Remember Eating In Restaurants?
i have this playlist –
called thosewerethedays – a nostalgia-fuelled soundtrack where almost every song transports me back to such specific, pin-pointed moments in time.
John Mayer’s Slow Dancing In A Burning Room was played on a loop in my first year of university, much to the chagrin of my next door neighbour who begged me to stop taking Mayer’s lyric “go cry about it, why don’t you?” so seriously. (Sorry about that, Ben).
A song by Panama takes me back to the band’s gig at a freshly opened Oslo in Hackney, standing in front of a man who seemed to hold my heart in his fist, each beat a squeeze which bled me dry. After the gig I recall him running away from me – yes, literally running – the refrain “it’s not over, till it’s over” a deafening premonition which still rings in my ears.
And lest we forget Taylor Swift’s seminal (yet grievously underrated) track White Horse, which at 17 years old, I blasted down the landline to a male friend, because I couldn’t possibly understand why he didn’t realise we were obviously meant to be together – like Bella and Edward in Twilight – and that his ignorance was breaking my angst-ridden teenage heart. I played all 3 minutes 54 seconds of it, and to my surprise he patiently remained on the phone, speechless and confused at the whole ordeal.
In the same way such songs can recall these wonderful, painful and (at times) embarrassing experiences, food can do the same.
For instance, every time I think of making a Caesar salad, I find myself thinking about the last time I ate at Shoreditch House (not my usual restaurant to praise, but stay with me). The salad – a great balance of tender kale, moist chicken and anchovy-spiked dressing which generously drenched crunchy lettuce – was memorable, but really it was the five great friends I dined with (and the copious bottles of wine consumed) that made a mark. We ended the night with ping pong matches, countless photobooth attempts and many negroni nightcaps on velvet sofas that deviously felt like home.
Or whenever I coat my pasta in its own water to emulsify into a silken sauce, my mind returns to Bancone's glistening, pepper-flecked cacio e pepe. Wolfing down plates of it (plus the piquant pork and n'duja mafalde, obviously) with my two oldest friends on those green leather banquettes, we'd exchange school gossip and reminisce about making a very huge deal out of watching Obama's inauguration (miss you, Barry).
And flicking through my photo album, I find blurred, surreptitiously-snapped pictures of meals I’ve had at my favourite place in the world, Jolene. Perfectly cooked hake with herbed, mustardy lentils; luscious and sweet datterini tomatoes dressed with salty feta; piping hot pork ragu sitting atop unctuous wet polenta. All mementos of the ever-oneiric experience of dining in Jolene’s pink-walled, chalk-washed, wine-lined, dim-lit, ceramic-laden and forever-romantic world.
As lockdown restrictions ease, music plays in parks reminding us of good and tangible times. Restaurants are reopening in re-imagined ways, allowing us to realise those wistful thoughts of actually eating outside our own houses.
Compiling restaurant memories like songs in a playlist, I’ll just be over here re-living the dishes eaten on Italian coastlines, the nightcaps drunk in overpriced members clubs, and the joy of hearing stoves firing up in our most beloved establishments.
Here’s to sitting in restaurants again, one day very soon.
Cat x
red onion pasta.
My parents drove up to London last week with a bounty of ingredients, but most important of all were the five tins of anchovies I'd requested because apparently everyone in De Beauvoir has stockpiled them?
Anchovies are my go-to for full on umami flavour, whether they're melted in a pasta sauce like this one, chopped and added to a honey mustard dressing for a salade niçoise or eaten on heavily buttered toast with five-minute boiled eggs.
With a Birra Moretti in hand (courtesy of Dad) and no desire to overcomplicate my evening, I set to work adapting Alison Roman's caramelised shallot pasta. Credit where credit is due this is basically Roman's recipe (which is a clever take on puttanesca). But in the absence of shallots, I used a red onion, added some honey to bring out the sweetness and swapped out parsley for dill, for no other reason than it's just what I had in my fridge.
If you want a very well-rationed, tried-and-tested recipe, go for Roman's – but if you're with me on the whole trial and error, rough and ready ingredients thing...
For one person, you'll need: 1/2 red onion either thinly sliced with a knife or a mandolin (BE CAREFUL!). Crush two garlic cloves and use the back of the knife to break them down a little more. At the same time as adding your pasta of choice (a handful so the circumference is about the size of a 50p coin) into boiling salted water, heat 2 tbsp of oil (I use the oil from a can of anchovies, but olive/sunflower/rapeseed will do) in a heavy based, high sided pan.
Once hot add the garlic and red onion, a generous pinch of salt, a big twist of pepper and some red chilli flakes. Cook on a medium-high heat so the onion and garlic sweats but doesn't catch (turn down if you see them start to brown too much and add a splash of water).
Add 1/2 tin of anchovies (you can keep them whole) and let them melt into the mixture. Squeeze a little honey to draw out the sweetness, then add a big squeeze of tomato paste. Scoop about a cup of pasta water and set aside, then drain the pasta. Add the pasta straight into the red onion mixture, then pour the pasta water little by little, so that the sauce emulsifies and becomes silken.
Zest 1/2 lemon and add a handful of chopped dill. Serve in your favourite bowl (perhaps this one from Kana?) and dress with a glug of extra-virgin olive oil.
Enjoy with Renegade's delectable skin-contact rosé while watching The Politican on Netflix (killer outfits, great speeches, big hits of constitutional sass).
food stories.
- Some very wonderful writers on what they miss about restaurants, which inspired this newsletter: Our Lives Happen In Restaurants for The New York Times
– Joshua David Stein questions what it means to nourish a family when Dad can’t cook, for New York Magazine's Grub Street
– A touching piece on one writer's experience with an eating disorder: The Way I Ate by Susan Burton for The New Yorker
a few leftovers.
– Meditative and mesmerising: watch fresh fusilli being cut via Angela Hartnett
– I could probably drink a vat of this West African romesco sauce
– Snap peas and ricotta on toast is the lunch you need right now
– My wonderful friend and Montana-based chef Ranga has a foolproof way of preserving feta
– I dare you not to be tempted by Bubabla's shakshuka which is now available to order for brunch
– The sun is back and I'll be making more Botanica-inspired plates
if you like what I'm putting down?
Tell your friends! Tell your family! Tell your lovers!