How tragic is it when a woman who writes for a living demands you give her something interesting to post on twitter, because there's nothing spectacular happening in her life? The lazy person's blog apparently, and yet my precocious sister wants to outsource that as well! She who gets paid to think up stories for a living. Irony, thy name must be Mimi.....
Oi - don't suppose you can twitter about parents who dress their kids like those annoyingly yappy and supercilious handbag dogs? Only with worse taste??
Does anyone want to take this Tart home??
An intriguing kitchen encounter. A very dodgy cookbook. Friday night. A brand new flan tin. Oslo Court. Mood lighting. Tart tartine. What a brilliant way to end a fuck all week. I pacify my already growling stomach with the grapes and Camembert I cunningly brought along as Sonia makes me a much needed chai. I'm beyond impressed at her choice of a tart tartine for dinner and her newly acquired collection of posh accouterments (dinner was delayed due to belated realisation of a missing flan tin for her choice of main course.... resulting in a mad dash after work). For a woman who doesn't cook, you can't fault her ambition! I've worked in a commercial kitchen and I'd never invite people over on a workday and bake a tartine! Fools go where angels fear?
A-ha! She's got ready made pastry! Why didn't I ever think of that?? Apparently, it's angels who go where fools fear to tread! Unfortunately, the roll of pastry resembles a nightstick, and my knowledge doesn't cover optimal defrosting methods for puff pastry. Still, we deliberate over options, and decide to risk the microwave for an experimental zap. Hmmm - a glimmer of success... we peel off a layer as far along the solid mass as possible and pause for another confabulation. Right, executive decision. Decapitate the pastry, and stick the rest back in to the microwave. One final iteration, and we have pliable pastry. Chuffed with our escapade, we take a little snack break and quaff the rest of the wine. Uh-oh. Her rolling pin is sneaking around somewhere in the kitchen... plan B. Call Dimple, wake her and get her to bring hers. I leave Sonia to deal with a piteously moaning Dimple who is recovering from a Friday post lunch work related alcohol overindulgence, and polish off all of Sonia's grapes. Small consolation given the pathetic knives I have to choose between to hack my way through the onions and tomatoes!
The rolling pin arrives with much fanfare; well a shriek I let out at the unexpected jarring of the bell that rudely interrupted my assessment of Sonia's baingan frying (this book is so dubious, it actually says to fry multitudinous slices of aubergine in 1 tbsp of oil... and get this, 'in the remaining oil, fry the peppers'.....!!! obviously, any knowledge of food is deemed unnecessary by the purveyors of bad taste). The aroma of the begun bhaja sends Dimple into ecstasies of anticipation of Bong food, which are unceremoniously destroyed by Sonia. Sean snuffs around the house looking for a light switch. Mood lighting apparently isn't his thing.... any more than a tart tartine is. We eventually get around to the filling... hang on a sec. Rice??? We're filling the tartine with rice? Who wrote that book?! Dimple exhorts me to add more rice..'that won't be enough for 4 of us.. aur daalo'. For the love of God! What are we making here, Biryani? Sonia panics as well - the 19 inch flan tin rendering the contents of the pan Lilliputian, and I shut my eyes and keep stirring as the rice piles on. As Dimple polishes of a bag of crisps with Olympian dedication, Sean gestures to a sheaf of basil and asks if that's enough while moaning on about daal chawal. I'm just glad I had a head start with half a wheel of Camembert. Dimple insists the book doesn't mention a temperature for the oven (not surprising given she's reading off the recipe for timbales!).
Finally, we're ready for the pastry. The pastry we all forgot about. Sweatily goopy in it's lonliness. A few dabs of flour... but wait, we have logistic meltdown. A 2'x3' kitchen is no place to roll out anything to cover a 19' tin! We improvise. Leave the pastry in the 3 bits we'd zapped them in, we'll just stick 'em together over the flan. Except, the pastry fights back. Sean's now discreetly whispering at Dimple, before turning to me desperately miming, 'where is the light switch?'. Sonia assumes my eye rolling shrug is for the pastry. Eventually, we manhandle it into submission, and thrust it into the oven before it has a chance to retaliate. Onto the salad (naturally, at Sonia's, nothing is simple, and there's a dressing that needed to be beaten, Halloumi grilled and grapes washed).
25 minutes later, it's a miracle. The pastry is golden brown, and the tart begging to be devoured. The table looks sophisticated, the diners, hungry. Dimple cuts the tart into quarters.... somewhat nonplussed when we point a single piece is bigger than her face. The flipping of the tart on my plate leaves me with what resembles dinner hastily brushed past by an absent minded dog. We get Sonia's picture perfect, complete with the fetching salad on the side. Bon Apetit! I have to admit, it's not bad. Weird, but not bad. A bit like eating dinner and dessert at the same time. The rice bit is tasty (Dimple sheepishly admits we might have gone overboard...!), like an anglicised bisi bele bhat, and the pastry, is well, pretty good pastry. A tad surreal, not to mention heavy, but we manage to demolish more than half, as I pick off the random veggies from Dimple's plate. Naturally, as a vegetarian, she doesn't like aubergines, peppers or olives...... Sean, sportingly chomps down his piece before asking if there's any plain rice, dahi and achaar.... Sonia is gracious enough not to whack him with the flan tin, and we settle down to the discovery that you get 25% off on your council tax if you live alone, as we dip spons into a fudge brownie that makes your teeth hurt.
Not sure if Sonia's plaintive, 'Does anyone want to take this Tart home?' was Freudian or not, gales of laughter not withstanding, we thought it appropriate to leave it for her to mull over for breakfast. Next time, we're going to try a quiche....
A-ha! She's got ready made pastry! Why didn't I ever think of that?? Apparently, it's angels who go where fools fear to tread! Unfortunately, the roll of pastry resembles a nightstick, and my knowledge doesn't cover optimal defrosting methods for puff pastry. Still, we deliberate over options, and decide to risk the microwave for an experimental zap. Hmmm - a glimmer of success... we peel off a layer as far along the solid mass as possible and pause for another confabulation. Right, executive decision. Decapitate the pastry, and stick the rest back in to the microwave. One final iteration, and we have pliable pastry. Chuffed with our escapade, we take a little snack break and quaff the rest of the wine. Uh-oh. Her rolling pin is sneaking around somewhere in the kitchen... plan B. Call Dimple, wake her and get her to bring hers. I leave Sonia to deal with a piteously moaning Dimple who is recovering from a Friday post lunch work related alcohol overindulgence, and polish off all of Sonia's grapes. Small consolation given the pathetic knives I have to choose between to hack my way through the onions and tomatoes!
The rolling pin arrives with much fanfare; well a shriek I let out at the unexpected jarring of the bell that rudely interrupted my assessment of Sonia's baingan frying (this book is so dubious, it actually says to fry multitudinous slices of aubergine in 1 tbsp of oil... and get this, 'in the remaining oil, fry the peppers'.....!!! obviously, any knowledge of food is deemed unnecessary by the purveyors of bad taste). The aroma of the begun bhaja sends Dimple into ecstasies of anticipation of Bong food, which are unceremoniously destroyed by Sonia. Sean snuffs around the house looking for a light switch. Mood lighting apparently isn't his thing.... any more than a tart tartine is. We eventually get around to the filling... hang on a sec. Rice??? We're filling the tartine with rice? Who wrote that book?! Dimple exhorts me to add more rice..'that won't be enough for 4 of us.. aur daalo'. For the love of God! What are we making here, Biryani? Sonia panics as well - the 19 inch flan tin rendering the contents of the pan Lilliputian, and I shut my eyes and keep stirring as the rice piles on. As Dimple polishes of a bag of crisps with Olympian dedication, Sean gestures to a sheaf of basil and asks if that's enough while moaning on about daal chawal. I'm just glad I had a head start with half a wheel of Camembert. Dimple insists the book doesn't mention a temperature for the oven (not surprising given she's reading off the recipe for timbales!).
Finally, we're ready for the pastry. The pastry we all forgot about. Sweatily goopy in it's lonliness. A few dabs of flour... but wait, we have logistic meltdown. A 2'x3' kitchen is no place to roll out anything to cover a 19' tin! We improvise. Leave the pastry in the 3 bits we'd zapped them in, we'll just stick 'em together over the flan. Except, the pastry fights back. Sean's now discreetly whispering at Dimple, before turning to me desperately miming, 'where is the light switch?'. Sonia assumes my eye rolling shrug is for the pastry. Eventually, we manhandle it into submission, and thrust it into the oven before it has a chance to retaliate. Onto the salad (naturally, at Sonia's, nothing is simple, and there's a dressing that needed to be beaten, Halloumi grilled and grapes washed).
25 minutes later, it's a miracle. The pastry is golden brown, and the tart begging to be devoured. The table looks sophisticated, the diners, hungry. Dimple cuts the tart into quarters.... somewhat nonplussed when we point a single piece is bigger than her face. The flipping of the tart on my plate leaves me with what resembles dinner hastily brushed past by an absent minded dog. We get Sonia's picture perfect, complete with the fetching salad on the side. Bon Apetit! I have to admit, it's not bad. Weird, but not bad. A bit like eating dinner and dessert at the same time. The rice bit is tasty (Dimple sheepishly admits we might have gone overboard...!), like an anglicised bisi bele bhat, and the pastry, is well, pretty good pastry. A tad surreal, not to mention heavy, but we manage to demolish more than half, as I pick off the random veggies from Dimple's plate. Naturally, as a vegetarian, she doesn't like aubergines, peppers or olives...... Sean, sportingly chomps down his piece before asking if there's any plain rice, dahi and achaar.... Sonia is gracious enough not to whack him with the flan tin, and we settle down to the discovery that you get 25% off on your council tax if you live alone, as we dip spons into a fudge brownie that makes your teeth hurt.
Not sure if Sonia's plaintive, 'Does anyone want to take this Tart home?' was Freudian or not, gales of laughter not withstanding, we thought it appropriate to leave it for her to mull over for breakfast. Next time, we're going to try a quiche....
She Rocks
Screw these pure voice of an angel sorts that bring tears to one's eyes... I'd give my soul for the voice of a temptress anytime. That unbelievable pitch, intoxicating sultriness escalating into a full throated yowling. That woman is a legend. Right from those still fabulous 69 year old legs perched on fuck me heels to the bewitching laugh as she toys with the men in the crowd. An indomitable presence. The only artist I've seen so far to actually take time out to thank not just her musicians, but the entire crew as well, and as much as I hate to align myself with the masses, I can't help myself from joining in with the delirious crowd paying homage to the Queen, as they sing back, 'You're simply the best.... better than all the rest...' (funny thing these masses - an entire night of brilliant numbers, and this is the one that sends them into a frenzy! Suddenly everyone's on their feet belting it out Huh?! So much deja vu; the same astonishment that assaulted me in Bangalore when a delirious crowd sang along with Elton's Sacarifaayace....Ugh!).
She really is just electric, that incredible voice, unchanged in all these years (and a sudden blip in the sound system had her disappear and gesture wildly to her mike before the sound guys had her back on.... good old rock and roll, no room for lip syncing!) as she struts around the stage. A tad slower, but no less compelling for it. The production is phenomenal. The build-up to Goldeneye worthy of it's own Bond short film, and her funky transformer stage that had her nearly hurling herself into the crowd as the crane swung her around, as she whipped the crowd into submission with their chant back of Nuuut Bush.
What were the best bits? Watching her morph from a sleek, sophisticated diva to a stunning rocker belting What's Love Got To Do With It...the mesmerised crowd chanting back, under her wicked direction; the more mellow acoustic section of the concert, only the way she can.... right from the unexpected Help Me if you Can, to the strong, sensual bluesy Undercover Agent for the Blues, and River Deep, Mountain High and the soulfoul Let's Stay Together, built up in a way I've never heard it before. Incredibly powerful yet with a subtly that was unexpected. Utterly fabulous!! Then naturally, the scorchingly smoky Goldeneye; and I almost forgot! Another favourite, a classic; Jumping Jack Flash, à la Tina minus Neanderthal man (probably a good thing given he's likely to be mistaken for her parent these days.....), totally rocking; before the almost finalé and my all time favourite, the slow wind up in that smooth yet gravelly voice, the suggestive promise of the gently swaying hips and snapping fingers, the singeing sexuality as she moans 'First, we'll start of slow and we'll do it gentle.... like this...............and then we'll do it rough.....coz that's how we like it.....' as she cranks up Proud Mary several notches above anyone ever has. Phenomenal!!!
Five decades and better than ever. Tina Turner. A legend. She rules!
She really is just electric, that incredible voice, unchanged in all these years (and a sudden blip in the sound system had her disappear and gesture wildly to her mike before the sound guys had her back on.... good old rock and roll, no room for lip syncing!) as she struts around the stage. A tad slower, but no less compelling for it. The production is phenomenal. The build-up to Goldeneye worthy of it's own Bond short film, and her funky transformer stage that had her nearly hurling herself into the crowd as the crane swung her around, as she whipped the crowd into submission with their chant back of Nuuut Bush.
What were the best bits? Watching her morph from a sleek, sophisticated diva to a stunning rocker belting What's Love Got To Do With It...the mesmerised crowd chanting back, under her wicked direction; the more mellow acoustic section of the concert, only the way she can.... right from the unexpected Help Me if you Can, to the strong, sensual bluesy Undercover Agent for the Blues, and River Deep, Mountain High and the soulfoul Let's Stay Together, built up in a way I've never heard it before. Incredibly powerful yet with a subtly that was unexpected. Utterly fabulous!! Then naturally, the scorchingly smoky Goldeneye; and I almost forgot! Another favourite, a classic; Jumping Jack Flash, à la Tina minus Neanderthal man (probably a good thing given he's likely to be mistaken for her parent these days.....), totally rocking; before the almost finalé and my all time favourite, the slow wind up in that smooth yet gravelly voice, the suggestive promise of the gently swaying hips and snapping fingers, the singeing sexuality as she moans 'First, we'll start of slow and we'll do it gentle.... like this...............and then we'll do it rough.....coz that's how we like it.....' as she cranks up Proud Mary several notches above anyone ever has. Phenomenal!!!
Five decades and better than ever. Tina Turner. A legend. She rules!
9 o'clock,
and I'm ready for bed. Another long day. Last night, it was 10 pm, and that was a Monday after a fun weekend............. I can't even remember the last time I felt the need to head for bed at such an ungodly hour, because I was knackered. Even this is too much of an effort, to string words together, and tomorrow is an 8 am call requiring coherence...but it's just humiliating to have to pack up at 9 pm! I shall vegetate in front of the TV for another hour. Unless of course, I fall asleep on the couch, in which case, a very grumpy post shall make it's presence felt forthwith.
Oh - apparently we've moved up nearly 50 places in the rankings of the Sunday Times' Best Companies to Work for.... given the muted grumbling rippling across our floor over recent culls, disappearing bonuses and salary freezes (gasp! don't be silly, equity demands distribution!), it's just as well the survey got done last year.....
Oh - apparently we've moved up nearly 50 places in the rankings of the Sunday Times' Best Companies to Work for.... given the muted grumbling rippling across our floor over recent culls, disappearing bonuses and salary freezes (gasp! don't be silly, equity demands distribution!), it's just as well the survey got done last year.....
It would of course, just be wrong, not to mention deeply insulting to the mafioso, to walk away (if I could dislodge myself from the sofa, I would make good that threat!), from the previous post without any active participation in something, dark, sultry and calorifically sinful.... to complete the evening and I would never do anything to upset the Italians. How fortuitous it is, that I find my senses being beckoned by the coyly suggestive fragrance of a dark chocolate, amaretto mousse cake, even as the Carmes de Rieussec whispers my name................. apara....... apara......
Alla Salute!
Alla Salute!
Spring,
is apparently here. The thought crosses my mind as I inelegantly yank my shawl over my head, and hunch into my coat as I quicken my stride in a vain attempt to out walk the unpleasantly cold shards of rain, unmindful of the dodgy Taliban look I now sport. It's been a dismal day throughout, pretty much par for course, as I keep reminding those responsible for the rash outpouring of sanguine sentiment declaring winter over, lost in the nearly warm, perfect blue sky day that Saturday a week gone by was. No, it's not delusional weather that makes me think of spring. It's not even the gross optimism of the bright hues of the spring lines that have been perking up store fronts. Today makes one forget that the days are actually longer now. It's the the damn bird. A strangely joyous, full throated, if utterly tasteless trill assaults me as I step to avoid an unbecoming puddle of slush. It's pitch dark, the diagonal slant of the rain caught in a surreal frame under the artificial glow of the streetlights, the picture marred by the sound of birdsong. The sound of spring. So much for my scathing assessment of the English tendency to be slave to fashion as witnessed by the store fronts. If the birds think it's time to flaunt their mating skills, surely winter must be over? Or, we could just shoot the annoying little buggers and get on with moaning about the uncivilised weather in this barbaric country.
The best way to celebrate the rumour of spring while taking the sting off the vicious cold outside, is to savour the tickling of your palate by a deliciously hot pasta and a chilled glass of semillion chardonnay. One of my favourite pastas, and not just because it turns out faultlessly even when cobbled together with a growling stomach.... a classic pea and pancetta pasta on the run.
Ingredients:
spaghetti (I don't know, how much do you eat?) * a splash of olive oil * fistful of diced pancetta * small bowlful of petit pois (if frozen zap for a couple of minutes; that's peas for the plebs) * a couple of generous splashes of double cream * chuckable quantities of garlic, herb soft cheese (mine's from a fromagerie at Neufchâteau, courtsey M&S) * freshly ground pepper (to taste) * chilled white wine
Method:
While you've got the water for the pasta on the boil, in a saucepan, mess the pancetta around in the olive oil till your kitchen smells of canine bait. Take it off the heat, and stir in some of the double cream, pepper and add a couple of globs of the cheese. Stir till it's mixed, add the peas, and some more double cream if it gets too thick.
Your spaghetti should be close to being done by now (c'mon, you don't really need to be told this bit?? Boiling water, add pasta, cook for as long as the pack says, drain!)..... stick the non pasta pan back on a low flame, and well, chuck in some more cheese (it really is divine) and pepper (unless freshly ground pepper is not your thing, in which case, seek help!). Add the spaghetti to it, mixing to ensure that the concoction clings like a weeping willow to every single strand (i had cling like a parasite, but not everyone has a cast iron stomach). Pour wine.
Kick off your slippers, curl into the couch and indulge in the decadently simple flavours.
The best way to celebrate the rumour of spring while taking the sting off the vicious cold outside, is to savour the tickling of your palate by a deliciously hot pasta and a chilled glass of semillion chardonnay. One of my favourite pastas, and not just because it turns out faultlessly even when cobbled together with a growling stomach.... a classic pea and pancetta pasta on the run.
Ingredients:
spaghetti (I don't know, how much do you eat?) * a splash of olive oil * fistful of diced pancetta * small bowlful of petit pois (if frozen zap for a couple of minutes; that's peas for the plebs) * a couple of generous splashes of double cream * chuckable quantities of garlic, herb soft cheese (mine's from a fromagerie at Neufchâteau, courtsey M&S) * freshly ground pepper (to taste) * chilled white wine
Method:
While you've got the water for the pasta on the boil, in a saucepan, mess the pancetta around in the olive oil till your kitchen smells of canine bait. Take it off the heat, and stir in some of the double cream, pepper and add a couple of globs of the cheese. Stir till it's mixed, add the peas, and some more double cream if it gets too thick.
Your spaghetti should be close to being done by now (c'mon, you don't really need to be told this bit?? Boiling water, add pasta, cook for as long as the pack says, drain!)..... stick the non pasta pan back on a low flame, and well, chuck in some more cheese (it really is divine) and pepper (unless freshly ground pepper is not your thing, in which case, seek help!). Add the spaghetti to it, mixing to ensure that the concoction clings like a weeping willow to every single strand (i had cling like a parasite, but not everyone has a cast iron stomach). Pour wine.
Kick off your slippers, curl into the couch and indulge in the decadently simple flavours.
Gol Maalisms
I have the greatest respect for Amol Palekar. Understated, classy with the mobile face of the truly talented. The perfect foil to the über master of madness, Utpal Dutta. A medley of comic genius that had us collapsing helplessly into blithering idiots over and over again. A heartfelt tribute to the genius of the ensemble that gave us Gol Maal, even as the memory of सर's attempts to join Mrs. Srivastava on the swing makes me convulse with laughter; Delivered with gravity in an untimely fashion, the perfect riposte.... touché!
मुच नहीं तो कुछ नहीं
मैं उसे माफ़ नहीं, साफ़ कर दूँगा!
तुम पुलिस ऑफिसर नहीं, फूलिश ऑफिसर हो!
पास्कल, तुम हो रास्कल
ईईईईईईईश!!!!
Dedicated to her Majesty's Secret Service
Warm Madelines, crisp edges lovingly enveloping the pliable centre, in harmony with a perfectly brewed Darjeeling as we bask in the exquisite afterglow of a near perfect celebratory lunch. The tasting menu at Foliage in unison with a couple of bottles of a smooth Pinto Gris; A triumph of good over evil, an opus to weep over.... Abu Ben Adam, for this, I will sin... over and over again. So easy to make a woman beg......
Velvety salmon sashimi lovingly wrapped in a yuzu jelly, the creation melting in the lushness of your mouth.
A perfectly silly amuse bouche of apple soup tinged with celery
Another sublime memory triggered as my tongue exults over the sleek taste of squid ink soaked orzo, seared scallops duelling with the fragrance of Thai sauce
The triumph of matter over mind as pain d'epice flirts with hazelnuts, celery shoots, apply jelly and sinfully silky foie
Crisp and succulent sea bass teasing the pumpkin and ruby endive even as the little jelly cubes of chorizo make you blush
A sliver of smoked potato, like an artists' muse, toying with the composition of medium rare, red wine and watercress
Demurely drowning lime sorbet in an earl grey soup, clings to my palate like a familiar lover
Opulent Sacher torte with bitter chocolate sauce, makes me mellow about the peanut parfait that evokes memories of a mars bar
A necessary counterpoint to ward off the evil eye and utterly ruin a sophisticated moment.... चाह आईला तर बिस्कुट बापाला
Velvety salmon sashimi lovingly wrapped in a yuzu jelly, the creation melting in the lushness of your mouth.
A perfectly silly amuse bouche of apple soup tinged with celery
Another sublime memory triggered as my tongue exults over the sleek taste of squid ink soaked orzo, seared scallops duelling with the fragrance of Thai sauce
The triumph of matter over mind as pain d'epice flirts with hazelnuts, celery shoots, apply jelly and sinfully silky foie
Crisp and succulent sea bass teasing the pumpkin and ruby endive even as the little jelly cubes of chorizo make you blush
A sliver of smoked potato, like an artists' muse, toying with the composition of medium rare, red wine and watercress
Demurely drowning lime sorbet in an earl grey soup, clings to my palate like a familiar lover
Opulent Sacher torte with bitter chocolate sauce, makes me mellow about the peanut parfait that evokes memories of a mars bar
A necessary counterpoint to ward off the evil eye and utterly ruin a sophisticated moment.... चाह आईला तर बिस्कुट बापाला
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)