No Accounting For Taste
it's 7.33pm and i must warn you—
I am 1.5 martinis deep. As I type this sentence, The Streets’ Dry Your Eyes has just come on shuffle on the iPod touch I’ve had since 2007. I take another sip and allow the ice cold liquid to trail to the back of my mouth. In the words of Stephanie Danler: my tongue is coded.
Taste is a funny thing. We think of it as in-built – as if it’s passed onto us when we’re born. Perhaps part of it is. But really, truly – it’s a product of our experiences. I drink my martini extra dry, extra dirty. The velveteen pour of vodka – ice cold from the freezer – mixes with a splash of vermouth and then the salty hit of olive juice (Perello, always). Why do I like it that way? Salt. Always, salt. I grew up in a household built on the foundations of the stuff: soy sauce (my mother) and Maldon salt flakes (my father).
Whether it’s the food we eat or the people we’re attracted to, taste is almost impossible to explain. Mine has always been extreme – extra salty food; unnecessary toxic relationships. I have one martini and it is followed by another – not tempered by food, because the clean vodka and crystalline salt fills a void. The cycle continues.
Earlier this week, I returned to something that never served me. A taste that began sweet, like saccharine first love, until it was left to ferment. It's one that matures (but you don’t), and you're always reminded of the sweet spot, even when it's been left out too long.
Four years pass, and that taste is eerily familiar. At times it’s heavenly; overripe and familiar. And then it sours. But once you’ve had a taste for it, it can feel impossible to retreat.
There is no solution. It takes a long time to decode your tongue. Perhaps there will always be a bitter taste in your mouth. But isn’t that just innocence? Isn’t that just growing up? And sometimes, isn’t that just indulging in your past? We can’t be perfect. Not all of the time.
Mike Skinner sings to me and strikes a nerve.
Dry your eyes mate. I know you want to make them see how much this pain hurts. But you’ve got to walk away now. It’s over.
Here’s to developing a new taste. One just as potent – but perhaps a little less toxic.
Cat x
chickpeas, broccolini, linguine.
Although my taste in relationships has been questionable over the years (I was recently called out by my bosses for expressing a martini-fuelled interest in the fictional Bill Clinton in Curtis Sittenfield's novel Rodham. Can confirm it was the martini talking and I am now on the look out for a beta man) – I believe my taste in pasta to be totally spot on.
This particular dish has the creaminess of a carbonara thanks to a mix of pasta water, parmesan and chickpea water.
I am a convert to either cooking chickpeas from scratch, or failing that buying them in a jar (just like Nigella would have you do), because the ones in a can taste of NOTHING and are a waste of money. I know it's bougie af to pay £3.75 for chickpeas, but honestly they're so delicious and I'd happily forgo my takeaway coffee/pastry budget if it meant I could spoon these gloriously plump, creamy chickpeas into my mouth every week. But that's just me.
You'll need a big handful of good linguine for two people (I use De Cecco) which you'll place in a big pan of salted boiling water. While that's cooking, heat three tablespoons of rapeseed oil (or neutral oil) in a large shallow pan. Add a pinch of red chilli flakes and two-three finely sliced garlic cloves. Keep the heat low-medium, add a knob of butter and the zest of half a lemon.
When the pasta is about a minute from being perfectly al dente, add a bunch of tender stem broccoli in with it until it turns a vibrant green and the pasta is done. Scoop out a few cups of pasta water and set aside, then drain the pasta and veg. Spoon the chickpeas into the garlicky pan – about 5 spoonfuls, scooping up all the chickpea water that's in the jar. Turn the heat up, then pop the pasta and broccoli in the pan. Slowly add the pasta water so it starts to emulsify, then add about two cups of grated parmesan and mix through. Season to your taste, turn down the heat and add a big glug of extra virgin olive oil and a few twists of black pepper.
Dish up out of the pan from the middle of the table, and eat with two very dry, very dirty vodka martinis. Extra olives.
food stories.
– Padma Lakshmi wants us to eat more adventurously and I'm here for it, via The New York Times
– Priya Krishna speaks the truth about Asian parents' love of cut fruit for New York Magazine's Grub Street
– Read all about Jewish foodways in London from Mia Rafalowicz-Campbell via Vittles
a few leftovers.
– My dad loves lamb chops, so these reminded me of him (hi dad!)
– Forza Wine's tone of voice is one of my favourites, also this salad YES
– Not fussed about kids (show me your dog instead pls) but these little hands crushing potatoes? Quite cute
– The beautiful Bre Graham ALWAYS making her food look like it's just rolled out of Italian aperitivo hour
– I know the heatwave is over but tomatoes for lunch forever #coldtomatosummer
– Shawarma Bar is back and you should go if just for this labneh of dreams
– This is my perfect summer breakfast: eggs, anchovies, beans
if you like what I'm putting down?
Tell your friends! Tell your family! Tell your lovers!