A TIME FOR LOVIN'

Christmas is unusual for two reasons this year. First, I’m not cooking. Secondly, I am spending it with family. Both of which anyone who knows me will understand are uncharacteristic. But I am thrilled on both counts. Contrary to popular expectation, I love being cooked for. And don’t care if it’s Chateaubriand or beans on toast. The pleasure of sitting at a table, nicely tucked in, awaiting a plateful of food prepared by someone else is always a treat. The only standards I apply to food made for me are the love with which it is prepared and the affection with which it is served.

Among the adorable delicacies cooked by friends over the past year there has been venison soup after a walk on the Heath with those anarchic Boxers, iced chocolate truffles in Peckham, the freshest Lindisfarne oysters at a glamorous Northumberland wedding, a crab sandwich with crisps in Devon, divine paella on a suffocating Spanish evening, wintry cassoulet at the verger’s and fried eggs in a summer garden. Each dish a triumph because of the love and care put into producing them. Which is exactly what it’s all about.

And which is what so often restaurants forget. Looking back across the year to the places where the Belgian and I have dined, this has been my greatest disappointment. Food served by people who have no real affection for it or kunderstanding of it. Inevitably, however astounding the culinary creativity, it always fails to satisfy. When great food dances with love, the experience is lasting perfection. But when it is served with either insouciance or arrogance it looses its taste.

Restaurateurs forget we know about food these days. In fact, many of us can cook at least as well as most average restaurants. I don’t only eat out for the food but for the experience. What I am looking for is grace and charm. I want to be looked after. To be made to feel that I couldn’t possibly have spent this time better anywhere else. But it doesn’t have to be either poncey or overly in-yer-face. The Wolseley does this with ineffable style. Their collected friendliness never makes you feel anything but a million dollars. And at my new favourite Leila's in Calvert St, the eggs with serrano ham are unsurpassed and the sweet boys smile wanly and warmly.

In May we stumbled across the Pa i Trago on the fringe of the Poble Sec in Barcelona full to the brim of pensioners at lunch, served by old timer waiters who know the game. Put the food first, not the attitude. In the same spirit at Jamie Oliver’s Fifteen, dishes are proffered with care and enthusiasm. The ethos here is about giving young people with few life chances an opportunity to succeed. This lends the place such positive energy and translates to the food and to the service. Both delicious.

By contrast Conran’s Boundary is just too cool for school. The food is fairly faultless but the place is run with such dismissive hauteur, I’d rather be round the corner at Mama Irene in Shoreditch. She’s a fabulous Thai lesbian in her sixties, who grows her food on an allotment and serves it up in a greasy spoon just off the High St, where the walls are adorned with a collection of truly hideous Sapphic paintings. Notwithstanding, the conversation, the spring rolls and the sea-bass with mango are works of art.

Honesty and love are also the sustenance of the family. A joy that has rather avoided me for one reason or another until now. For the first time, the Belgian and I are spending Christmas Day with his mother. She’s nervous and excited. But she has declared my marmalade the best she has ever tasted. So we’re off to a good start. It has also been a great triumph this year to finally resolve differences among my siblings. Thanks to the courage of our mother, my favourite cooking genius and kitchen despot, her children have finally found happy resolution and that is to be celebrated at a giant Boxing Day lunch. Best of all I’m not cooking.

Lang may your lum reek, as they say.

VEGGIES RULE OK!

For years, the poor vegetarian has been relegated to meatless lasagne and risotto, never allowed to move beyond goat cheese tartlets. Exercise aplomb and a pioneering spirit in your culinary matchmaking. Go for things you don’t recognise or haven’t had before. There is always a literal cornucopia of new and interesting contenders.

12 February, 2010

VENI, VIDI, VENICE

My feeling is that in Venice you need to seek out dishes, rather than places. Equally determined to avoid the withering looks and contempt of waiters serving menus turisticos, I wanted something the locals would eat. The insider knowledge.

10 January, 2010

A TIME FOR LOVIN'

Christmas is unusual for two reasons this year. First I’m not cooking. Secondly I am spending it with family. Both of which anyone who knows me will understand are uncharacteristic. But I am thrilled on both counts. Contrary to popular expectation, I love being cooked for.

26 July, 2009