - they will be continuing this, informally, for the next week. And if you would like to come to the exhibition to see the finished pieces, including mine, then turn up on Thursday 25 October, 7.30-10pm. Only £5 entry, with the majority of all proceeds going to Beat Breast Cancer.



Thanks to Alex O'Byrne for the photos.

Thursday 11 October 2012

Shhh, no talking please

In yesterday's Metro (10 October) there was an article about a nifty new system for cabbies to know whether their passengers want to be talked to via a 'talk/don't talk' sign. Quite frankly, I cannot think of a better invention. I have used many a cab in my time and generally speaking I enjoy a chat, especially along the lines of, 'Where've you been tonight darlin'?'. But not always. Oh no. And silence always feels a bit awkward if someone has asked you something, you have answered in a monosyllabic manner and then pointedly got out your book. It got me thinking about other times when I would prefer not to be bothered (I mean, helpfully informed of X Y and Z). In the hairdresser for example. I have a wonderful place that I go to right opposite work (convenient, inexpensive, friendly - too friendly?). So, every few months, I go there for a shampoo, cut and sit under the heaters. Bliss. A time for quiet reflection of the day/week and a chance to take my generally oh-so-absent lunch break in peace? Oh no. My hairdresser (let's call her Dee), charming as she is, and she really is charming, will not take my subtle hints of, 'Oh golly-gosh I'm TIRED, what a DAY!' (I have never used the term 'golly-gosh'... it adds to the story though, so is important), or my fixed stare at the three-month-old issue of Heat, or even my closed eyes, to deter her from asking me about, literally, everything. EVERYTHING. What am I doing on my holidays? NO. That is a question for the amateur hairdressers of the world. She asks me in-depth questions about my life, my love life, my family life... if I had a dog, my dog's life. And unfortunately I am just too darned nice to tell her to mind her own business and let me rest! Why do I go back time and time again, I hear you cry? Well, she does a good haircut, and did I mention that she is charming? (She gives me 'free' herbal teas). I just wish I had a sign to use on those particular days when all I want to say is, 'Shhh, no talking please'.