Ripe London

Day 1: Pho Fun

How do you turn deprivation into destination?  Make it an adventure.  That cup of hot chocolate yesterday was consumed on my way to Planet Organic in Westbourne Grove for my big pre-cleanse stock-up.  I deliberately went out of my way to avoid Whole Foods since I wanted this to feel different. 

I hadn’t been to this store since I first moved to London as a vegetarian five years ago this week.  It reminded me, again, how much pleasure I get from shopping for food – I'd rather shop for food over clothes any day.  In fact, I was asking my friends if they had any ideas about how I could get paid to do this.  I'd love to fill up people's pantries for them and re-kindle my catering attempts.  Any thoughts?

I spent an hour in there reading labels – comparing this vegan pesto with that (lots have parmesan mixed in), picking up and putting down brick-like gluten-free breads (no thanks) and hemming and hawing over Agave nectar versus brown-rice syrup (I went against the grain).  Overall, I try not to think about how much I miss the health-food stores in the US.  The endless choice and possibilities make me cry.  Five years on, we finally have several decent Mexican restaurants over here.  So why can’t I find a single brand of frozen waffles on these shores?  I know, I know: let me count my blessings in the form of Pulsin’ chocolate Bliss Bombs.  Have you tried these things?  They’re simply amazing.  No gluten, no sugar, no dairy.  I don’t know how they do it, but I’m not asking any questions.

I’m working in Farringdon this week, a.k.a. meat city.  Thank God for Pho.  The line was nearly out the door today, but since I was on my own I was luckily sitting down in five minutes – a warm relief given the sub-freezing temperatures drafting in (appreciation moment!)  Then came a huge bowl of Vietnamese rice noodle soup with tofu, mushrooms and cute little fixings on the side for you to toss in.  And it’s all gluten-free.  It says so on the site.  Still, £7 for soup?

Planet Organic is at 42 Westbourne Grove, W2 5SH
Pho is at 86 St John Street, EC1M 4EH

24 Hours

Behold the last cup of thick hot chocolate that touched my lips before I commence my 21-day cleanse tomorrow. Can you see the “skin” on top, already starting to pucker like a big, wet kiss?  Can you appreciate the way it stretches across the cup, hugging it in a desperate embrace?  This is Carluccio’s Cioccolato Fiorentino, and its deep colour played warmly against the gloves I bought from, where else, Florence.

As I took my time with this hot chocolate and let it have its way inside my mouth – letting it pool under my tongue in the same way you’d taste wine – I thought about partings.  I knew that I would only go without this passion of mine for a while, much like the drawn-out goodbye before a beloved leaves for a trip.  The promise of a reunion makes the longing more bearable. We should, of course, actually taste each moment as if it were that last drop of chocolate.

I’m very good at appreciating the wonderful foods I’m fortunate enough to try every day.  But I’m often guilty of not savouring the goodness my day-to-day life serves up.  In Quantum Wellness, Freston says it takes 21 days to re-train your tastebuds.  Appreciation is likewise a habit.  For the next three weeks, as I let go of those favourites I overindulge in, I hope to develop more awareness and gratitude for the many other ways in which the universe fills my cup.

Coming Clean

It’s okay, I can take it: Ripe London has gotten stale.  After nearly three years, my mojo has dwindled; and well, there are just so many ways a girl can talk about food and love in the same breath.  So, we’re going to spice things up.

Last year at this time I was making my way to what became my paradise home for two weeks: a hidden-away beach resort in Thailand called The Sanctuary.  There, I ended up doing the unthinkable: I fasted for just over three days.  It turned out to be one of the best things I’ve ever done.  Not only did I shed holiday weight and then some, I also felt incredibly energetic and optimistic. 

I can’t make it to Koh Phan Ghan this year, but my body and blog are crying out for a shake-up.  So, starting Monday – after the official finale of what the British endearingly call the silly season – I will be embarking on a 21-day cleanse as prescribed by Kathy Freston in her book Quantum Wellness.  Oprah gave up her beloved burgers last year to do it, but the biggest advertisement is Freston’s radiant self on the cover.

There are no complicated meal plans to follow, just five big no-nos: caffeine, alcohol, sugar, gluten, and animal products.  I can take or leave a drink, so no huge problem there.  Ditto tea and coffee.  But when we get into the last three, ay yay yay.  As a vegetarian for three years I became very adept at finding ways around meat, but eggs and dairy are another story, particularly because they are often found sharing dessert space (my big bad weakness) with gluten and sugar.

And since this is Ripe London, I’m going to add a little twist.  Along with the de-tox, I will simultaneously be undertaking a he-tox – a clever if fundamentally incongruent word I can’t take credit for inventing.

As my fellow single friends rightly point out, abstaining from dating for 21 days – or even longer – isn’t exactly such a challenge for us these days.  What does require a bit more effort – though perhaps not as monumental as foregoing thick hot chocolate – is keeping the focus on my life and the wonderful people in it.  This means no talking to patient yet understandably weary friends and family about the ex, not scanning the room for potentials, and not accepting nor initiating dates should the situation arise – which they won’t, because I’ll be too busy making vegan banana pancakes or something and posting about it here. 

Before I head off for an evening chock full of the aforementioned no-nos, I’ll leave you with a recipe I’ve been baking for the family Christmas table year after year.  It’s got sugar, gluten, animal products and caffeine in it and is usually consumed between this drink and that.

Have a very happy new (you!) year.

Cappuccino Cheesecake
Adapted from Food & Wine, April 1993

For the crust:

1 cup crushed graham crackers (US) or digestive biscuits (UK)
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tbsp instant espresso powder
6 tbsp melted butter

For the filling:

3 packages cream cheese, room temperature
3 eggs, room temperature
5 cups sugar
1 1/2 tbsp lemon juice
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tbsp instant espresso powder
1 tbsp hot water

Toss the crushed crackers/biscuits with the cinnamon and espresso powder.  Add the melted butter and mix well with a fork.  Pat the mixture into the bottom of an 8-inch springform pan and bake in a 345F/175C oven until it begins to brown (about 10 minutes).  Cool on a wire rack and reduce oven temp to 325F/160C.

Beat the cream cheese with an electric mixture for a minute or two until fluffy.  Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each.  Do the same with the sugar, then the lemon juice and vanilla extract.  Put 3/4 cup of the filling in a measuring glass; pour the rest over the cooled crust.  Combine the espresso powder with the hot water until smooth, then whisk this into the measuring glass.  Pour the coffee-flavoured filling in a thick ring over the cheesecake.  Use a spoon to gently scoop and swirl the fillings together, then use a knife to make your pattern even prettier.  Bake the cake in the centre of the oven for an hour or until the middle is almost set.  Chill for up to three days (the longer the better), or as long as you can bear it.

The Scent of Surrender

Last time, I wrote about the obstacles we’re willing to endure and overcome – sometimes again and again – to get to something that’s worthwhile.  And how, in fact, something like distance can actually be a source of joyful anticipation when that which we crave is at the other end.  But it’s also true that what we need is often right under our nose.

Jamie in Kingston is truly worth the trip.  He opened me up to the refreshing possibilities outside the Smoke in the same way that leaving behind the madness of Manhattan for the bliss of Brooklyn turned me into a real New Yorker.  But I recently met another Italian that re-connected me to the treasures right here. 

I had passed by Sirena countless times and never gave it a second glance.  It looked tacky from the outside and unwelcomingly bare when I peeked through the window.  Snuggled on a strip too close to Selfridges, I reasoned it lacked substance and was purely there to trap tourists.  I had merely looked at the cover without flipping through the pages.  To say I was critical is to let me off easy.  But on this particular evening I was with two good friends I met while training at Le Cordon Bleu, and I was outnumbered.  One look at the menu, and they seemed instantly eager to check it out.  I kept quiet and followed along, sceptical.

Once inside, I was dismayed by the almost unfinished ambiance of the place.  We each ordered a different pasta dish, and I was already waiting for my doubts to be confirmed.  How good could linguini primavera, rigatoni with sausage and lamb ravioli be in a spot like this?

Well, if they gave out prizes for al dente, Sirena would take gold.  I didn’t try the lamb dish, but as we swapped plates I became almost possessive of my primavera and its carefully julienned vegetables swirled together with absolutely perfect pasta.  We were so overjoyed that we ordered a mushroom risotto to share, and when it emerged a good while later we were convinced the chef at Sirena knew what he was doing.

I would never have tried this little jewel of a place had I not followed my friends’ lead.  Sometimes we know what’s best for us, but life becomes more delicious when we open up, let go and hand the reigns over to someone else.  As Einstein said: “No problem can be solved from the same consciousness that created it.”

Have a very merry Christmas, resting in the knowledge that 2009 will bring you just what you need, even if it’s not what you think you want – yet.

Sirena is at 44 James Street, W1U 1EY. Such a nice surprise.

Close to the Bone

But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walked 1000 miles
To fall down at your door

–"I’m Gonna Be" by The Proclaimers

I’m bartering with the attendant at Kingston rail station who has just slapped me with a £20 penalty “fare” for not having bought a ticket.  He keeps telling me not to worry and hands me pointless instructions on how to appeal, which really annoys me as it's clearly a deflecting technique.  Of course, I'm really just annoyed at myself for having been so absentminded.

I try the logical approach.  Can’t I just buy my ticket now, please?  I never come into Kingston, honest!  Plus, it didn’t even occur to me that I couldn’t get here on my Oyster.  I get all the way to Heathrow and other parts of Surrey with it.  Why not Kingston?  Why can’t London Underground and National Rail just get along?!

You have no sympathy for me; I understand.  Neither does the attendant.  And then I do it.  My eyes well up, and all comes gushing forth.

“But, but, it’s my BIRTHDAY!" I sob, "Doesn’t that count for anything?”

The guy’s not having it and keeps feeding me his “don’t worry.”  And by now I'm fully aware that any rage I may be feeling against the system this man represents is really just a projection of how I'm feeling about myself: I messed up, not him.    

It really was my birthday.  I wouldn’t have made that up; I’m a terrible liar.  And I’m lucky that it is, because I’m being treated to dinner at the new Jamie’s Italian.  It’s opening night and the staff are over-the-top friendly.  There’s something very American about the place, and I suspect Jamie has spent as much time in South Carolina as in Southern Italy.

We order baked chestnut mushrooms and rosemary polenta chips to start, both of which take the chill off this wintry night and soften the sting of my £20 mistake.  We split the butternut squash ravioli and a salad of prosciutto and pears that arrives sans pears.  They quickly correct it, and while it’s perfectly good I wish I had asked for a more adventurous dish.  Thankfully, the tiramisu, with its hints of orange, is one of the best I’ve ever had.  And the banana brownie – an idea I initially resist – is again one of the best I’ve ever had.

So yes, I’ll jump through hoops to get to Jamie.  And no, I haven’t even tried to dodge that fare. 

Jamie's Italian is at 19-23 High Street, Kingston KT1 1LL.  Buy before you board!

The Whole Truth

We love the things we love for what they are.
–Robert Frost

Oh, the lessons.  How mercilessly yet lovingly they come.  Heartbreaking, bittersweet, utterly necessary.

I am tasting the hot chocolate at Paul for the second time in a week. This time I’ve gone for the large.  That’s the kind of impression it made.

The skin has already started to set and pucker.  Tick.  It’s thin enough to drink, thick enough to spoon.  Tick.  It hugs the inside of the cup as it does the back of my throat.  Tick.  It tastes deeply of chocolate with a light touch of je ne sais quoi.  Tick.

As I tip the cup one final time to get the last drop, I wonder what the recipe might be and if I could get it.  Then my heart sinks as I think: copious cream, unscrupulous sugar.  But then it dawns on me:  the sum of this hot chocolate would never be so wonderful were it not for all its parts: the sinful as well as the seductive.

Last week, a new friend shared some wisdom from, believe it or not, Mike Myers.  He said something like this:  true love comes in three stages.  First, there is love without knowledge.  This is when we project our fantasies onto someone we barely know, thus creating that initial giddiness.  Then comes knowledge without love.  Here is where we find out that the screen we projected our fantasies onto is actually a real person, one who in all likelihood has been brought into our lives to mirror back to us what we secretly don’t like about ourselves and vice versa.  Initial attraction is actually nature’s clever trick to get us to this second stage so that we come face to face with ourselves via another, deal with our demons, and grow. 

Sticking it out at this stage is like boiling maple sap into syrup: it bubbles up a lot of uncomfortable stuff, but the rewards are ultimately sweeter than what you started with.  It only happens when we trust in the process and give each other the unconditional acceptance we want for ourselves.  It’s all too easy to bail at this point, but then you miss the third stage and the icing on the cake: love with knowledge.

In other words, ignorance is lust.  It’s acceptance – loving what is – that’s bliss.

Paul is now my pick for high street hot chocolate – warts and all, drop for drop.

High and Dry

Have you ever had a broken rib?  You can’t see what’s wrong on the outside, but oh can you feel it.  You’re hyper aware of even the smallest movements, and deep breaths are difficult.  Sometimes you forget the pain, but all too soon you remember.  You laugh, and then it hurts again.  The only thing that will heal it is time, and lots of it.  No wonder having a broken rib is likened to having a broken heart.  It’s also what the hot chocolate at l’apostrophe is like.

I finally got around to trying what Time Out calls “best of London’s high-street brands” for hot chocolate.  In retrospect, I should have thought about this claim a little more.  Aside from Paul (which is still on my list), I didn't think any high-street standbys did the thick stuff.  Ah, that’s my problem.  Somewhere between my visits to Ladurée and Granada I have come to view thick hot chocolate as the only kind of hot chocolate.

Well, l’apostrophe is definitely thick.  It looks the part.  It sits in the cup with a plop and even has that shiny “skin” settled on top.  All looks good from the outside.  But l’apostrophe’s hot stuff, once it touches your tongue, falls apart like a fractured rib.  The texture is right, but it doesn’t taste chocolaty to me at all.  I kept drinking it – yes, even spooning it at times since it was so thick – but the closer I got to the bottom of the cup, the further I got from hitting the spot.  It was hot.  It was thick.  But chocolate, it wasn’t.

Contrast this with the bowl (yes, bowl) I tried at Hotel Chocolat, a place I’ve long considered too posh and self-conscious.  As you’ll see from the photo, no shiny skin on top, which means it looses points on thickness, though thin it wasn’t.  But this stuff scores on real chocolate flavour.  It was so rich, in fact, that it was almost grainy.  Shame the place feels more like a Perspex chair than a cozy sofa.

Will l’apostrophe recover by adding more chocolate oomph a la Hotel Chocolat?  Only time will tell, of course.   Do I have to settle for texture or flavour?  Nope, especially not when Ladurée still outshines on both criteria and is cheaper than either of these two places. 

l’apostrophe and Hotel Chocolat are on a high street near you.

Foodie Trap

I have an attention span to match my stature, especially when it comes to sports.  Having run the London marathon and competed in Women’s Henley as probably the lightest non-cox in history (albeit due to an entries error), I have now enlisted in British Military Fitness. 

For those of you stateside, this involves running after a fit instructor in fatigues and doing whatever he commands for an hour. It also includes rolling around in the mud and using partners for resistance.  No wonder BMF is one successful business model, and I am one of its newest recruits. 

I was drafted by several converted crewmates, and we often head to Le Pain Quotidien right after the weekend sessions, effectively mitigating training with temptation.  The drill?  A baker’s basket (or two) to smother with the many pots of spreadable stuff on the long communal table of this Belgian chain.

One of my favourite BMF exercises entails running in two files while the instructor yells out various imaginary obstacles.  Herewith are the commands and their dangerous caloric counterparts I’m finding impossible to dodge.

Tripwire!  As you’re running you bring your knees up high.  If only it was this easy to avoid the Praline jar, a golden concoction that spreads like warm chocolate chip cookie dough.

Landmine!  For this one you jump to the side.  Goodness knows how quickly the Dark Chocolate spread winds up on either side of your body.  The low dairy content gives me a false sense of security. I think this one might be my favourite.

Grenade!  Down on the ground, flat on your stomach.  Which is not the same as flat stomach, which is definitely not the case after the Chocolate Hazelnut aka Nutella. 

Don’t think I haven’t figured out that spreading the Praline and Dark Chocolate together camouflage-style would rightly earn me a “get down and give me 20.”

And the problem is?

Le Pain Quotidien is all over London, notably an easy cycle from our training ground.

Bar One

My friend Andrea often goes to a bar on her own for a glass of wine.  I’ve always thought this was brave.  I go to movies on my own, live on my own, moved to a different country on my own, have plenty of gelato on my own; but sitting in a bar alone always seemed weird and slightly scary.  Since I don’t drink very much, bars to me are a place to meet.  Bars are for socialising, right?  They are certainly not for reading, as I discovered. 

I only went because it was too loud in Caffè Nero and too crowded in Starbucks.  It was me and my book, and we had nowhere to go.  I nearly gave up and went home just as I was crossing Abingdon Road.  And then I remembered: my favourite bar is in Abingdon Road.  This was quickly followed by another thought: I’ve never been there on my own.  And then another: wine would actually be much better right now than the peppermint tea I was about to have.

So I made my brave move.  I sat at the bar and had them pour me a glass of Spanish Rosé.  It was a large – The Abingdon only serves it this way.  I felt the cool warmth of it under my tongue and settled into my book.  I was starting to feel quite proud of myself.  But by the time I got through half the glass, the words in my book looked like little squiggles I had to keep looking at.  Over and over again.  Ohmygoodness.  I was drunk.  And on my own.  This was a first. 

Books and booze don’t mix, at least not when you’re a featherweight like me. Although it was fun, I’ll admit it.

The Abingdon is at 54 Abingdon Road, W8 6AP.  Sticky toffee pudding would have helped.

Mucho Corazón

If the Spanish tourism authority hired me to write a strapline, it would be easy: Spain is for Sharing. 

Last weekend I went to Granada for a friend’s wedding, and while I’m fluent in the language, I found it more difficult travelling alone than I did in Thailand.  Why?  Portions.  As I sat down to a heaping plate of calamares and the joyful sounds that reminded me of my familia, I longed to have them share this with me.

One of our family favourites is churros y chocolate, and it just so happens I was staying in an area well known for them.  Churros, for the sadly uninitiated, are fat pieces of fried dough, served alongside ridiculously thick hot chocolate.  It’s more like pudding.  The French have nothing on this.

My search began at breakfast, conveniently right outside my hotel at an outdoor café.  Unsurprisingly, a huge bunch of churros accompanied a comparatively small mug of the dark stuff.  The spoon resting alongside it wasn’t for adding sugar – this chocolate was too thick too drink.  But as I dipped the churros in it, I closed my eyes and convinced myself that this was, indeed, what I was looking for: the ultimate chocolate caliente, and right on the steps of my hotel!  I left satisfied, believing this was it – that no other chocolate would do.  Nevermind how thick it was.  Or that the churros were rather dull and I didn’t have room for more than a quarter of them.

The next morning – or nearly noon if I'm honest – I stepped into the Spanish sunshine and went straight for the convenient café.  Then something told me to keep going.  I walked around the plaza.  No sign of churros y chocolate.  I walked a bit more and eyed what other places were serving.  Nope.  “I guess that café was it after all,” I thought.  But then I walked a bit further.  I ignored the rumblings just under my heart.  And I listened to something within it that told me to keep searching.

Then I rounded a corner and spotted a friendly, busy place with an empty table by the door and a sign saying they did half portions of churros.  I ordered mine with a required cup of you know what, and when I looked down at it, I knew.  Even before I lifted it up to my lips, I knew.  Thick enough to dip, thin enough to drink.  And a plate of churros just my size. Oh, the joys I would have missed had I settled for that other café!  It took me a couple of times around the block, but I had found it.

The other strapline contender: Spain is for Soul Searching.

Old Times' Sake

When does the past become the past?  That’s the question I’m asking myself as I walk into M.Manze, the oldest pie and mash shop in London.

The place went up in 1902 when eels and even oysters were cheap, so tells me my lunch companion.  And it’s still serving the same simple menu of pie & mash and eels & mash together with liquor, which contains not alcohol but rather specks of parsley in what appears to be a gravy base.

My friend is nervous about introducing this American to her first original East London working-class lunch.  We order one each of pie & mash and eels & mash while I survey the place – a time warp, and a busy one at that. The sloppy plates emerge, and the bill comes to £7 for both of us including two bottles of miscast Evian. We go over to the benches, still decked out with the original tiles, for my first bite.  I learn that the custom is to put some chilli vinegar in the mash, so I gingerly add a few drops. 

The pastry is so good I could eat it just on it’s own, but if I’m honest I’d rather have it snuggled around slivers of Bramleys.  I fantasise about trading the smooth mashed potatoes for spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream.  I’m pathetic about the eel and manage just a few nibbles.  I can’t recall ever having eel, and I can’t say this was a life-altering experience, but I am ever grateful for the initiation.

I wonder how much of the allure at Manze’s has to do with preserving the past.  Would the food here draw the same crowds if it didn’t elicit a connection with days gone by?

Last night as I was walking home a man trailed me belting out Unchained Melody. But he sang those sad, yearning lyrics in such a comedic tone, that it actually made me smile: “And time, goeeees byeee!  So sloowleee.  And time, can do sooooo much!”  Similarly, taste to me is so much about context – whom you’re with and what you’re feeling – which is why I take restaurant reviews with such a grain of salt.  It’s the total experience that counts, and if the past & present blur when it comes to eels & pies & mash, so be it.

M. Manze has three locations.  We went to the one at 87 Tower Bridge Road, SE1 4TW.  A different kind of ghost.

At Steak

It had been 20 minutes and still no sign.

“Well, better that they’re taking their time with it, getting it right,” I tried to rationalise.

But I couldn’t ignore my rumbling stomach.  Or that I needed to be back in the office in half an hour.  I was hungry, and I was paying.  So why wasn’t it coming?

I was at Café Rouge waiting for steak frites.  It was my first visit in the nearly five years I’ve been living in London.  It’s not that I actively tried to dismiss the chain of brasseries; only that I had been a vegetarian when I first arrived, and steak remains an occasional tryst.  But it was the middle of the week and I was in the mood, a place I could disappear behind a book and the undisputed comfort of meat and potatoes.  And, well, I could see it out my office window.

Except I was already six pages in and still nothing.  Enough justifications.  It was time for a nudge.

“Two minutes,” waved the waiter.

Not wanting to make a fuss, I slip back into my book.  Or try to.  The dining room is emptying.  Several plates float toward and then past me.  Frustration follows elation.

I go up to the bar.  At that moment my dish appears and is brought to my table, together with ketchup, mayonnaise and a murmur about the kitchen.

At under £10, I can’t really say I went wrong here.  The steak was the right shade of pink and the fries were as slender and salty as they should be.  And, despite the inattentive service, the experience served to remind me of something else: hold out for Le Relais de Venise l'entrecôte, or L’entrecote for short.  Steak frites is the only thing on their menu, and it comes out in faithful, dependable stages; so not only are you not waiting around for the first bite, another hot helping comes around not long after.  It may be a bit pricier and a little out of the way, but that only helps keep it special for that rare rendezvous.

Café Rouge is all over the UK, most likely not too far from your window.
Le Relais de Venise l'entrecôte is at 120 Marylebone Lane, W1U 2QG.  You can’t book ahead so you'll have to queue, but the wait is worth it.