Nights Out At Home by Jay Rayner | Book Review | Fig Tree

 

A lot of my book buying is carefully planned. Often I'll have a running list of books I want to read (in my head or on my phone, say), and each time I visit a bookshop, I can run my finger down that list, looking for a title that would fit the current mood, the current need, the current wish for my next read. Which is why I think people who take out book subscriptions are quite simply masochistic, depriving themselves of the pleasure of choice.

My point is though that sometimes I'll go a bit rogue - and although with Nights Out At Home by Jay Rayner, I did have a notion that this would make a good read, I hadn't made a conscious decision to purchase it. It just found me the other day, and here I am, having devoured (. . .) Rayner's first cookbook in just a few days.

This is, by all accounts, a solid choice for any food enthusiast, and even though I don't read Rayner's column religiously (nor casually, to be honest), I am well aware of his standing and skill as a restaurant critic. I had no doubt I would be in good hands.

Nights Out At Home skillfully balances a two-pronged identity, being full of amusing anecdotes and mouth-watering recipes. The real skill is that, even though the recipes do take up most of the real estate in the book, one still ends up reading this cover to cover, because the introductions to each - as well as the step-by-step instructions themselves - are so entertaining that it would be a shame to skip anything. See All the roast chickens: 'Take a photograph and send it to your friends or they won't believe what you've done.' Or the Deep fried apple pies: 'Serve with whipped, sweetened cream. Because you don't get that from bloody McDonald's.' Or I wish I could remember which recipe included an instruction along the lines of 'Or don't. I'm not watching, I'm not your dad.' 

The point is, Rayner makes a conscious effort to keep things simple, dialled into the needs of a home cook. No fancy chicken stock? Get the cubes. Don't have Chingkiang vinegar? Sub in the balsamic. One recipe calls for (I'm not making this up) one packet of Frazzles, one packet of Scampi Fries and 30g Pickled Onion Monster Munch. It's incredibly user-friendly, and the variety of recipes is just as surprising: from recreating Michelin restaurant dishes in a manageable way, to cooking up home alternatives of high-street favourites, it's a wonderfully eclectic selection. And though, if I'm honest, I'm still unlikely to make a lot of these, unless someone else does the washing up - as much as I wish to eat incredible-sounding Louisiana cracklins, I have seen the picture of what the kitchen will look like afterwards - you never know. I'm glad to have these recipes on the shelf, just in case. And I will be making, among many other things, crispy cauliflower with salt and pepper; the ultimate cheese toastie; and a Malaysian chicken curry, just to name a few. The point, anyway, is not the actual cooking, but the delight of daydreaming of cooking these things, and the blood, sweat and tears that Rayner clearly put into bringing these recipes to us.

Interjecting essays, on everything from the life of a critic to anonymity to body image, add to the fun, and these again are written with Rayner's writerly flourish, full of humour and saliva-inducing memories. 'I like being alive,' he shares at one point. 'I've concluded that the best way to stay alive is by not dying and that's what I'm attempting to do. So far it seems to be working. Unless you're reading this after my death. In which case, boy did I have fun...'

But perhaps my favourite bit is the very beginning: Advice to readers. Any writer who advises me to rustle up a jazzy Bombay mix to snack on before I begin reading has my eyes, ears and mouth. I feel seen. 

The book is a beauty to behold, and while I wouldn't want to get my greasy fingers on it - so perhaps not strictly speaking a cookbook in the usual sense - it is a gorgeous read for any foodie and cook out there. Glad it found me. 

Aesthetitcally pleasing markers in an aesthetically pleasing book

An Alphabet for Gourmets | M.F.K. Fisher | Book Review | Daunt Publishing | Introduced by Ella Risbridger

'There must, for me at least, be a faint nebular madness, dignified no matter how deliberate, to a dinner that is exquisite.' 

Reading M.F.K. Fisher's books is like taking a plunge into some non-existent nostalgia, memories I've never had. Perhaps better referred to as daydreams: friends sat around tables heaped with exquisite food, good wine that's matched perfectly, perhaps on a French hillside (or Swiss, like Fisher's), overlooking a French (or Swiss) sunset, orange rays painting the vines, seemingly endless across the green hills, ripe grapes sagging. Rituals: a drink before dinner, perhaps a dry Martini or a 'rye', Scotch and soda for the men; starters, soups, salads (never after main), dessert, coffee – not too strong so as not to lift the post-dinner reverie. 

Or perhaps feasting on a tray of oysters in Manhattan (or are we crossing over to Consider the Oyster?), at some swanky restaurant with velvet booths and dimmed lighting, where the maitre d' comes to say hello, tops up our Champagne (which has been carefully chosen, the perfect age and would never overpower the food). 

Or even enjoying a 'rained-on burger', as Fisher puts it, but still with a cinematic quality somehow – perhaps we've had a horrendous day, and just on the verge of desperation, a burger truck shimmers in the half-darkness, the pouring rain. Salvation by a sloppy patty.

Oh, I love spending time with M.F.K. Fisher – from the first pages she is unashamedly her; an almost forceful grab of my hand, and we're off. By the time we reach 'C' for Caution in this alphabet, we're exploring Calf's Head à la Tortue, which is by and by the most complicated and terrifying dish I've ever heard of. There are oysters, of course, 'en caisses', though neither her nor me know what that means. Oysters, nevertheless, and buttered paper in pots to keep the steam in, and 'whole peas fragrant as flowers'. And sauces! So many sauces in one dinner, and wines paired with each dish. That, as I say, before we've even passed 'C'.

And oh, to have a meal in such style, pre-ordered, as it is, by this gourmet of gourmets, whom people are too afraid to entertain in their own home, lest their simple tastes offend her (though it breaks one's heart to read how much, in fact, Fisher pined for such invitations. Although whether she would actually enjoy the meal, or just the romanticism of it, remains unanswered): 'smoked salmon, a small rack of lamb, potatoes Anna, Belgian endive salad, and a tray of Langlois Blue, Rouge et Noir Camembert, Wisconsin Swiss, and Teleme Jack cheese; Scotch or sherry first, and then Louis Martini's Gamay Rosé.' 

I relish and revel in the atmospheres she evokes, though I've never experienced them myself – therein lies the power of her writing. Of an egg sandwich, prepared by neighbour Aunt Gwen (not an aunt at all), the recipe makes one drool; but she also lists physical and spiritual ingredients ('equal parts of hunger and happiness'), and under Prescription, she directs the egg sandwich 'to be eaten on top of a hill at sunset', and 'preferably before adolescence and its priggish queasiness set in'. 

In this abcedaria, she touches on all the crucial aspects of life, from wooing someone with food (and whether that's even possible), to being hosted by good-willed but incompetent cooks, to Xanthippean gastronomy (i.e.  food served at home with an unhealthy dose of complaining, whining or accusing by a sour wife). There is also the question of squabs (young pigeons), how food can taste better on an Atlantic cruise, how to best cook trout, and a long treatise on the value of salt. Just to name a few.

So now, reader, hand me a sizzling casserole so that I may toss hot buttered spaghetti in it, topped with humble parmesan and generous gratings of black pepper! A bottle of Zizerser, to be opened at altitude, otherwise the pink champagne will not froth! Or even just bread and 'sweet' butter (as she always calls it – doesn't it sound much better than just 'butter'?), a simple omelette cooked with care for half an hour, or anything cooked in consommé and fat, 'for hungering people who have had no fat at all for too long a time become moody, shiver easily, and grow sick.'

God forbid!

Consider the Oyster | M. F. K. Fisher | Foreword by Felicity Cloake | Book review | Daunt Books

 

My edition of Consider the Oyster by M. F. K. Fisher found me on an aimless stroll in Hove, when I came across Cookbookbake, an independent specialist cookbook shop (& demonstration kitchen!). It's a gem, focusing on all things food, so besides cookbooks, they sell food writing and travel writing (best when combined), food-themed knickknacks and gifty things. In other words, bookish foodie heaven.

M. F. K. Fisher's name was familiar from Felicity Cloake's writing (who happens to be my culinary muse since her perfect recipe for a French ratatouille), and she in fact wrote the foreword to this beautiful, shiny, iridescent edition from Daunt Books, which I obviously couldn't leave. And then we haven't even discussed that it considers the oyster.

The thing about reading American food writing from the 20th century, but even contemporary pieces, is there is a glorious admiration, suggestion of expertise (that needn't necessarily be there), and most of all, love, that makes all these books feel like a hug. (I'm especially thinking Julia Child here, but consider of course Anthony Bourdain or even Stanley Tucci.) Could it be that, especially because most foods in US supermarkets are over-processed, over-sugared and mono-flavoured, American foodies assign a dreamy quality to all things proper food in their books? I live in the UK, where things are slightly better with the occasional farmer's market offering beautiful bounty, but where generally the ready-meal dominates, and even I can relate to this pedestal-placing of all things good food.

This collection of essays considers everything from oyster eating (and drinking) etiquette; the life of an oyster; anecdotes and remembered snippets of childhood. Much like her essay on oyster loafs that her mother used to eat at 'midnight feasts' at boarding school ('Those Were Happy Days'), reading Fisher's words, one feels as if these were one's own memories. 'There are stories that in their telling spread about them a feeling of the Golden Age,' she writes, 'so that when you listen you forget all but the warmth and incredible excitement of those other farther times'. And so, although I've never eaten a 'steaming buttery creamy oyster stew' with crackers in wintertime, those mellow flavours linger on my tongue as if I grew up with Fisher in California, and not landlocked Hungary, where oysters were more likely to be a metaphor than actual shellfish. 

Another nostalgia-infused essay, A Lusty Bit of Nourishment, touches on the restaurant to eat Oysters Rockefeller, Antoine's in New Orleans, and the 'inescapable charm of that simple, almost austere room, with mirrors for walls; with the blue gas lamps flickering through all the evening' where 'Huitres en Coquilles a la Rockefeller appear magically, prepared with loving patience for each eager diner as if he were the first and only gastronome' and may I just say, Anotine's still exists and is still serving Rockefellers and is now on my bucket list.

Look at that shine

Perhaps my favourite piece, My Country, 'Tis of Thee, amuses by looking at the various drinks we should or could have with oysters. Pouilly-Fuissé? Guiness? Whiskey? (Absolutely not whiskey, according to Fisher.) But 'Whether they were correctly drunk or not, I was.'

The book does contain recipes, and Daunt have kindly included a conversion table for British readers, and an index for recipes (which, if I may voice a complaint, was seriously needed in Taste by Stanley Tucci), but I don't see myself cooking up an oyster gumbo requiring two dozen (!) of these friendly bivalves, nor taking '300 clean oysters and throw into a pot filled with nice butter . . . ' as a quoted old recipe instructs – as much as I would love to.

Look, I could quote the entire book, because there is a lyrical quality to Fisher's writing that makes a simple supper of bread with sweet butter sound exquisite, and the whaft of oysters simmered in a white sauce reaches me through the pages. Her love of food, knack for writing, experience and indulgence makes this a delightful read, and especially if you like oysters. Note:

'The flavour of an oyster depends upon several things. First, if it is fresh and sweet and healthy it will taste good, quite simply . . . good, that is, if the taster likes oysters . . . Myself, since I was seventeen I have expected all oysters to be delicious, and with few exceptions they have been.' 

Eating to Extinction: The World's Rarest Foods and Why We Need to Save Them | Dan Saladino | Book review

 

Ah, glorious food. Living on a sailboat with a fridge that is currently out of order, food is indeed a key consideration from day to day. Fresh vegetables go mouldy quickly, so I have a list that I update daily, prioritising what needs eating first. Tinned things - pulses, beans and the occasional fruit - last forever, so are a godsend. Rice, bulgur wheat and the recently discovered giant couscous are all staples.

To be honest, I think about food most of the time anyway, don't you? So does Dan Saladino in his book Eating to Extinction: The World's Rarest Foods and Why We Need to Save Them. He goes in search of some of the most ancient staple foodstuffs on Earth, and presents them here as case studies for a trend that is taking over our food chain globally - namely, that traditional values, methods and food varieties are being supressed in favour of productivity, coupled with global homogeneity. 

Eating to Extinction is divided into ten sections, such as Vegetables, Meat, Cheese or Fruit. Ten?, you might ask. Indeed - because although Saladino has dug admirably deep and traveled the world in search of these rare foods, and has carried out in-person research that is hugely valuable, there is a lot of ground being covered here. Each of the ten sections is further divided into at least two, more often three varieties: four cereals, six sea-based foods, and the stranger categories - such as stimulants or cereal - also include at least two varieties each. 

Each individual item is covered in a chapter, including the author's experiences, as well as covering local food-based traditions, personal histories, or initiatives to save said food. This, unfortunately, does mean that the pace of the book is a bit slow. In the first few sections, lots of short chapters cover a wider variety of grains and pulses than my brain can't store (unlike the fascinating grain stores we meet along the way), and the snippets of various people trying to salvage heritage breeds often doesn't give a deep enough insight to make us care. Later, a chapter about bison especially stood out for me as not really finding its place in this book, barely touching on the topic of food. These chapters read almost as if the author is trying to meet the minimum of three varieties per section.

Among the many varieties of not-so-interesting grains and cereals I trudged through, however, there were a lot of interesting nuggets of information in other parts of the book. I never knew oyster stout was called that due to brewers plopping oysters into their dark porters for added flavour; and reading about Georgian wine and its mystical fermenting in clay pots underground felt like reading fantasy. Black Ogye Chicken is a breed exclusively found in Korea, and is black from beak to toe, absolutely worth a look. Most fascinating to me was a chapter about fermented, wind-dried meat (Skerpikjøt) produced on the Faroes as a delicacy, painting vivid images of meat hanging in sea-wind battered wooden sheds called 'hjallur', and providing a fantastic glimpse into island culture and history.

By the end of the book, a picture does build up slowly, as the patterns too often repeat: a depressing present time of traditional values and methods disappearing in favour of globalised, homogenous food supplies. Chapters do tend to finish on a somewhat hopeful note that the individual forerunners and preservers might be able to hang onto, or bring back, traditional methods and varieties once again.

After all that, I feel I sound quite negative about this book. I can only praise the author's effort and knowledge that has gone into such a wide-ranging, colourful collection of stories. I do think it could have done with some trimming down here and there, but on the whole it is a fascinating discussion of what we eat, how much of it is our decision, and how these choices influence the planet and us as people. It's less of a foodie book, more of a food book - if that makes any sense at all - but the message comes through loud and clear.

One More Croissant for the Road by Felicity Cloake | Book Review | Sheer Foodie Perfection

In my humble opinion, everything comes down to food in the end.

Whether you're sad and in need of comfort; whether you're celebrating and wishing to do so in style; or whether you're travelling and in search of what might be deemed an authentically local experience - it always comes down to the food.

Not to mention foodie books. Thinking back to Pie Fidelity, which I loved so very much, or delighting in Nora Ephron's words on the joys of cooking, a well-written book about food brings me nearly as much pleasure as eating said food.

Before I start raving about One More Croissant for the Road, a word on the author's credentials...

Who is Felicity Cloake?

You might have come across her in The Guardian and her delicious regular column, 'How to Make the Perfect', which is an absolute gem. Here, she collects and tests recipes for a certain dish from many credible sources, from the top chefs to grassroots, and by testing them all she creates the 'perfect' overall recipe that incorporates the best from the source material. You might be skeptical, and I was too, until I tried her perfect patatas bravas recipe and I can tell you that it changed my life. It's an eternal truth that he or she who shares a truly foolproof recipe wins eternal trust.

One More Croissant for the Road

So now she has my eternal trust, and now I begin to follow her on Instagram, where she is a delight; and now I have ordered her book, One More Croissant for the Road, which tells the story of how she traveled around France on her trusty bicycle, Eddy, eating her way through the most legendary dishes of each region as she goes. So now, she has combined my two favourite genres in her book.

I approve of her dishes of choice 100%. From moules marinières ("huge pans of mussels in a heady, wine-soaked sauce with a great dollop of yellow crème fraîche left to melt on top") through tartiflette ("superior efforts like this are lubricated with the same refreshingly acidic local plonk we're glugging with it, with gently cooked cheese that runs over the potatoes like cream") and the obligatory boeuf bourguignon ("with a richly-savoury sauce and great hunks of gelatinous meat, served with not one, but two types of heavily garlicked carbs") she really knows her stuff, and armed with a Michelin guide, she knows where to get it too.

The beauty of her writing and general attitude, though, is crucial in making this such a jolly read. "Powerless in the face of hot garlic butter," (aren't we all?) "I start with yet more snails. Let no one ever say I don't suffer for my art." She never shies away from "pig snout, soft pink sausage and the best tripe" she's ever tasted; from starting almost every morning with a croissant (rated 1-10) and, most likely, another new type of pastry that she either finishes or crams, half-eaten, into her pannier. She stops often, for drinks, for photos, for elevensies. She enjoys herself. (Most of the time. The going gets tough for everyone sometimes, especially when her booked hotel is on the other of the two identically named roads after a day that's already been really long.)

I must also mention that she includes her own recipes for these most famous of dishes in the book, which I have earmarked and will be cooking - especially her clafoutis aux cerises, her tarte Tatin and her ratatouille, all wonderfully doable, even when so reliant on sad Tesco produce.

The book is a combination of beautiful scenery, delicious dishes eaten the right way, honesty about the ups and downs - rain and hills and the occasional indigestion - and the joie de vivre without which this book would be nowhere near as entertaining. As it happens, Felicity is an expert.

Overall...

I weep when I think about the tasteless vegetables UK supermarkets have on offer after finally finishing this wonderful book. But not to give up hope - after all, anything will taste much better with a good bottle of wine (some of which should probably go into the dish you're making).

Croissants are a different story. I'm delighted to report my local M&S does a deliciously flaky, buttery and crisp on the outside version which, although no idea how Felicity would rate it, I enjoy thoroughly when I head out directly after finishing the book to munch on in the sunshine. I must say I never rated croissants: they look too small, to bland to satisfy my usual breakfast cravings. But this seems to have changed with a bit of attention and mindfulness.

For these strange times, I cannot think of a better book to whisk my imagination away and all the way to sunny France, where tomatoes as big as my head grow and where salads are 80% bacon and 20% green ("as health insurance"). If you're an aspiring vegetarian, like me, the struggle will be real. You will be craving juicy meat. But that's okay sometimes.

10/10

Crimble-crumble and Co from Pete Brown

I absolutely love it when I look forward to a book and when I finally get to read it, it is as good as I imagined. Quite often, that's not the case - see The Binding by Bridget Collins - but when it is, boy it boosts my literary ego.

Pie Fidelity: In Defence of British Food is one of these - in fact, it has surpassed expectations for me, anyway. I think I first found out about it when applying for a job at Penguin Press last Spring which, despite not even flirting with the idea of giving me the job, has since become my favourite imprint. Penguin Press encompasses Allen Lane, Penguin Classics, Particular Books and Pelican: basically everything I could ever want in life. Their books include Kings of the Yukon and poetry anthology Zoo of the New (highly recommended, I keep it on my desk at all times) for example; and now, Pie Fidelity.

Pete Brown sets out to re-discover and re-evaluate nine typically British dishes - at least that's the easy way to sum up, but what counts as 'typically British' and why is another question put to rather interesting debate in this book. From pie and peas through fish and chips, spag bol and even the humble cheese sandwich, not only does he try to consume these dishes in their most traditional setting, he also writes about their history, how they came to be a 'national dish' and far and wide anything interesting that relates to them.

What did I like about it?

Everything. Pete's humorous, tongue-in-cheek writing style mirrors perfectly the sentiments towards the dishes he writes about, the very Britishness of although publicly we'd denounce fish and chips with an apologetic smile, try saying something bad about the dish and we'll be quick to aggressively defend it.

He especially comes into his element when describing the eating experiences, and despite reading this at 7am on the tube, he still made me crave spag bol immediately. The enthusiasm, detail and gentle love for these dishes makes the reader feel these exact feelings towards the book; it even makes me want to head to Blackpool for some proper fish and chips (despite vehement opposition from my partner) and to try 'off-the-bone' chicken curry even though... ugh. Gross.

I especially enjoyed his description of taking cream tea, and how his initial skepticism towards the pomp of the ceremony quickly turned into passionate love and understanding once he saw his scones arrive on a tiered cake stand. (Who wouldn't have a change of heart?) "As soon as I see the stand ... I'm flooded by the feeling that this is a special occasion. Suzanne could have served our order on a bunch of separate plates, but where would the fun be in that? And besides, with so many different components, the tidy order of our relatively small table would have been ruined. It would have become... unseemly."

There's also lots of fascinating food history and research; Pete has dug deep in the archives. From how fried fish came to be sold together with fried potato, to why Danish bacon imports made it affordable, he covers it all - one of my absolute highlights from the book though is his detailed calculation of the possible varieties of full English one can order at a café. Also, did you know Britain produces over 700 named cheese varieties? No, you didn't.

What was I not massively fond of?

Perhaps the only thing I'd highlight here is the varying lengths of the chapters - crumble and cream tea get much less air time than fish and chips or curry. But I'm not blaming this on Pete. After all, just how much research could be done on crumble?

Also, for some reason I keep imagining Pete as Jay Rayner, even though he's not and I don't even like Jay Rayner. Annoying. Sorry, Pete.


Overall...

Writing this review was like being a kid in a candy shop, all 'ooh, that was a good bit' and 'ooh, I should include this too'. I didn't realise how much I enjoyed this book. The selection of dishes is perfect, I wouldn't have it any other way; the research is brilliant, the writing flows, the eating is enviable.

It's funny, it's kind, it's interesting and totally delicious. We are so ordering a curry tonight.


9/10