by John Crace
Then, on page 320, something finally happened. ‘Something has finally happened!’ Robin exclaimed.
‘There’s a maniac on the loose!’ said Cormoran.
‘It doesn’t feel like it.’
‘London is in the same amount of danger that would result from the traffic lights at the Old Street roundabout failing for five minutes!’
‘Hooray!’ yelled Robin. ‘You’ve solved the murder. Isn’t it odd that the killer is always the one you suspect the least? There’s just one thing I don’t get. Isn’t it a coincidence that JK Rowling’s cover was blown before the book went into paperback, meaning the publisher could maximise hardback sales when people were going on holiday?’
‘Some things must remain a mystery,’ said Cormoran mysteriously.
Digested read, digested: The golden goose’s calling.
COOKING AND GARDENING
A Cook’s Tour
by Anthony Bourdain (2001)
Yo, motherfuckers. I’m sitting in the bush with Charlie, deep in the Mekong Delta, drinking hooch. My hosts, VC war heroes, pass me the duck. I chomp through its bill, before cracking open the skull and scooping the brains out...
When you’ve just had a big score with an obnoxious and over-testosteroned account of your life, your publishers tend to fall for any dumbass plan. So when I told them I wanted to go round the world eating all sorts of scary food in a search for the perfect meal, they just said, ‘Where do we sign?’
Y’know, most of us in the west have lost contact with the food we eat. It comes merchandised and homogenised. The same goes for chefs. Cooking isn’t about knocking up a few wussy monkfish terrines out of fillets that have been delivered to the kitchen door; it’s about badass guys going deep into their souls and looking their ingredients in the eye.
Which is why I am in Portugal, outside the barn while Jose and Francisco restrain several hundredweight of screaming pig. I unsheathe my knife, bury it deep into the neck and draw it firmly towards me. The pig looks at me in surprise and fury. I lick the blood from my arms, make another incision and rip out the guts. The women pan-fry the spleen. It’s indescribably good.
I take my brother to France to look for the oysters and foie gras of my youth. I only find memories of my dead father. That’s not what being a chef is all about. Cut to Mexico. The restaurant owner’s 10-year-old pet iguana hoves into view. Big mistake. Its meat is tough and the claws are inedible; this is more like it.
I’m a sucker for sushi, but my main reason for being in Japan was to eat fugu, the puffer fish whose deadly nerve toxins in the liver kill scores of devotees a year. I watched Mr Yoshida prepare the fish. He was too clean, too careful. Not even the hint of a psychotropic high. Fuck that.
So off to Nam for fried birds’ heads and monkey steaks. But even this wasn’t really hard. I needed to be in Cambodia, driving along the heavily-mined highway to Pailin, Kalashnikov on my knee and with skulls the only road signs. The restaurant owner brought in a live cobra and slit its throat in front of me. He wrenched out the heart and placed it, still beating, on my plate. ‘Make you strong,’ he said. I do feel strong. I have my machete. I’m in the bamboo plantation. And there’s the giant panda.
Digested read, digested: Colonel Kurtz Bourdain goes deep into the heart of darkness and returns the sole survivor of the culinary bloodbath.
Gordon Ramsay Makes it Easy
by Gordon Ramsay (2005)
My name is Gordon Ramsay and I’m here to help. Simplicity has always been at the heart of my cooking and I’m going to show you how you too can become a star in the kitchen by learning how to boil an egg properly... Oi, sonny, who the fuck are you? Get out of here. Who? You’re my son? Fuck. I didn’t recognise you.
Look Gordon, we’ve got your kids in for the shoot to give you a cosier image, so do try to make it look like you spend time with your family.
There’s nothing quite like a proper breakfast to start the day. I’m never at home myself, but I encourage the family to vary their breakfasts and make the most of seasonal fruit. So here’s some easy-to-make recipes involving scallops, new potatoes and fresh cherry compote.
Fantastic Gordon. OK, let’s move on to the next chapter. Gordon, do you have to wear that pin-striped jacket? It really doesn’t...
Do you want to make something of it, you fuckwit?
No, No. You look absolutely splendid as you are.
Eating together as a family is important to me... Fuck this. We’re doing this fucking bollocks about how I love to eat Sunday roast with the family and they’ve all bleeding well fucked off.
It’s OK, Gordon. I’ve given them a break, but we can get some lovely photos of you looking moody with some fish at the market.
Jesus. Right. Here’s some fucking fillet of red mullet and here’s some fucking roasted pork belly. Satisfied?
Er, perhaps you could try it with just a little more charm...
When I’m relaxing at home in the summer, I invariably fire up the barbecue. Who writes this shit? Do you really think I’ve got the fucking time to sit around at home and fire up a fucking barbie when I’ve got restaurants to run, Michelin stars to protect and telly projects on the go?
I know, Gordon, but we’re selling a lifestyle here. The punters need to think you’re basically just like them.
Are you fucking mad? Do you really think I’ve worked my fucking guts out so I can have a fucking Corsa?
Please, Gordon.
OK. Let’s just get this thing done. Right. Here’s some seared tiger prawns and here’s a lemon tart. Let’s move on to party food. When Tana and I throw a party we never quite know how many we are catering for – not something you lot have to deal with, I know, but fucking get over it – so finger food and champagne cocktails are an easy option. What else? You want something posh? I’ll fucking give you posh. The secret of a good halibut bourguignon is mastering the cuisson. Romance as well? We should all make time in our lives for romance. But I don’t. Will that do?
Wonderful Gordon. Lights to fade and closing credits.
Alright lads let’s hear it. Delia’s going down, she’s going down, Delia’s going...
Digested read, digested: Gordo sells his sole.
Jamie’s Italy
by Jamie Oliver (2005)
Italy is that long thin country dangling in the Mediterranean and ever since I was a kid I’ve been obsessed with it. So when I was feeling completely burnt out this year after giving school dinners a makeover, I thought what better way to relax than to go there on my own with a camper van and a film crew to make a TV series and write a book.
I feel at home the moment I arrive in Italy because I love the sense of humour. It’s great to arrive in a town and hear the old men stand around and joke, ‘Who is this Oliver James?’ But most of all I love the food. It’s so localised, it’s villagional. So without any more ado, let’s get cooking.
Antipasti are the first course and vary considerably. It’s good to get a mix of flavours. You can try bruschetta and my own favourite, fritto di salvia e alici. All you need is a tin of anchovies and you’re away. How simple is that?
I’m really excited about this chapter on street food because most cookbooks steer clear of them. Perhaps it’s because the writers don’t know the Italian for Westler’s. I have to be honest. Some street food is well dodgy and you’ll notice that I haven’t washed my hands for the pictures in order to give you the true Neapolitan flavour. You can try something poncey like polenta fritta croccante con rosmarino e sale, but for my money nothing beats a pizza di Dominos.
What on earth can I say about pasta that hasn’t already been said? Not much, really, but I’ll say it anyway. Always use real egg dough rather than Heinz spaghetti hoops and you won’t go far wrong. And I just know you’re going to love this chapter on risottos because I haven’t bothered with any authentic Italian recipes and have invented my own. Chopped parsley in a white risotto with roasted mushrooms: yum. Sod the Italians if they don’t like it.
/> Italian salads can be a bit ropey, to be honest, so I’ll mention the insalata tipica delle sagre before moving on to fish. If I’ve learnt anything from the Italians about fish – which I’m not sure I have – it’s that less is more. You don’t need variety; just something simple and fresh. Like turbot. Or – at a push – octopus.
Italy is a land of hunters and they never forget that meat comes from animals. Even rabbit. That’s why I’m showing you a picture of a dead sheep. You can cook it how you want, but it’s nice on a kebab. Italian farmers have a very special relationship with pigs. They bring them up as if they were their own children and then kill them. There’s a lesson there for all of us, so think twice before buying some factory-reared meat from wankers back home.
I don’t normally bother with dolci unless it’s for a special occasion, but everyone who’s been to Pizza Express loves a good tiramisu. All you need is some sponge fingers, mascarpone, vin santo and some chocolate and Roberto is your zio.
And that’s it. Thanks to Jools and my beautiful girls and the million other lovely people I spent time on my own with. Big love.
Digested read, digested: The digested feed.
Breakfast at The Wolseley
by AA Gill (2008)
Breakfast is a meal apart. It isn’t like the other organised consumptions of food in which I partake. It is a meal for which I am sometimes obliged to pay with my own money. Today, the blonde is lying abed and there is no one on hand to serve me at home, so I head to The Wolseley – conveniently close to my Savile Row tailor – to break my fast.
Piccadilly is chilly and dark as my chauffeur pulls up outside. I step over the human detritus of the night before, and allow the doorman to take my cashmere coat as I am welcomed into the timeless grandeur of the seemingly fin-de-siècle dining hall. The jolly Nigerian cleaner bows courteously.
At the front desk the maître d’hotel is going through his reservation list. The names come with a code, abbreviations to note ‘regular’, ‘very regular’ or ‘smug twat’. He shows me to my regular table, shielding me from the glare of the arrivistes who are seated nearest to the entrance.
Hidden away in the kitchen, the tourier, a Malian, or possibly Bangladeshi immigrant, has been turning the dough for the croissants for 12 hours or more. It’s a thankless task, but Viennoiserie is all about attitude. I take a bite out of my croissant and let its texture dissolve on my tongue, before leaving the rest unfinished on my plate; it will be a welcome morsel for the Brazilian plongeur
There are few things quite as xenophobic as breakfast. Apart from me. So the Wolseley must cater for all tastes. Even Americans. I peruse the menu and order Eggs Benedict, the Marilyn Monroe of brunch. Hollandaise sauce is considered tricky to make, but it’s actually a simple mixture of physics and thermodynamics that even an Italian chef can make.
The perfectly fried egg
• Crack one Duchy free-range egg into frying pan with knob of butter.
• Have a tantrum and send it back if not completely satisfied.
Nothing, though, can compare to the glory of the Full English. Foreigners may look askance as the waiters bring a cacophony of piggy-ness to my table, as few of them have the stamina or resolve for bacon, sausage and black pudding at this early hour. And it is true that, once the Full English has been consumed, you can be often overtaken by the need to go back to bed again. This is not a problem that unduly concerns me as I seldom have anything to do before lunch anyway.
There are 13 varieties of coffee at the Wolseley. This abundance of choice may be more than sufficient to satisfy the palates of City artisans and denizens of the media demi-monde, yet I still insist on summoning the Jamaican barista to check that the Blue Mountain beans have been harvested from the eastern flank of his private estate.
The perfect cup of coffee
• Ask for unlisted Arabica blend, but remember that the Indonesian, Kopi Luwak bean is considered distinctly nouveau riche.
• Shout loudly at South African waiter to check water was heated to between 97–98°C before being poured on to ground coffee.
Cereals were invented in America to promote colonic health and, as I reluctantly swallow a mouthful of muesli, I feel the onset of a bowel movement. I walk to the loo, casually noticing the checkmate in 17 moves for the person playing black as I pass the idiosyncratically placed chessboard. The lavatory attendant unfastens my trousers and polishes the bowl as I enter the stall. A self-satisfying movement follows and I look down at my perfectly formed excrement. And wonder just who on earth will buy it?
Digested read, digested: Completely pointless. Just like the author.
Nigella’s Christmas
by Nigella Lawson (2008)
I’ll be honest. I never thought I’d write a Christmas book. But then my publisher called to gossip about the credit crunch. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’ I yawned, stretching out on my chaise longue.
‘Nothing, sweetie,’ she said. ‘It’s us here at Chatto I’m worried about. We’re desperate for a Christmas bestseller to help us make budget and we wondered if you could help us out.’
What is Christmas, I thought, if not an opportunity to help out one’s friends? And it would take care of that extension to the extension Charles and I had been promising ourselves. So maybe the Domestic Goddess would do a quick turn as the Domestic Druidess after all!
‘OK, darling, you’ve twisted my arm,’ I cooed. ‘But there are a few ground rules. My Christmas isn’t some kind of austerity family hold-back affair. I want to be able to forget the sad, grey little faces of all my neighbours who have lost their jobs at Lehman Brothers and luxuriate in guilt-free greed and over-indulgence.’
‘That’s perfect, Gelly Baby,’ she laughed. ‘Just the kind of pointless consumerism Christmas publishing is all about. Getting people to buy expensive crap that never gets read.’
So where to start? How about with a feeble pun about how we always call Prosecco ‘Prozacco’ at casa mia? Bubbles on their own can be crashingly dull, so how about livening them up with a bottle of Grand Marnier and some pomegranate? And now we’ve got into the party mood and the camera filter has been set to the softest of focuses, let’s get cooking!
I’m far too clumsy to be the canapé queen. But if you nip down to your nearest over-priced deli – I recommend the gorgeous Marco in Holland Park – you’re sure to find something you can pass off as your own. To make it look festive, try decorating it with a Christmas theme. Any small objets de tat will do; Charles tells me that Chinese is in this year and you’re welcome to call him if you’ve got a spare mill for a plastic giant panda.
You might be wondering what the ‘welcome table’ is. It’s a term I made up for the table in the hall that’s laden with whole pigs and cold swans for all those guests who arrive feeling a little peckish and aren’t sure if they can make it to the dining-room without dying of starvation. Anything can go here, provided it’s got enough kick to give you a heart attack.
I haven’t given a proper dinner party for years, but at Christmas the Baudelairian yearning for home is at its strongest and we like to have 60 of our closest friends round for sups in the nursery. Catering is a challenge but I always find it best to recycle some of my recipes from previous books and hope no one notices.
For the main event you need to get your staff cooking several days in advance to prepare the stuffings and marinades for the turkey. All cooking instructions are based on the assumption you have a double oven. If you don’t, be prepared to have a shitty meal at 10pm! Be generous with quantities; allow at least 27 chipolatas per child.
At 5pm, everyone will be desperate for tea and you don’t want to be caught looking like some kind of Scrooge. This is when you should push the boat out. Here’s my recipe for my all-time favourite, The Angel of the North cake:
1. Commission Antony Gormley to make you a special cake tin.
2. Take three tonnes of flour, two tonnes of sugar and 11,765 eggs and cook at gas mark 5 for 35 minutes.
3. Get your husband to buy it for his gallery.
And that’s about it. Oh, they want me to write a little more. How about something on how I once made 96 Christmas cupcakes for the school PTA just to show off. No? Then how about making your own food to give as presents? Just buy some Sharwood’s mango chutney, put it in a different jar, sprinkle with gold dust and holly and you’re done. But don’t try that on me, babes! You know where Tiffany is!
Digested read, digested: Nigella’s Christmas turkey.
Noma: Time and Place in Nordic Cuisine
by René Redzepi (2010)
A plateful of milk skin with grass, flowers and herbs. Something most of you would go a long way to avoid. Especially at £27.50. But this was not any milk skin, it was René Redzepi milk skin. Redzepi is the genius who has wrested Nordic cuisine away from the Mediterranean influences of El Bulli and Pizza Express to reclaim the soul of Kierkegaard. He understands that a potato cannot be separated from the soil in which it is grown; that is why at Noma the chips are covered in dirt and served in a jus de earthworm.
The reviews were polite but not much more when Noma first opened for business in Copenhagen in 2003 and Redzepi realised he had to rethink his gastronomic concept. The only way to return to the purest essence of boiled cabbage was by going on a Nordic tour to source some of the most inedible foods imaginable. Within a matter of years Noma had been voted the best restaurant in the world. Here are some excerpts from René’s diary of that momentous journey.
Mandag Kristan greets us at Torshaven airport in the Faroe Islands with some sea-buckthorn berries. Wow! They are utterly disgusting. We must use them. They will go well with raw puffin and turnips.
Lordag Edda takes us to Iceland’s lava landscape to steam vegetables in the hot springs. The sulphurous smell is overpowering, but I think I will be able to replicate it in the Noma kitchens.