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Posts Tagged ‘Food & drink’

Coca-Cola trials fizzy milk drink

Soft drinks giant launches new Vio drink in New York but no word yet on whether it will reach the UK

It may not quite sound the real thing but consumers are being asked to decide whether milk goes better with sparkling water, cane sugar and fruit flavouring.

Coca-Cola is trialling a new carbonated “vibrancy” drink and it will depend on Americans’ tastebuds whether other countries experience what the company claims is “a refreshing sensory experience”.

The soft drinks giant has so far launched its new Vio products only in New York, but milk-based products are popular in Asian markets such as Hong Kong and Japan.

The new offering, which has “a hint” of skimmed milk, comes in four flavours – citrus burst, peach mango, tropical colada and very berry – and is being sold in 8oz aluminium bottles for the equivalent of £1.50.

The company says it has “a delicious, unique and smooth flavour”, with no artificial flavours, preservatives or sweeteners and offers 15% of daily calcium intake and antioxidant vitamin C.

There is, however, no hint yet of whether or when it is coming to Britain. “The launch of Vio in the US is an exciting development for consumers there,” said a spokesperson for Coca-Cola GB. “We are constantly listening to consumers to ensure we provide them with innovative new beverages that meet their preferences and needs. However we currently have no plans to launch Vio in any country in Europe.”

Opinions on BevNET, a website that reviews non-alcoholic drinks, are not particularly complimentary. That on the peach mango flavour, for instance, suggests that while it delivers something “reminiscent of lassi“, the drink turns out to be “almost overwhelming” in its sweetness “by the time you are halfway through”. The citrus burst “is somewhat of a letdown compared with the eye candy that they’ve created with the branding”.

Carla Ogeia Lewis, trends and innovations consultant at market researchers Mintel, said: “I don’t think it is the type of product that will go very well in the UK. We are not a country that is very used to UHT milk – if we have it, is in the cupboard for an emergency – whereas in other countries it is more popular among people more used to ‘shelvable’ milk. Carbonated milk products are very popular in Asia. Here in the UK, people may buy it once or twice as a curiosity but I don’t think it is something that is that popular.”

An attempt to sell carbonated milk-based drinks by Britvic six years ago ended in failure. The concept had proved “too challenging for consumers at that stage”, the company told the Grocer magazine.

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Hunger bites back

If the news that for the first time more than a billion people are classified as chronically hungry doesn’t completely kill your appetite for eating out, there is a way to assuage the guilt

As the invitations for the autumn celebrity cook book launches pile up – the latest is Tamasin Day-Lewis‘s Supper for a Song – you realise that the publishing world has cottoned onto the fact that people are finding it tougher to feed themselves in their usual manner. Clever! “In tough times we still always crave good food, even if we have to cut down (or give up) eating out … ” runs the blurb for Tamasin (sister of Daniel).

I can’t help wondering about the people who are having to give up eating entirely. Any top tips for them? Their numbers are up more sharply than those of British shoppers forced by the recession to slum it at Lidl. For the first time over a billion people, according to the UN’s Food and Agriculture Organisation, are chronically hungry. Nearly half of them are children.

Climate change and the renewed rise in the price of staple food commodities now ensure that more people than ever before in history are going to bed hungry. There’s a good analysis in the Economist of what is happening, and what the future holds. Part of the problem, of course, is that we’re still turning poor people’s cereals into ethanol for our green cars. Here’s me banging on about the effect of this in Cambodia for OFM last year.

It is the height of the cyclical famine season in east Africa – but, as the Guardian reported yesterday, the financial crisis means that rich countries are cutting their aid budgets. The shortfall means that emergency feeding programmes in Uganda, Somalia and Kenya may soon have to stop. The money missing amounts to $4.8 billion – easy to find for a bank that’s got itself in a mess, but not for millions of people in east Africa.

Still reading? If you are, you may be wondering what we can do, The most food-head-friendly aid agency working on global famine is Action Against Hunger – who have teamed up with Carluccio’s, Oliver Rowe, Fergus Henderson, Giorgio Locatelli and Michel Roux to help you feel a little less guilty while you guzzle courtesy of their pleasingly counterintuitive Fight Hunger, Eat Out scheme. So – eat, drink and be generous. A song for these hungry times.

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds


Hunger bites back

If the news that for the first time more than a billion people are classified as chronically hungry doesn’t completely kill your appetite for eating out, there is a way to assuage the guilt

As the invitations for the autumn celebrity cook book launches pile up – the latest is Tamasin Day-Lewis‘s Supper for a Song – you realise that the publishing world has cottoned onto the fact that people are finding it tougher to feed themselves in their usual manner. Clever! “In tough times we still always crave good food, even if we have to cut down (or give up) eating out … ” runs the blurb for Tamasin (sister of Daniel).

I can’t help wondering about the people who are having to give up eating entirely. Any top tips for them? Their numbers are up more sharply than those of British shoppers forced by the recession to slum it at Lidl. For the first time over a billion people, according to the UN’s Food and Agriculture Organisation, are chronically hungry. Nearly half of them are children.

Climate change and the renewed rise in the price of staple food commodities now ensure that more people than ever before in history are going to bed hungry. There’s a good analysis in the Economist of what is happening, and what the future holds. Part of the problem, of course, is that we’re still turning poor people’s cereals into ethanol for our green cars. Here’s me banging on about the effect of this in Cambodia for OFM last year.

It is the height of the cyclical famine season in east Africa – but, as the Guardian reported yesterday, the financial crisis means that rich countries are cutting their aid budgets. The shortfall means that emergency feeding programmes in Uganda, Somalia and Kenya may soon have to stop. The money missing amounts to $4.8 billion – easy to find for a bank that’s got itself in a mess, but not for millions of people in east Africa.

Still reading? If you are, you may be wondering what we can do, The most food-head-friendly aid agency working on global famine is Action Against Hunger – who have teamed up with Carluccio’s, Oliver Rowe, Fergus Henderson, Giorgio Locatelli and Michel Roux to help you feel a little less guilty while you guzzle courtesy of their pleasingly counterintuitive Fight Hunger, Eat Out scheme. So – eat, drink and be generous. A song for these hungry times.

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds


Feast of Bengal

Tamarind, mustard, chilli and dal … Bangladeshi food packs the biggest punch in Asia. In this final extract from his book, Far Eastern Odyssey, Rick Stein captures the fiery flavours of the delta

Driving through Bangladesh and observing village life can be immensely calming: a panorama of paddy fields, water buffalos with a white egret or two on their back, men and women planting rice, and the villages themselves, gardens filled with banana plants or fruit trees, wooden houses near rivers and children shouting and scampering.

You often read of Bangladeshis saying their cuisine is not worth making a fuss about, that it’s just the sort of stuff they cook at home. But I found the local food fascinating. If you ask me for three or four of the most distinctive flavours of Bangladeshi cooking, I’d say mustard, ghee and a particular spice mix, panch phoran, unusual in that the combination of mustard, nigella, cumin, fennel and fenugreek seeds contains whole rather than powdered spices. I’m still marvelling at the subtlety of the mango chutney I had when eating lunch with a family in Dhaka, a sweet one flavoured with panch phoran.

Spicy pea and potato samosas (aloo matar shingara)

The filling is some simply spiced potatoes and peas, and the pastry deep-fries to a pleasing crispness. Makes 20.

For the potato filling:

500g evenly sized waxy potatoes,
such as Charlotte
4 tbsp vegetable oil, plus extra for
deep-frying
2 tsp black mustard seeds
275g onion, finely chopped
1 tsp turmeric powder
30g garlic, crushed
4 green cayenne chillies, finely chopped
1 tsp kashmiri chilli powder
150g frozen peas, thawed

For the pastry dough:

225g plain flour, plus extra for dusting
2 tbsp vegetable oil

For the pastry, sift the flour and ½ tsp salt into a bowl. Add the oil and about 150ml warm water and mix together to make a soft, pliable dough, adding a little more water if necessary. Turn out on to a surface lightly dusted with flour and knead for 2-3 minutes until very smooth and elastic. Wrap in clingfilm and set aside to rest for 1 hour.

Meanwhile, for the filling, put the potatoes in a pan, cover with water, add 1 tsp salt and bring to the boil. Cook for 20 minutes or until tender. Drain, cover and set aside for 20 minutes. Then peel the potatoes and break into small pieces.

Heat a non-stick frying pan over a medium-high heat. Add the oil, then the mustard seeds, cover with a lid and fry until they have stopped popping. Add the onion and fry for 5-6 minutes, stirring, until soft and lightly browned. Add the turmeric, garlic, green chillies and chilli powder and fry for a few seconds, then add the potatoes, peas and 1 tsp salt and mix well.

Unwrap the dough, divide it into 10 evenly sized pieces and shape each piece into a ball. Work with one piece of dough at a time, keeping the others covered with clingfilm so they don’t dry out. Roll it into a thin 15cm disc. Cut the disc into two D-shaped pieces and brush half of both the curved and straight edge with a little water. Spoon 1 slightly heaped tablespoon of the filling to one side of the D and fold the other side over so the edges meet.

Press together well, then place on a tray lined with greaseproof paper. Continue until you have 20. Set them aside for at least 30 minutes to dry slightly, as this will make for better deep-frying.

Heat some oil for deep-frying to 180C.

Fry the shingharas one or two at a time for 3 minutes until crisp and golden brown, turning them over now and then as they cook. Lift out with a slotted spoon on to another tray lined with plenty of kitchen paper and leave to drain. Serve hot or warm.

Aubergine curry with tomatoes, ginger and fennel seeds

If you can get them, use finger aubergines for this. They are shaped rather like a small courgette and hold their shape well during cooking. This is a simple curry, but interesting to me, as it uses a lot of fennel seeds, a common flavour in Bangladeshi food. Incidentally, they call them aniseed there, but they’re not. I wandered into a kitchen in Sylhet and tried them for myself. Serves 6.

600g aubergines, ideally Asian finger aubergines
150ml vegetable oil
40g peeled ginger, roughly chopped
40g garlic, roughly chopped
2 green cayenne chillies, finely chopped
2 tsp cumin seeds <strong
1 tsp fennel seeds
1 tbsp freshly ground coriander seeds
½ tsp turmeric powder
400g chopped tomatoes, fresh or from a can
½ tsp freshly ground black pepper
1 tbsp each of chopped fresh coriander and mint

Top and tail the aubergines and cut in half lengthways. If using larger, Mediterranean-style aubergines, then cut each one across in half and then each piece lengthways into 6 or 8 wedges. Toss them with ½ tsp salt and set aside in a colander for 10 minutes.

Heat a large frying pan over a high heat. Pour the oil into a shallow dish. Brush the aubergine pieces, a few at a time, with oil, put them in the frying pan and cook for 3-4 minutes on each side until richly browned. Cooking the aubergines in this way helps prevent them from absorbing too much oil, which would make the finished dish greasy. Set aside in a bowl and repeat with the remaining aubergines.

Put the ginger, garlic and chilli into a mini food processor with 2-3 tbsp water and grind to a smooth paste.

Put 2 tbsp of the remaining oil into the frying pan and add the cumin and fennel seeds. Leave them to sizzle for a few seconds, then add the ginger and garlic paste and leave this to fry for a further 2-3 minutes. Add the coriander and turmeric and fry for 1 minute, then add the tomatoes, black pepper, 3 tbsp water and ½ tsp salt. Cover and simmer for 8-10 minutes until reduced and thickened slightly. Return the fried aubergine slices to the pan and stir well to coat in the sauce. Simmer for 5 minutes, stir in the coriander and mint, and serve.

Toovar dal with tamarind, tomatoes and curry leaves

This dal is unusual in that it is referred to in Bangladesh as “sour”, which often indicates the presence of tomatoes. We don’t normally consider tomatoes sour, but they are, and together with the tamarind and lime they give the pulses a particularly enjoyable, slightly astringent note. Toovar (or toor) dal is a dark ochre-coloured split pea with a rich, earthy flavour. Serves 4-6.

250g toovar dal
2 tbsp each vegetable oil and mustard oil
100g onion, thinly sliced
15g garlic, crushed
½ tsp turmeric powder
1 tsp freshly ground cumin seeds
1 tsp freshly ground coriander seeds
200g chopped vine-ripened tomatoes
1 tbsp tamarind water (see below)
4 green cayenne chillies, slit open lengthways
1 large pinch asafoetida
1 tsp black mustard seeds
1 tsp cumin seeds
10-12 curry leaves
4 cloves
10cm cinnamon stick, halved
lime wedges, to serve

Put the dal into a medium-sized pan with 1 litre of water, bring to the boil, then lower the heat and leave to simmer for about 45 minutes or until the dal is soft and the mixture has reduced and thickened.

When the dal is almost ready, heat 1 tbsp each of vegetable and mustard oil in a medium-sized pan. Add the onion and fry for 6-8 minutes until soft and lightly golden.

Add the garlic, turmeric, cumin and coriander seeds and fry for a further 2-3 minutes. Add the tomatoes and cook until they just begin to soften. Add the mixture to the dal with the tamarind water and green chillies and simmer gently for 3-4 minutes.

Heat the remaining vegetable and mustard oil in a small frying pan over a medium heat. Add the asafoetida, mustard seeds, cumin seeds, curry leaves, cloves and cinnamon, cover with a lid and leave to sizzle for 1 minute until the mustard seeds stop popping. Add to the dal and season to taste with salt. Cover and leave for 5 minutes for the flavours to infuse. Serve with lime wedges.

Tamarind water

Take 60g tamarind pulp (about the size of a tangerine) and put it in a bowl with 150ml hand-hot water. Work the paste with your fingers until it has broken down and the seeds have been released. Strain the slightly syrupy mixture through a fine sieve into another bowl and discard the fibrous material left behind. The water is ready to use and will keep in the fridge for 24 hours.

• Rick Stein’s Far Eastern Odyssey is on BBC2 on Thursdays, at 8pm. Nigel Slater returns next week. Rick Stein’s Far Eastern Odyssey is published by BBC Books, at £25.

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Cooking in parcels

Serving food can be a wrappers’ delight, says Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall

Christmas has come early because I’m calling on you to perfect your wrapping skills. You’ll be pleased to know this involves no shiny paper, fancy ribbon or battles with the Sellotape, and the rewards are far greater than a pair of novelty socks. This week, I’m focusing on fat parcels of delicious food, all wrapped up like a present on a plate.

Cooking en papillote (in parcels of paper or foil) was once all the rage. It appealed to those keen to cook without fat, but often, alongside the fat, they left out the flavour, too, resulting in unappetising concoctions with all the oomph of a floppy carrot. So this isn’t about low-cal cooking per se – though these dishes certainly aren’t the most sinful things you’ll ever put in your mouth – but more about celebrating a way of cooking speedily and simply, and sealing in as much flavour as possible.

Once you get into the swing of cooking this way, you’ll be creating tasty culinary cocoons of your own in no time. It’s speedy, so it’s ideal for quick midweek suppers, and it’s also potentially elegant enough for when you want to serve up something a little impressive, too – everyone gets to open their own package at the table, sending up a fragrant cloud of steam and, an added bonus, there’s no need for a separate sauce because each parcel contains its own tasty juices.

Baking parchment is the classic way to go. A double layer and careful crimping (fixed by a metal paperclip if you’re not entirely confident in your kitchen origami) will ensure no leaks, but foil works just as well; you can even use newspaper or filo. The other secret of success is a hot oven, at least 200C/400F/gas mark 6 – allow six minutes for shellfish, 10-12 for fish fillets and 15-25 for prime cuts of meat and poultry; cut any veg finely enough so it’s done at the same time. Apart from that, it’s a wrap.

Newspaper-wrapped bream (or other fish)

A great way of cooking over a fire or barbecue. The fish steams in its wet parcel, so it stays moist. You won’t get crisp skin, but you do get lovely, tender flesh. Serves two to four.

2 black bream (or grey mullet or trout), cleaned

A few bay leaves and thyme sprigs

A few knobs of butter

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 lemon, plus wedges for serving

Lay each fish on some newspaper (three sheets if it’s a tabloid, two for a broadsheet) with a bay leaf and a thyme sprig both in the belly and tucked underneath. Put a few scraps of butter on top of and inside the fish, season with salt, pepper and a squeeze of lemon, then wrap it up so you have a snug parcel. Soak the parcels in water until wet through.

It’s important that the barbecue coals or embers of the fire are fiercely hot with plenty of burn time left, and that the grill over the barbecue has had time to heat up, too. Cook the parcels for 15 minutes, until the paper is charred and starting to burst into flames (if it catches fire sooner than you’d like, sprinkle with water). Unwrap carefully, trying to prevent newspaper ash falling on the fish flesh. Serve with lemon wedges.

Sardines in filo

A very tasty starter or light lunch. As an alternative, rub the sardines with harissa instead of the gremolata and caper mixture, and add a big pinch of cumin to the butter. Serves six as a starter, three as a main course.

Zest of 1 lemon, plus wedges

1 garlic clove, finely chopped

4 tbsp finely chopped parsley

1 tsp capers, rinsed and chopped

6 sardines, gutted

6 40cm x 40cm sheets filo pastry

100g unsalted butter, melted

Preheat the oven to 200C/400F/gas mark 6. Mix the lemon zest, garlic, parsley and capers, spoon a little into the cavities of each fish and rub the rest over the skin. Brush a sheet of filo with melted butter, fold over and brush again. Lay a sardine in the middle at one end and roll up loosely, brushing the exposed side with butter as you go. Tuck the ends underneath and brush the parcel all over with butter. Repeat with the other fish and lay in a parchment-lined baking tin, leaving a bit of space between each one. Bake for 15-20 minutes until golden brown. Serve at once with lemon wedges.

Apricots with honey & star anise

Served with ice-cream or thick yogurt sweetened with honey, this makes an easy, pretty pudding. Serves four.

16 apricots

4 tbsp honey

Zest of 1 small orange

4 tbsp sweet pudding wine – we use a Pineau de Charentes (or 4 tbsp fresh orange juice)

2 tbsp unsalted butter

4 star anise

2 vanilla pods, quartered lengthwise

Preheat the oven to 200C/400F/gas mark 6. Cut out four 30cm squares of baking parchment. Halve the apricots along the “seam” and remove the stone. Place eight apricot halves in the middle of each parchment square. Trickle over a tablespoon of honey, grate over some orange zest and pour over a tablespoon of wine (or orange juice). Place a scrap of butter on the middle of each apricot and put a star anise and two strips of vanilla in the middle of each parcel. Seal, place on a baking sheet and bake for 12 minutes, until the packets are puffed up and the apricots tender. Leave to cool slightly before serving.

Other good combos…

• Shaved fennel, a bit of butter, a splash of vermouth and some lemon zest is great with fillets of mullet, gurnard, bass or bream.

• Ginger, garlic, spring onion, chilli and soy with duck or chicken breast.

• A slosh of white wine, some garlic, thyme and a knob of butter with a handful of mussels or clams.

• Sliced pears with brown sugar, butter and nutmeg – serve with ice-cream or Greek yogurt.

• That old favourite, bananas in foil on the barbecue – make them more indulgent by cutting a slit in the skin and forcing bits of chocolate into the flesh before wrapping. A dash of rum wouldn’t go amiss, either.

• River Cottage and Good Energy, the 100% renewable electricity supplier, have joined forces to promote sustainable energy: rivercottage.net/sustainability for full details.

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The Word of Mouth KFC challenge

When the ‘secret’ of the Colonel’s blend of herbs and spices was revealed, we had to test the recipe – and then see if it could be bettered …

Woody Allen once opined that sex is like pizza – even when it’s rubbish it’s pretty damn good. I feel the same way about fried chicken. The truth is, it would take effort and skill to screw up succulent chicken meat, dredged in seasoned flour and cooked in boiling fat. Like many other foodies I have a problem with the moral implications of KFC’s chicken meat but I can’t, with my hand on my (rapidly congesting) heart, say it doesn’t taste pretty good when fresh from the bucket.

But I’m lucky enough to also have sampled the real thing. I lived for several years in rural North Carolina and married a local girl. The reception was held on a hot summer evening, on the banks of a sleepy river on the family farm and was a pot-luck affair. In the course of the evening a couple of hundred people turned up, most carrying trays covered in a cloth and containing a personal variation on fried chicken.

Your personal ‘secret recipe’ for fried chicken is a pretty serious business in the South, and a newbie outsider like me could be forgiven for believing that all those family reunions, church picnics, barbecues and tailgate parties were just a front for a bitterly fought and endless competition to produce better and better fried chicken. I personally reckon the world would be a much better place if we all got together every now and again in a ‘healthy’ competition over fried chicken. It sublimates family tensions, draws communities together and generally makes it socially acceptable to eat like a starved weasel in the name of politeness. An online competitive chicken fry-off, then? Bring it on.

Thanks to a huge response from WoM posters we were able, once again, to revisit the endlessly fascinating moral arguments surrounding the eating of animals. We were also able work out a sensible method of home cooking fried chicken, and devise a convincingly British spicing mix.

Lacking KFC’s mighty pressure fryers and mindful of the need to cook the chicken right through, we were happy to follow the suggestions of double cooking. Most recommended some time in the oven after frying, but we thought we’d experiment with poaching beforehand and, as many of our posters suggested an overnight marinade in milk, we decided to use the marinade as the poaching liquid. It’s worth noting for future recipes that chicken marinaded and poached in milk has an unbelievably suave flavour and texture, and that the poaching liquid thickens to create the most soothing cream of chicken soup I’ve ever achieved.

We made up two batches of seasoned flour, using Ron Douglas’s ‘KFC’ mix and our own Guardian crowdsourced version – let’s call it ‘GFC’ – and fried sample pieces of the poached chicken dredged in each.

‘KFC’ mix
1 teaspoon ground oregano
1 teaspoon chilli powder
1 teaspoon ground sage
1 teaspoon dried basil
1 teaspoon dried marjoram
1 teaspoon pepper
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon paprika
1 teaspoon onion salt
1 teaspoon garlic powder
2 tablespoons Accent (MSG)

GFC mix
1 tsp smoked paprika
1 tsp mustard powder
1 tsp sage
1 tsp celery seeds
1 tsp sugar
1 tsp dried onion flakes
2 tsp salt
1 tsp ground black pepper
1 tsp ground white pepper

I’m not going to lie to you. If your paper gives you moral carte blanche to wolf it down in the name of research, and when it’s hot and fresh from the bucket, KFC is gorgeous. I haven’t eaten chain fast food for a long time and the combined hit of chicken, fat and flavour was disorientatingly powerful. It’s the sort of comprehensive sensory seeing-to that’s both best and worst about drink, drugs and sex. So very good and so very bad. No wonder teenagers live on this stuff. But trying to apply any kind of critical approach to the flavour was surprisingly hard. I can’t tell you what that famous mixture of 11 secret herbs and spices actually tastes of, because I couldn’t distinguish any particular flavours amid the assault.

Cooking from scratch enables us to do two things that the Colonel can’t: use great chicken and drain the grease more efficiently. This gave us a real head start, and the results were stunning. A single bite of the homemade KFC is enough. It’s like biting into a dew-fresh ripe peach after eating a canned one. It’s obviously the same thing but an order of magnitude better. As before, none of the flavours predominated enough to be identifiable but, having made up the mix from scratch, we now know the secret. Herbs and spices be damned, that staggering, mouthfilling, umami facepunch of a flavour is down to the two tablespoonfuls of MSG.

GFC, our own mix, was very, very good. Nice flavours, well chosen and matched. It’s refined, elegant and I’d proudly serve it at a family picnic. An elegant Southern church lady would gladly remove a cotton glove to pick up an MSG-free GFC drumstick. She would compliment us on our British reserve, our eccentric quirkiness and our general pluck, but as far as stimulating the senses goes, she’d politely opine, “why, it’s like comparing iced tea and crystal meth”.

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Food tattoos: tasty or tragic?

From fruit to burgers to kitchen appliances, there are a lot of food-related tattoos out there. What tasty tat would you choose?

There is a tattoo trend afoot. We’ve had dolphins, ancient symbols, “ironic” sailor tattoos and now I give you … the food tattoo.

Before I go any further, I feel like I should state straight off the bat that I don’t like tattoos. On me. I’m not a huge fan of them on other people either, but it takes all sorts. Working in fashion, I have a low boredom threshold – I want new and I want it now. The thought of deciding on a tattoo today that defines me so much that I feel the need to have it scratched into my skin yet will still hold true in 10 or 20 years time strikes fear in my heart. Call me fickle.

When Lulu Grimes of Olive magazine Twittered these food tattoos I thought it was a pretty funny joke. But it turns out these are real tattoos. As in, these people are stuck with them forever.

Don’t get me wrong, I love food. I spend much too much time planning what I will eat next and have many favourite foods. Most of them involve cheese. But, never in all my days of scraping the last crumb of Stilton off the rind, have I considered marking my love of the stinky cheese in a permanent fashion.

The shaven-headed man pictured above loves fried breakfasts so much that he sports a full English on his shiny pate. At least he could grow his hair back to cover it up, although the thought of a baked bean peeking out of his parting makes me feel a little nauseous. A woman has a cherry-topped cupcake on her foot, but look a little closer and the cherry is a skull. Sinister. And weird. Yet another shows a piece of toast, complete with smiling face, spreading itself with jam. The toast looks happy enough, I wonder whether the owner of the tat is quite so jolly?

There are dripping slices of pizza, rashers of bacon, angry-looking leeks, shrimps and, inexplicably, a blue cupcake sitting on the toilet.

I just don’t get it. Some of the tattoo owners appear to be advertising food joints like the American burger restaurant Wendy’s. What’s the motivation? Is brand loyalty alone enough? And what do you do if you get a meaty hot-dog inked on your arm and then turn vegetarian? Turn it into a gherkin?

And what about your chances with the opposite sex? Eating food can be sexy. Removing your clothes to reveal a carton of milk holding hands with a cookie or all the ingredients needed to make hummus, not so much.

Maybe celebrities (they love a tattoo, don’t they?) could get in on the branding action. Amy Winehouse could get a bottle of Tanqueray gin inscribed somewhere (if she can find the room). Stella McCartney could get a veggie burger. Justin Timberlake could get a Big Mac to go with his McDonald’s jingles.

But what should you never, ever, no matter how drunk you are, have tattooed onto yourself? Anything in the line of Ginsters pasties, Spam, sausage rolls, and rice pudding, surely.

It’s impossible to decide which is the worst, but possibly, given the rampant spread of swine flu, the idea of engraving my flesh with a butcher’s diagram of a pig, complete with all the different cuts, comes close.

If I was forced, upon pain of death, to have a food tattoo. I would a) probably choose death, b) get the smallest thing possible, like a poppy seed to actual size, and c) have it removed.

What food would you get tattooed?

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Sushi, and beyond

‘A must for for all lovers of Japanese cuisine. Where else can an English-speaking foodie learn … how to make a chanko nabe hot-pot good enough to please a sumo wrestler?’

Japan and the Japanese dropped from the sky. The archipelago of 3,000 islands and its people were created by the deities Izanagi and Izanami, according to sacred Shinto texts. The divine brother and sister joined “their majestic parts in a majestic union” and made a new world.

From its ancient creation myths to Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner, the otherness of Japanese culture has fascinated the Western mind – at least every mind except that of the English travel and food writer Michael Booth. To Michael – described by a Japanese friend as a “no-brain-whitey-gaijn” – the country seemed to be a dull place. Its food was all about appearance, not flavour. Every dish was fat-free and drowned in soy sauce. Its recipes came from Thailand, China and the Portuguese. Booth believed, “All you need to make good Japanese food is a sharp knife and a good fishmonger.” How wrong he proved himself to be.

Intrigued by Oriental longevity, and worried about his own expanding Western waistline, Booth decided to travel across Japan, discovering “methodically, greedily” the secrets of its national cuisine. Over a period of three months, he lunched with Sumo wrestlers, massaged the world’s most expensive cows and visited a dog café. He met celebrity rock star chefs. He learnt about the sake crisis and MSG. He dropped by a parasite museum and the world’s largest cookery school. He shopped at the Tsukiji fish market (which shifts two million kilos of seafood every day from “chunks of vampish red whale meat to tiny brown shrimps the size of an eyelash”). He even risked a serving of notorious fugu puffer fish (chefs who prepare the potentially-deadly dish need two years’ training and a licence).

Booth made his journey in the company of his wife Lissen and sons Ansger, six, and Emil, four; fussy eaters who prefer “potato-based food stuffs shaped like dinosaurs”. Their presence provided diverting entertainment. But his more important fellow-traveller was Shizuo Tsuji’s seminal book Japanese Cooking: A Simple Art. Through its pages Booth began to appreciate Japanese philosophy and the delicate pageantry of its cuisine. He came to understand the fundamental importance of the seasons in its food, the obsession with freshness and simplicity, even the spiritual meaning of rice.

This transformation is the most moving part of Sushi and Beyond. For example, long after the roving family had left Hokkaido, Booth found himself haunted by the elusive flavour of Sapporo crabs (“sensuous to the point of perversion”). He grew to appreciate the vast range of ramen noodles (while learning to slurp in appreciation). Above all, he was transformed by his meal at Mibu, Japan’s finest restaurant which guests may attend only on invitation from the owner. The “transcendent” meal at Mibu was “a seismic moment in my life as an eater”, he wrote, where he enjoyed the best sashimi, aubergine, eel and dashi he’d ever tasted. The flavours and aroma literally made him shudder with pleasure “like a mini-orgasm”.

On his trip, Booth also came to appreciate the difference between European and Japanese cooks. He learned that in France, for example, chefs want to change the ingredients they cook, putting their individual mark on them, while in Japan the ingredients are considered a gift from God that should not be altered too much. “In other words, in Japan the chefs work with what God provides, in France the chefs think they are God.”

Booth’s descriptions of food made my mouth water: a miso soup was served with “a crispy-sweet, raggedy fritter of scallops each the size of Emil’s fingernail”, tempura was made with “crunchy, gnarled batter”. But his book could have been much, much stronger with hard editing. No travel narrative is enhanced by details of delayed flights or the admission that the author browses through tourist brochures. Readers won’t respect the confession that his Japanese fixer “somehow knows what I wanted to see, even when I didn’t really know it myself”. And a number of journalistic interviews could have been omitted altogether. The extraneous material blurs the book’s focus, giving it a casualness which undermines the profundity of Booth’s journey. Like good soya sauce, Sushi and Beyond needed a longer distillation period to achieve its true potential.

That said, this book is a must for all lovers of Japanese cuisine. Where else can an English-speaking foodie learn about tako yaki octopus doughnuts, floral-flavoured Okinawan sweet potato ice cream (part of the reason why Okinawans live longer than anyone else on the planet) and how to make a chanko nabe hot-pot good enough to please a sumo wrestler?

• Rory MacLean‘s latest book Magic Bus: On the Hippie Trail from Istanbul to India is published by Penguin in the UK and by IG Publishing in the States. His UK top tens Stalin’s Nose and Under the Dragon are available in Tauris Parke Paperbacks.

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A morning with Billingsgate’s fish merchants

Billingsgate’s fish merchants talk to Mark Smith about the stresses of the job, the decline of the traditional fishmonger, and why celebrity chefs have got a lot to answer for


Crustacean nation: the crab pasty

If you’re heading to the British seaside in the next few weeks, you may find yourself converted to the crab pasty cause

If you followed last week’s post on crab damaging, you’re probably staring at something that looks like the aftermath of Lt Ripley’s meeting with a facehugger and saying to yourself, OK, what next? Well, I promised you a couple of suggestions for crabmeat but this one is a little more than just a recipe. It’s more like a call to arms.

In spite of years of trying, we’ve been pretty much unable to agree on a national dish. Sunday lunch has been suggested but we’re never going to get anyone to agree about the Yorkshire puddings. You could assemble a reasonably watertight argument for the fried breakfast but then some fool would include baked beans and reasonable people would want them killed. Somebody’s suggested chicken tikka masala but I’m not going to stand for that – our nation’s cuisine is represented by something 99% of the population ‘cook’ by piercing the film with a fag end and nuking it ’til it pings? No thank you. Instead, I’d like to make the case for the crab pasty.

At the moment I only know two places in the UK you can get one of these beauties. The first is quite a journey (how far you have to travel depends on where you live, of course – but it’s still quite a journey). Head to the Isle of Wight – an idyll separated from the mainland by a mere half a mile of water and about 60 years – and meander the circuitous and poorly signposted tracks to Ventnor. There’s about 70 yards of blighted prom, a couple of ice-cream shacks and an old couple on a bench that died on the way back from casting their votes for Attlee. They’ve been left to mummify because that’s what people are like in Ventor – they mind their own business. You might be forgiven for thinking that here, you’d reached the remotest part of the country. But you’d be wrong.

About a mile west of the ‘town’, accessible only by means of a stiff hike along the prom, is Steephill Cove, a picturesque inlet comprising a couple of houses and some beach shacks. Here, by long tradition, families of ‘longshoremen’ fish lines of crab pots in return for protecting and maintaining the beach. The Cawes family have been longshoremen for generations, and every morning they boil up a mountain of fresh crab which they bake into turnover pasties and serve from a hatch in their kitchen, straight into the hands of the gasping crab lovers queuing outside.

Can you imagine? This is happening here, in our country. If I told you it was Italy there’d be a solid line of Volvos from here to the Adriatic coast and the locals would slap an appellation on the damn things faster than you could say Champagne(TM). But no. It’s Ventnor. Hell, you could be there in a matter of hours.

I’m told that the other place you can get a crab pasty is one Rick Stein’s patisserie in Padstow. That’s as it should be from our foremost fish booster – but dammit, it’s not good enough.

We have fantastic crabs right round our coast. You just have to chuck a pot in the sea and they come leaping out, begging to be eaten. Anyone can knock up pastry. Four-year-olds with rudimentary Play-Doh skills can form a pasty. This is not, as they say, rocket science or even molecular gastronomy, and I swear, once you have eaten one of these things, you will ignore whatever fish and chips, Cornish pasties, kippers, winkles, laver bread, stottie, barmbrack, chacky pig or Hindle wakes you’ve previously sworn by. You will fling these impostors from you with petulant force and take to the streets, praising the crab pasty with ‘British cheers and loud’.

The recipe, such as it is, is so blindingly simple, so utterly right, that it almost constitutes a meme.

Roll some pastry. Cut a circle. Put some crabmeat on one side, season, fold over the top and bake until nicely browned.

The Cawes family, from what I’ve been able to divine with a joy-addled palate, add sweated shredded leeks and maybe some turmeric, and use puff pastry. Rick Stein adds a dab of clotted cream and perhaps some vermouth. I use a thread of saffron in mine.

But this is the whole point. Whether with shortcrust, added potato, white pepper, mace, more brown meat, more white, a shot of Pernod or a twist of tarragon, the variations are as endless as the regions of our nation. We can maintain our bitter local rivalries, our hard-won, treasured prejudices, our ridiculous internecine bitchery while uniting behind a dish that tastes phenomenal whatever you do to it and is utterly unique to us.

Before you head off for your credit crunch British seaside holiday this year, print out this post. As soon as you’ve dropped the cases in the B&B and the kids have stopped vomiting, proceed directly to the prom and hand it to the first slop-merchant in the nearest caravan, stall or shopfront. If there’s any justice in the world they will slap their heads in wonder at the blinding simplicity of the idea. They’ll embrace it as the Wonder of the Age and devote the rest of their lives to the creation of a better, more wonderfully delicious, more British crab pasty.

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Crustacean nation: the crab pasty

If you’re heading to the British seaside in the next few weeks, you may find yourself converted to the crab pasty cause

If you followed last week’s post on crab damaging, you’re probably staring at something that looks like the aftermath of Lt Ripley’s meeting with a facehugger and saying to yourself, OK, what next? Well, I promised you a couple of suggestions for crabmeat but this one is a little more than just a recipe. It’s more like a call to arms.

In spite of years of trying, we’ve been pretty much unable to agree on a national dish. Sunday lunch has been suggested but we’re never going to get anyone to agree about the Yorkshire puddings. You could assemble a reasonably watertight argument for the fried breakfast but then some fool would include baked beans and reasonable people would want them killed. Somebody’s suggested chicken tikka masala but I’m not going to stand for that – our nation’s cuisine is represented by something 99% of the population ‘cook’ by piercing the film with a fag end and nuking it ’til it pings? No thank you. Instead, I’d like to make the case for the crab pasty.

At the moment I only know two places in the UK you can get one of these beauties. The first is quite a journey (how far you have to travel depends on where you live, of course – but it’s still quite a journey). Head to the Isle of Wight – an idyll separated from the mainland by a mere half a mile of water and about 60 years – and meander the circuitous and poorly signposted tracks to Ventnor. There’s about 70 yards of blighted prom, a couple of ice-cream shacks and an old couple on a bench that died on the way back from casting their votes for Attlee. They’ve been left to mummify because that’s what people are like in Ventor – they mind their own business. You might be forgiven for thinking that here, you’d reached the remotest part of the country. But you’d be wrong.

About a mile west of the ‘town’, accessible only by means of a stiff hike along the prom, is Steephill Cove, a picturesque inlet comprising a couple of houses and some beach shacks. Here, by long tradition, families of ‘longshoremen’ fish lines of crab pots in return for protecting and maintaining the beach. The Cawes family have been longshoremen for generations, and every morning they boil up a mountain of fresh crab which they bake into turnover pasties and serve from a hatch in their kitchen, straight into the hands of the gasping crab lovers queuing outside.

Can you imagine? This is happening here, in our country. If I told you it was Italy there’d be a solid line of Volvos from here to the Adriatic coast and the locals would slap an appellation on the damn things faster than you could say Champagne(TM). But no. It’s Ventnor. Hell, you could be there in a matter of hours.

I’m told that the other place you can get a crab pasty is one Rick Stein’s patisserie in Padstow. That’s as it should be from our foremost fish booster – but dammit, it’s not good enough.

We have fantastic crabs right round our coast. You just have to chuck a pot in the sea and they come leaping out, begging to be eaten. Anyone can knock up pastry. Four-year-olds with rudimentary Play-Doh skills can form a pasty. This is not, as they say, rocket science or even molecular gastronomy, and I swear, once you have eaten one of these things, you will ignore whatever fish and chips, Cornish pasties, kippers, winkles, laver bread, stottie, barmbrack, chacky pig or Hindle wakes you’ve previously sworn by. You will fling these impostors from you with petulant force and take to the streets, praising the crab pasty with ‘British cheers and loud’.

The recipe, such as it is, is so blindingly simple, so utterly right, that it almost constitutes a meme.

Roll some pastry. Cut a circle. Put some crabmeat on one side, season, fold over the top and bake until nicely browned.

The Cawes family, from what I’ve been able to divine with a joy-addled palate, add sweated shredded leeks and maybe some turmeric, and use puff pastry. Rick Stein adds a dab of clotted cream and perhaps some vermouth. I use a thread of saffron in mine.

But this is the whole point. Whether with shortcrust, added potato, white pepper, mace, more brown meat, more white, a shot of Pernod or a twist of tarragon, the variations are as endless as the regions of our nation. We can maintain our bitter local rivalries, our hard-won, treasured prejudices, our ridiculous internecine bitchery while uniting behind a dish that tastes phenomenal whatever you do to it and is utterly unique to us.

Before you head off for your credit crunch British seaside holiday this year, print out this post. As soon as you’ve dropped the cases in the B&B and the kids have stopped vomiting, proceed directly to the prom and hand it to the first slop-merchant in the nearest caravan, stall or shopfront. If there’s any justice in the world they will slap their heads in wonder at the blinding simplicity of the idea. They’ll embrace it as the Wonder of the Age and devote the rest of their lives to the creation of a better, more wonderfully delicious, more British crab pasty.

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The low-carbon wine baa

Winemaker deploys miniature sheep to cut fuel costs and keep grass short

Duncan Graham-Rowe

A New Zealand winemaker believes he has struck upon the solution to reducing the carbon footprint of wine – and the answer, which may come as no great surprise, lies in sheep. Miniature sheep, that is.

There are only 300 of them in the world and they were originally bred as cute miniature pets, but Peter Yealands believes that babydoll sheep could help him to reduce the environmental footprint of his wine.

By allowing the rare breed to graze on the grass between his vines, Yealands says he can dramatically reduce the energy his wine takes to make and ultimately enable the process to be more sustainable.

Wine producers often use sheep to keep grass short, such as in these Californian vineyards, left, but flocks must be removed when the vines bud because the animals will eat them too. So, to prevent the grass using up precious nutrients and water, and to prevent the spread of disease and fungus, growers normally use tractors to do the job.

With 1,000 hectares in his vineyard that means driving 3,500km for each of the 12 times a year the grass has to be mowed. As a result, for Yealands, diesel makes up about 60% of his energy costs.

To avoid using a tractor, last year Yealands experimented by letting loose giant guinea pigs. That worked initially, he said. “But once the hawks had a taste for them they were sitting prey. We were losing them by the hour. Besides, we would have needed 11 million of them to make it work.”

Now Yealands has turned his attention to babydolls, a rare breed of sheep which only reach about 60cm tall when fully grown. Because the grapes tend only to start growing from about 110cm off the ground the sheep can’t reach them. Yealands has tested 10 of the sheep on a 125-hectare patch of vines.

By selectively breeding them with another more common sheep, the Merino Saxon, which is favoured for its meat, Yealands now hopes to get his stock up to the 10,000 he needs within the next five years. If successful, the flock should save him NZ$1.5m (£600,000) a year in diesel alone, and he hopes to sell the sheep for meat too.

Marleen Stumpel, co-director of AdVintage Wines, a London-based supplier of carbon-neutral wines, said the babydolls are an unusual approach.

She said most wine makers reduce their carbon footprint by paying to offset their emissions. “There is a growing market for it, but the wine does tend to be a little bit more expensive,” she said.

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‘Rising at 2am is hard on marriages’

Billingsgate’s fish merchants on quotas, celebrity chefs and the future of the fishing industry


Butternut squash cake anyone?

Scrumptious cakes can be easy on the calories – if you bake with vegetables. We try some unlikely recipes

My first reaction to the book Red Velvet and Chocolate Heartache was that I can’t stand the way it is written. All the vegetables are given a personality. Many of the recipes also have a personality. The Chocolate and Salted Caramel Squillionaire, a kind of millionaire’s shortbread, has a gender (“he is just too good to lose”). Well, look, it’s a book about fancy cakes with low calorie counts (to clarify, according to the author: “I didn’t write this book because I’m obsessed with healthy food. I wrote it because I adore cake”) . The woman behind it, Harry Eastwood, could never be accused of being embarrassed to be girly.

Her previous book was Cook Yourself Thin, and the principles here are, I think, broadly the same. Most things can be rendered less gut-busting with the addition of low-cal ballast. It’s an old Californian joke to take regular food and add a load of prunes (leeks, for a savoury “treat”), but that seems to be the way to write for this cake-loving, self-loathing audience. The orange-blossom cupcakes (“light, bright and pretty. They’re also a little fickle, and not without ambition. Don’t be surprised if they compliment you on your hair, the week before your birthday party invitations are being handed out . . .”) contain butternut squash, whose calorie count raw is, I believe (what am I talking about? I went to an all-girls’ school, and I know this to be true), 38 per 100g. That is pretty low. One of the cakes I made, the Heartache Chocolate, contained aubergine, which has a calorie count so low it almost defies the laws of physics (15 per 100g).

So underneath all the schmaltz, this is quite a good idea. Many of us have a phobia of cakes with vegetables in, but this would – I strongly suspect – be a 70s and 80s hangover from hateful baking, undertaken by people who wanted the carrots and other roots to taste like roots. Hippies actively enjoyed ruining treat-food with stinking parsnip. The mode these days – when Nigella has a courgette cake, or Nell Nelson introduces the beetroot chocolate cake – is for the vegetables to play a more subtle role. At the very least, not deliberately to make things that are disgusting.

So, in this spirit, I chose to try out recipes where the vegetables concerned were not enormously tasty in and of themselves. Squash is a case in point. So I did the Banana and Toffee Sticky Cake, which weight for weight contained more butternut than banana. It also uses eggs, sugar, rice flour, ground almonds and nuts. First, though, this Heartache Chocolate cake: I quibbled with the expectation that we would all have a microwave, when I believe actually not that many people do (without one, there’s a 40-minute preamble, while you bake the aubergines. If you were in a hurry . . . well, almost any other chocolate cake would be quicker). Once you go through all that, though, you proceed as normal, cook the cake, and at some point “your kitchen will just sing with the smell of hot chocolate”. I must contest this: all chocolate cakes make your kitchen smell of chocolate – this, conversely, made me think, “What’s that weird smell? Aubergine? An aubergine, in a hot chocolate? Oh yes, I’m making a weird cake.”

The butternut squash for the banana cake also added a layer of hassle that those not on a diet might be able to do without. You have to peel it and grate it; more time-consuming by far than cracking an egg.

Anyway, so there was my kitchen singing its strange song, and I greeted the chocolate cake at this pitch of mild hostility, left it to cool and noticed thereupon that it gleamed in a beautiful way. Cakes in books often gleam, but I put this down to the food stylist. Cakes never gleam in my house. Still sceptical, I didn’t even taste it till the next day.

The banana cake, too, smelled delicious , and again, came out looking unusually good; you might almost say professional. Luck of the draw, I thought. The chocolate cake continued to shine, but it also looked brick-heavy. It has no sugar in it, did I mention? Only honey and chocolate. I had a wholemeal kid over for a playdate, and he fell upon it, but my own offspring, properly acquainted with jammy dodgers and other refinements, wouldn’t touch it.

Finally, I had some. It was delicious. I’m not kidding around. It was moist but not heavy, almost moussy. Surprisingly, the honey was not overbearing. You couldn’t really taste it, in fact. Then I checked the calorie value, which was 216 per slice. That is incredible. Even the most meagre Boots’ Shaper meal can’t bring in a limp sandwich that low, and this was a fully fledged, chocolate-loaded, gleaming bit of cake. The Banana and Toffee Sticky Cake had a bit more bang for its buck, but still, 360 calories per slice was very respectable. Again, it tasted good.

This book still isn’t what I’d read in the bath, and I still think the best way not to be fat, if that’s what you’re after, is to get a hobby that doesn’t involve cake. But Eastwood is on to something. These cakes would be brilliant if you had sweet-fiend children and you worried about their intake; or if you had a sweet tooth and a heart condition. Or if you had an organic box and you were sick of soup. Or . . . I must stop trying to weasel out of this. These are good recipes. I was wrong, and I apologise.

Red Velvet and Chocolate Heartache (Bantam Press, £20).

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Who wants sticky toffee pudding?

Thomasina Miers, chef and owner of award-winning restaurant Wahaca, tests puddings


Food in the life of Nelson Mandela

The most elementary social, economic and emotional truths are revealed in the ways that we we cook, eat and serve food. So why not ask those who changed the world what they were eating while they did it?

Recipes
Mrs Vervoed’s koeksisters
George Bizos’s oregano and lemon lamb
Farida Omar’s chicken curry
Xoliswa Ndoyiya’s umphokoqo

In his autobiography Nelson Mandela declared that:

“I was not born with a hunger to be free. I was born free. Free in every way that I could know. Free to run in the fields near my mother’s hut, free to swim in the clear stream that ran through my village, free to roast mealies [corn] under the stars … It was only when I learnt that my boyhood freedom was an illusion … that I began to hunger for it.”

Only the truly food obsessed would read such a statement and consider the stomach from whence it came, but I did and the result is a gastro-political biography entitled Hunger for Freedom, the story of food in the life of Nelson Mandela.

There are those who might argue that such an evaluation is trivial or even tasteless, but there is nothing innately frivolous or disrespectful about food. We all reveal our most elementary social, economic and emotional truths in the ways that we cook, eat and serve food. So why not ask those who changed the world what they were eating while they did it?

Hunger for Freedom traces Nelson Mandela’s journey in food reminiscences and recipes from the corn grinding stone of his Mvezo birthplace and simple dishes like umphokoqo through wedding cakes, prison hunger strikes and presidential banquets into a retirement deliciously infused with the Mozambican seafood dishes of his third wife Graça Machel.

In the course of the research for my book I tracked down the former South African President’s schoolboy contemporaries who put on a traditional Xhosa rural feast for me. I shared biscuits and memories of teenage dinner dates with his first girlfriend. I made his favourite spaghetti recipe with Winnie Madikizela-Mandela as she told of a great love lost and thwarted. I wept through ex-prisoners’ descriptions of Robben Island prison rations and roared with laughter at his grandchildren’s tales of the great man’s fondness for Frosties breakfast cereal.

There were Christmas cakes with former jailers and crab curries with comrades past. I was very pregnant throughout much of the research process and to hear Nelson Mandela reminisce about chicken recipes (and offer to deliver the baby) was a huge privilege and an absolute joy.

Looking at Nelson Mandela’s personal and political history from the vantage point of the kitchen offered up hitherto unrecorded insights into a man and the society in which he came of age. In apartheid South Africa every dish was served against a backdrop of racial oppression. In the 1950s parties given by anti-apartheid activists saw drinks served in very short tots so as to ensure that if the police raided the event black people would not be found engaged in the illegal act of consuming alcohol.

The guest list for Nelson Mandela’s 1958 wedding to Winnie Madikizela was profoundly curtailed by the fact that almost every significant political activist was banned, jailed or in exile. The racially discriminatory food conditions for prisoners on Robben Island and the prisoners’ fights to improve their diet mirrored those of their broader struggle.

And yet Nelson Mandela’s food preferences past and present reveal the social and political significance of a multi-racial anti-apartheid alliance in which Thayanagee Pillay made coffee for prisoners awaiting trial, Farida Omar smuggled chicken curry to Nelson Mandela at Pollsmoor Prison, George Bizos cooked Greek lamb on a spit to celebrate great victories and Ray Harmel served chopped liver in times of trouble.

The history of South Africa’s transition to democracy can be read on a plate from Mandela’s first meal of freedom (Lillian Ngoboza’s hearty casserole followed by rum and raisin ice-cream at Bishop Tutu’s house) through the gastro-reconciliation of syrup-drenched koeksister with the widow of apartheid architect HF Vervoed in the whites only enclave of Orania. Similarly, Nelson Mandela’s personal transition from President to pensioner can be tasted in his housekeeper Xoliswa Ndoyiya’s chutney chicken recipe and Graça Machel’s caranguejo recheado (stuffed crabs).

Mandela media coverage has a somewhat saccharine tendency to deify South Africa’s most famous son. Asking what he had for lunch restores humanity to a living legend. It also recognizes that he was not acting alone but rather as part of a social and political team. Besides, the man himself has always been justifiably proud of his edible exploits. On August 31 1970 Madiba wrote to his wife Winnie from Robben Island prison:

“How I long for amasi (traditional South African fermented milk), thick and sour! You know darling there is one respect in which I dwarf all my contemporaries or at least about which I can confidently claim to be second to none – healthy appetite.”

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Happy hundredth, OFM

It’s the 100th issue of Observer Food Monthly this Sunday. Help us celebrate by looking back on your own foodie beginnings

Print journalists love anniversaries, especially their own. Curious as this may sound, coming from one who works for a newspaper founded in 1791, this is partly I think because we’re surprised by our own survival. We are often accused of having too much influence on the tastes of the nation, but after two decades in the business I increasingly think it’s the other way round; the tastes of the public define what we do.

So the fact that Observer Food Monthly is still here for edition 100 – a lifetime for a single issue Sunday supplement – means we are clearly doing a lot of things right.

What’s curious, looking back, is the degree to which the contents of that very first issue – published in April 2001 – established the form of what was to come. Yes, we had a fair scattering of gentle celebrity stardust: we were talking to Meera Syal about her favourite table, Josie Lawrence about her shopping habits and Christopher Walken about his life in food. The cover star was Marco Pierre White (shouty Gordon followed on issue two). But we also ran a big piece by the broadcaster John Humphrys on the challenges posed by commercial farming, a subject to which we would return time and again, with increasing subtlety and sophistication.

If I look back it is that popular, campaigning journalism which has really been given pride of place. Oh sure, we like the silly stuff too, and we have more than indulged our passion for the big name chefs, not because celebrity chefdom is all good, but because the individuals involved are fantastic copy. And they were willing to go along with us: there was the cross-dressing moment with Giorgio Locatelli and Eric Chavot (who knew he had such great legs?), the Last Supper, with Ramsay in the middle, a round of artfully flung cheese standing in for his halo. Best of all, for my money, was the shot by John Reardon – many of the very best have been – of Fergus Henderson hanging next to the carcass of a pig. He won awards. He deserved to.

But alongside that has been the hard-hitting stuff, for the most part written by the likes of Alex Renton, Andrew Purvis, Joanna Blythman and – occasionally – myself.

We’ve examined the threat to the environment from industrial scale fish farming, and that to the way of life of the Masai people because of food supply issues. We’ve had dispatches from Vietnam and Rwanda, Gaza and the rainforests of Brazil. We’ve written about school food – big time – and hospital food, and worked furiously to big up the brilliant efforts of small producers all over the country. Our food awards have become a serious fixture on the foodie calendar.

So how are we celebrating our hundredth issue? The usual way: by putting out a killer magazine. Alongside a major big name interview – we’re being coy about who it’s with until it’s out – we have 100 of the fastest, easiest recipes ever plus a big and revealing piece by Tim Adams on Starbucks and fairtrade coffee. Meanwhile our cover is on the intriguing subject of people who like to cook, and their mentors. Who got Nigella Lawson going? Who did Mark Hix mentor? And what about Ruthie Rogers of the River Café?

It’s a great subject. Rather boringly, I suspect I learned most of what I know from my mother. I was always a greedy boy and hung about in the kitchen waiting to eat, which inevitably led to me getting involved. I suspect my love of braising comes from being the son of a working mother who had to develop a strong line of long, slow cooked dishes.

But what about you? Who taught you to cook, or even just inspired you to do so? What were the lessons they taught you? Help us celebrate our 100th issue by looking back on your own foodie beginnings. And if you happen to want to tell us how fabulous OFM, feel free to do so. As to those of you with nothing nice to say, well don’t say anything at all. We’re too busy blowing out candles and we don’t want to hear it.

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One I prepared earlier

Has a misplaced childhood enthusiasm for cooking ruined any dishes for you? Is anyone brave enough to try making the Blue Peter scone pizza (pdf)?

I hate pizza. There, I said it and I am glad to finally get it off my chest. The decline in sales of this particular fast food are, to me, long overdue.

The key ingredients of dough, tomatoes, cheese, olive oil and a bit of herbage are benign enough, and in other similar combinations, like Welsh rarebit, Turkish pide or simple cheese on toast, can be rather lovely. But there is something about pizza that just, quite frankly, makes me a little nauseous.

I know it’s my fault and that there is nothing inherently wrong with pizza, but even when friends have persuaded me to try what they claim are perfect examples of the genre, I can’t help but think that the results are really rather grim and reminiscent of snot on toast.

Like so many things, it comes down to faulty personal wiring connected in childhood, and in the case of pizza I can trace it to one particular day and right back to the very first thing I ever tried to cook for myself.

Back in the early 1970s, a rainy Saturday afternoon’s entertainment usually involved watching Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks circle each other in a wrestling ring as old ladies waved their handbags. Or even more wretchedly, watching the racing on Grandstand until Final Score at 5pm where I could see to whom Rotherham United had lost.

One day however, my older sister Auriel came up with a novel suggestion, and, waving a copy of the latest Blue Peter annual, announced that we were going to spend the afternoon cooking. I was already a bit of a bloater at this point and the notion that I could learn how to make my own food so it was always readily available appealed no end. So I quickly donned a fetching pinny of my mother’s and joined Auriel at the kitchen table where she was assembling some ingredients.

Our recipe for the day was a scone pizza, which the good folk at Blue Peter have dug out for me to share with you all (pdf). It’s a fairly straightforward concoction comprising a self-raising flour dough that can be cooked in the oven or in a frying pan and then covered with toppings before being grilled until ready to serve.

The ingredients are very much of their day, as is the recommendation that “any hard fat will do, but don’t use soft margarine” and the use of “a little extra fat for cooking”. This being Blue Peter in the golden era days of Auntie Val, Peter P and Noaksey, there are reminders to “use a chopping board” and ask an adult to help if “you are not allowed to use a stove yet”.

My mother was quite sanguine about the whole thing and watched with pride as we made the dough and popped it in the oven to cook. She looked considerably less happy when we decided that we were not going to use a selection from the Blue Peter list of toppings as recommended, but were, indeed, going to use them all. We proceeded to layer the cooked scone with a towering pile of onion rings, tinned tomatoes, chutney, corned beef and, in place of sardines, the entire contents of a tin of pilchards.

The image of the end result remains with me to this day. At the time it was reminiscent of a natural disaster on John Craven’s Newsround, as the toppings slid slowly down the sides of the unevenly risen dough like lava down the sides of Mount Etna, forming a slick of sauce around the diameter of the burnt edifice.

It looked disgusting, and even though both Auriel and myself were very fond of our grub, we both shied away from it as if it were bath night in scone form as my mother made clucking noises about all that good food going to waste. She need not have worried, however – we’d forgotten about The Human Dustbin, my older brother Robin. Returning from an afternoon listening to “Tales From Topographic Oceans” with his mate Pete Smith, he announced himself “starving” and devoured the whole misshapen mess in one noisy sitting before lifting the plate up to his face and licking the last drops of pilchard juice with a loud, appreciative smack of the lips.

I am not sure if it was our own culinary atrocity or having to watch Robin eat it, but pizza hasn’t appealed to me since. I’d love to know what the first thing you ever cooked was, and how it turned out – was it a scintillating success, or such a disaster that it frightened you off an entire food group? And if you (or your kids) fancy having a go at the Blue Peter scone pizza, do share the results.

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My veggie heaven

From truffle framboise vinaigrette to fennel pollen – meat-free recipes can be a gourmet’s dream, if you know where to look for them, says Laura Barton

In the early years the menus were always a little grim: wan-looking mushroom stroganoff, mushy beanburgers, Quorn fillets and chilli-non-carne. With time came endless rolls of spinach and ricotta cannelloni and the almost tyrannical reign of wild mushroom risotto. When I stopped eating meat, nearly 15 years ago, vegetarian cuisine was frequently like this — stodgy, generally overly-smitten with dairy and pasta, and always apologetic, somehow, for the glaring absence of beef. 

Times have changed, of course, and today vegetarian food is generally more adventurous and widely available. But still it strikes me that if we want to encourage more people to eat vegetarian — and the news this month that vegetarians are less likely to develop cancer than meat-eaters would surely suggest it – we have to change the way we see vegetarian food; rather than being a miserable, bland and meatless world, it can be delicious, complex, and exciting. 

Four years ago, my own approach to vegetarian cooking was transformed after a visit to Fresh, a small chain of restaurants in Toronto that specialises in predominantly vegan food (stop wrinkling your noses there at the back). It was organic, sustainable, and perhaps most importantly, a-wriggle with flavour and texture. There were salads made with shredded carrot, white radishes called daikon, yellow beets and napa cabbage in a lime-peanut dressing. There was coconut tempeh (a solid, protein-rich ingredient made with whole, fermented soya beans, which tastes three million times better than it sounds) and black bean tostadas. And more than anything, there were the restaurant’s signature rice-bowls: brown basmati rice with a choice of toppings — the ninja, for instance, which offered salad greens, wasabi dill dressing, crispy tofu cubes, sun-dried tomatoes, sunflower sprouts and spicy ginger-tamari dressing. Smitten, I bought the restaurant’s cookbook, Fresh at Home. 

Though some of the recipes, such as the coconut curry and the golden dhal, are ludicrously easy and quick to prepare, others involve a little more of your time. One of my favourites, the sunflower rice bowl involves pre-preparing “Simple sauce” (one of the cookbook’s staples which you can make in larger quantities and store in the fridge), creamy sunflower dressing and marinating tofu steaks. The extra effort is rewarded with a dish that is richly-flavoured, variously-textured and truly joyous.

Some months later, having familiarised myself with the Fresh book, I was eager to try some other adventurous recipes, and after a little investigation chanced upon a website named VeganYumYum. It’s written by Lolo Ulm, a young Boston woman who falls asleep dreaming of recipes (miniature aubergine napoleons, which involve artfully stacked roast veg bound together with delicious aubergine “creme”, were a particular drowsy triumph). She has appeared on the Martha Stewart Show and won Food Blog of the Year in the 2007 Bloggers Choice Awards.

Like Fresh, VeganYumYum displays a passion for flavour, and many of the featured recipes are a result of trial, error and experimentation: marinating tofu in home-made marmalade for instance, making cookies with avocado and lime, or wondering what to do with fiddlehead ferns (the unfurling spring fronds of the ostrich fern) for the few weeks they are in season. 

One of the first recipes I tried from the site was the spaghetti squash, shitake, rocket and pistachio spring rolls. “I had a crazy idea for spring rolls, and here they are,” was how Ulm announced the recipe. “They were very light, and went really well with a lime & chili oil dipping sauce that I made up. “

Another of VeganYumYum’s triumphs is that it dispels the notion that vegetarian and vegan cuisine is austere or restrictive; this food is gutsy and gorgeous and occasionally gluttonous — the site boasts a particularly excellent selection of recipes for sweet treats such as blood orange and coconut mini bundt cakes, ground cherry pies and mojito cupcakes.

I was, by this stage, a little obsessed with finding new and interesting ways to cook without meat, and as last year’s festival season approached I began to feel a tad worried that I might face a summer of little more than veggie burgers and half-arsed Thai curry. Happily on the first day of Glastonbury I found a branch of a London cafe named Dragonfly Wholefoods, which I credit with keeping me alive and healthy for the duration of the festival. The menu specialised in raw vegan food — vegetable noodles made from marinated slivers of carrot and cucumber, raw onion seed bread and raw pizza, flax fire crackers and walnut and thyme cutlets. While I had no desire to make my diet completely raw, it did excite me that here was a whole thrilling new world of flavour and recipes to explore, and, as I lay awake in my tent at night, I began to wonder whether having a dehydrator (which preserves food without cooking it) in my kitchen would be any more bonkers than someone having a microwave.

In New York last year, a friend directed me to a raw vegan restaurant named Pure Food and Wine, set up by two chefs, Matthew Kenney and Sarma Melngailis, who had both previously been dedicated meat-eaters. Here I ate a salad of lamb’s lettuce, summer berries, and fennel with truffle framboise vinaigrette, aged cashew cheese cured with dill and fennel pollens and toasted pine nuts, followed by white corn tamales with raw cacao mole, marinated mushrooms, salsa verde and avocado, and with it, a plum-sake cocktail. It remains one of the best meals I have eaten, and, of course, I brought home their cookbook.

It’s feasible that at this moment you’re thinking I sound a little nuts, that you’re gagging at the notion of kale soup and nut-milk, turnip carpaccio and noodles made from raw coconut, but the last four years have been for me an epicurean delight, a chance to explore flavours and textures and senses, to take a grand adventure in the world beyond mushroom stroganoff •

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How to cook and dress a crab

They’re wild, abundant in British waters, and freshly prepared are a delicacy to rival lobster.

In pictures: how to cook and dress a crab, and we’ll have a couple of fantastic crab recipes to try over the next week

Crabs were probably the first step on my journey to becoming a food nut. Long before I was old enough to get a proper kitchen job I worked evenings and weekends in a seafood stall tucked under Bournemouth Pier. It was a weird little concrete bunker with a hatch and a couple of minging fridges, but Mike, the lovely Scotsman who owned the place, ran it a bit like a charity. Any local kid in need of a few quid seemed to end up working there.

It wasn’t glamorous. The only thing more repellent than looking at a plastic bucket of jellied eels is watching what an 18-stone daytripper does with them – which might be sucking them in like a stream of snot and gravel and then hosing the bones, rapid-fire, across the beach. The cockles weren’t exactly soul-enriching either, and the whelks were so abidingly distasteful when dressed in pre-ground white pepper and unspecified non-brewed condiment that they’d make a goat retch. But I loved the crabs.

Mike was one of those men who could turn his hand to anything; painting, decorating, cooking, fitting out his house or his shops. Watching his capable hands strip a boiled crustacean down to its edible parts in less than a minute was like watching digital ballet.

Over a couple of seasons, I must have stripped many thousand crabs myself and I got pretty good, though never quite up to his speed. Then one day, quite unexpectedly, Mike took his own life. The stall was closed up, and as far as I know, never re-opened. It was years later, in a far more professional kitchen, that a box of crabs was again dumped in front of me. I still think of Mike every time I strip a crab, but back then I laughed, imagining how he’d have enjoyed me wringing grudging praise from the bastard chef for a scorching display of speed and dexterity.

Crab could well be one of the UK’s most criminally underrated foods. They’re plentiful, cheap and when served fresh rather than tinned the meat is, in my opinion, superior to lobster. As Rejina spotted at Taste of London, crab is getting plenty of fashionable attention in restaurants too. In fact the only thing getting between you and this goldmine of flavour is cooking them and getting the meat out. As luck would have it, I was doing both these things last week so I shot some ‘how-to’ pictures which we’ve put into a gallery.

After the rigorous flaming I received for the snail business I think it’s fair to warn people that the photographs show the process of killing a crab. I personally believe it depicts the most humane way to do this but I’m not going to deny that the series starts with a live one and ends up with crab on brown bread with a couple of slices of lemon. If this idea doesn’t appeal to you, please don’t follow the link.

If the idea does appeal to you then you’ll find a simple, step-by-step guide to getting all that lovely meat out that will also be useful if you’ve bought a ready-cooked crab and are pawing uselessly at the exterior, wondering where the latch is.

Method

If you are choosing a live crab, pick up several and try to go for a lively one that’s heaviest for its size. The lighter ones are at a stage in their life cycle where they don’t fit the shell and produce far less meat. I put the crabs into the freezer for around 20 minutes which is intended to render them dormant. Though most people believe that dropping a crab into boiling water kills it very fast indeed, you can add an extra stage, just to be sure.

Working as quickly as possible, raise the tail flap, drive a skewer or small screwdriver into the small ‘dent’ underneath and move side to side; next push the spike in through the mouth area, point upwards into the back of the shell and, again, sweep from side to side.

Drop the crab into salted water at a fast rolling boil. If you’re doing more than one crab, make sure you allow the water to come back up to boiling between each one. I cook crabs of up to a kilo for around 15mins. If you are lucky enough to get bigger ones the usual rule is a minute for every extra 100g.

Once the crab has boiled, remove from the water and allow it to cool while assembling your tools. I use a pair of angled tweezers and a heavy Deba-style knife that I’m not too particular about keeping in perfect condition. Cracking shells is murder on a good blade.

Pull off the claws and legs and then, with the crab’s body on its back and facing away from you, bring your thumbs up under the rear edge and push firmly to lift out the core.

Dig your thumb in behind the eyes and mouthparts and lift out a mixed mass of bony and gloopy bits – these are mainly inedible parts of the digestive tract. Scoop everything else out of the shell into a bowl. It looks pretty grim at the moment but add a grind of black pepper, a squeeze of lemon (and you might want to try a pinch of smoked paprika) and mash it to a homogenous paste with the back of a fork. For classic British seaside presentation, spoon the mixture back into the washed shell forming a ridge down the middle.

Remove and discard the dead man’s fingers from around the core. These are the greyish-looking gills of the beast and, though they won’t cause you any harm, they have an unpleasant texture and taste. The core is a ridiculously complex labyrinth of bony cells but it’s packed with delicious white meat so chop it down the central line, discard the tail then take a comfortable seat and start pulling it out in threads, being careful to separate out any rigid stuff. You can also attack the problem through the leg sockets. It will take ages but eventually you’ll have an encouraging little pile of shredded white meat.

Crack the claws with the heel of your knife. You can also use a hammer, garden secateurs or an 18″ Stilson pipe wrench: pretty much anything in the tool box you’re comfortable with, short of a chainsaw. Extract the meat, shred it – I don’t think it needs seasoning but you’re welcome to if you think it will help – and spoon it into the shell, either side of the brown meat.

For ultimate authenticity, top with lemon slices and serve with triangles of buttered brown bread, a stick of rock and some sandy tea. There. Mike will be proud of you.

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