Don't Hate The Player, Hate The Fridge
I forgot how to cook this week and went to far too many restaurants for my bank account's liking
Food For Thought.
I'm not afraid to admit that I have a narcissistic streak (don't all writers?) and while have often been on the giving end of interviews during my career, I often read pieces and pretend to answer made up questions about my own life in lieu of famous people readers would actually care about. I mean, this newsletter is called Since No One Asked – the ultimate pass-agg 'oh this is what I'm doing in case you just happened to be wondering' vibe. This usually happens when I read ES Magazine's "My London" page (I'd live in Liberty, since no one asked) or New York Mag's Grub Street Diet. And two things unfolded this week.
I read Haley Nahman's Grub Street Diet and I very much enjoyed her segues between food intake and life commentary.
I didn't buy any groceries and left my fridge to fend for itself, especially relevant seeing as this week was the first week of IRL dining in restaurants and I had not one, not two but five restaurant books this week. Yes, my bank account hates me.
So in case anyone from Grub Street is reading, consider this my application.
Wednesday, 19 May
For the first time perhaps ever, I decided on an outfit and didn't change my mind last minute and I'm walking from De Beauvoir to Shoreditch with a confidence that I believe only a woman in her thirties can have. (I've been a woman in my thirties for approximately 2 weeks now). I'm en route to BRAT, a restaurant that I've been aching to try for months. It's a work dinner belatedly celebrating my birthday, and I'm wildly excited because of the Basque style turbot, of course, but also because we rarely come together IRL these days, and there will be wine and it will be flowing. We opt for all carbs, including two types of bread: grilled which is crispy and charred and dripping with oil, wild garlic and Saint Helena cheese. And sourdough that comes with a burnt onion butter that I would consider using as a moisturiser.
There were also grilled peas that we were somewhat confused about whether to eat the outsides – I did because waste not want not; young leeks with roe, which were delicious and might be the name of my future girl band; beef tartare and soused mackerel which were fresh and fancy free; and asparagus because it is the season. Highlight was the whole turbot grilled Basque-style, with smoked potatoes and roasted spring greens – and an extremely chic older gentleman who sat behind us and dined alone all evening. I walked home that evening as the sky turned a dark blue and the breeze was gentle, and I thought: yeah, London is home.
Thursday 20 May
Today marked my first spin class since 2019 and I was that person who mouthed all the words to the electro-tinged pop tracks and grinned after a surge. Who have I become? I spent the day working with Georgia, eating dumplings and wonton soup from Mama Lan. After spin, I meet Andy outside and try to recount my last 45 minutes of excitement. I vow to spin every week for the rest of time (tbc). We walk from South Bank to Islington because we're going to an actual cinema to see Sound Of Metal (100% would recommend), and grab a burrito from Chipotle which is warm and comforting and something we do from time to time. It's probably our 9th eating out date ever. A large glass of pinot noir at the cinema follows. I sleep very well that night.
Friday 21 May
On most days I wake up around 7am and all I think about is what I will have for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But seeing as my parents are driving into London (my dad's first trip into the big city since Feb 2020) to take me and Andy for a quick lunch at Jolene, breakfast wasn't necessary. Coffee, of course, always from Yallah – I have a monthly subscription and when I run out before the next package slips through my letterbox, I feel lost.
Jolene is perfect. I've waxed lyrical about my favourite neighbourhood restaurant before but honestly if I could, I'd do everything in Jolene including live in it. It's chalk-washed walls, hand-stitched curtains, the custom Babak Ganjei art by the toilet. And of course the food. We ate croquettes that oozed with cheese and were studded with jamon; mortadella and pickled veg to go with a focaccia so bouncy I would use it as a pillow; spaghetti with crab and chilli for mum and dad; pappardelle with creamy chickpeas and rosemary for us; and finally stuffed squid in a tomato sauce.
After work, Andy and I attempt to take public transport to meet my best friends Em and Lu at Quo Vadis, but of course we're running late so we order a Bolt at 6.30pm on a Friday. I discover that I am a person who gets carsick, and I worry not because I feel sick, but because I so desperately want to enjoy my martini. We arrive a little late, but I'm wildly happy to be introducing three of my favourite people in one of my favourite places.
At 7.30pm, we walk towards Covent Garden because Em, Lu and I have a reservation at Balthazar. It's a bit of a throwback choice, and we reminisce about the time we'd come to Balthazar with each other and ex-boyfriends, and all the red flags we missed. We queued to get in for half an hour, which felt odd seeing as we had a reservation, and then when we got in, we had to wait for another half an hour at the bar. Clearly first Friday back was running a little late. The most rogue part of the evening was when we sat down at our table (around 9pm) and were seated directly in front of a catwalk-like stage. We ordered copious amounts of bread, dressed crab and steak tartare, which were all pretty delish; and then as we waited for our main dishes to arrive, a flurry of cabaret dancers emerged and tottered onto the stage. A ringmaster with a large cane kicked things off and although it was quite jokes, we were sort of part of the spectacle, on account of sitting right in front of them, so we felt almost as exposed as the women flashing their pants behind us. "This feels more bizarre than Balthazar," I said.
Our mains arrived (post-Cabaret), and halfway through my meal I remember I'd vowed never to eat duck again – on account of feeling spiritually close to many ducks over the last few weeks, more on that another time – and feel wildly guilty as I eat around my duck confit. We do get extra fries for free though, and they are truly brilliant. Crunchy, salty, hot.
We finish dinner, say our goodbyes and I stroll into Covent Garden's piazza where I meet Andy and his friend Rob for a tin. We witness another bizarre event: a man with headphones on yells FUCKING BINS, slams down a bin lid next to us then charges towards a group of people and – I kid you not – rips open his t-shirt and starts shouting COME AT ME. Multiple security guards descend and I cannot stop watching. After months of lockdown, to me this is the signal that London has well and truly returned.
Saturday 22 May
On account of hangovers, laziness and grey skies, I succumbed to the inevitable and swallowed the £3.99 delivery charge for McDonald's on Uber Eats. And a double sausage egg McMuffin, two hash browns. Hot chocolate to finish. Zero regrets because I went spinning on Thursday. It was over too quickly and that first bit of McMuffin tasted like a Massachusetts hotel rooms with my dad, like I was 12 years old and about to explore a city I didn’t know.
My fridge is the most empty, apart from a huge pot of beans that I cooked earlier in the week, so the logical solution to my lunchtime hunger was to heat up a pan of beans, add wild garlic pesto, anchovies and eat it with very stale bread while watching The Fosters.
Happiness is arriving at a familiar restaurant (Quality Wines!) while the sun is shining to have dinner with a friend who you've never actually met IRL. Enter Bre Graham and her adorable gingham dress. We drink very cold Chardonnay and talk about food, flats, London, Sydney, 80s bath accessories and growing up. Gildas because there’s no substitute for olives and anchovies and chilli. The creamiest burrata sat in a pool of green extra v; tomatoes so perfectly salted I’m reconsidering what salt really is; oil-soaked focaccia that crackles on top with Rosemary studded flecks; veal meatballs swimming in butter sauce and a spoon of tart yoghurt to cut through. Plus the pistachio and sour cherry cannolis that must be eaten.
I’m reflecting on this whilst sat on a bench overlooking the canal listening to Amber Run which really takes me back to recording with them and riding in their tour bus in the deep of winter in 2014, but that’s also a story for another time. I love London. I love its waterways and the way the sky turns from purple to charcoal in a matter of minutes and I love that you can always get a perfect dirty martini and meals that make you rethink your taste buds and music in your ears that reminds you of hot sweaty gigs and AAA passes and warm beer and warm cigarettes and late night eats and early morning hunger and coffee that lingers until the next city-soaked adventure.
Sunday 23 May
I wake up at 7am and it's blue skies and sunny, and it looks like it will only be like this for another hour or so. I jump into Paddy (my 20 year old Peugeot) and drive to Hampstead Heath. It only takes me 19 minutes and I feel giddy with excitement. I find a parking space right down the bottom of Merton Lane (this never happens). I dip into the cold water and swim amongst herons and geese and ducks (I still feel guilty about my dinner on Friday – I apologise to every duck I swim past). I have a chat about the birds with two women in the most extra and amazing swimming hats, return to my car and drive home. I've got one more booking left this week – a table for 6 at my local pub, The Talbot, at 4pm. I'm heading to Forest Hill soon to fill up my fridge on produce from the Horniman Market. I'll probably get a breakfast burrito to tide me over until 4pm. We're off to Cornwall next weekend, so I decide that this week I'll return to my fridge. I have plans to recreate that chickpea pappardelle – thanks to the two jars of Queen Chickpeas I was sent by Bold Bean Co. Stay tuned.
Recipes-not-recipes™️
As you can tell, I didn’t cook much so here’s a list of five things that I could have eaten with the contents of my fridge as it stands now, in less than a sentence:
Butter beans warmed through with lemon zest, a squeeze of lemon juice, thinly sliced smoked garlic and parsley mixed through, on olive-oil brushed toast topped with some grated Gruyère.
Radiatore cooked al dente, then tossed with wild garlic pesto a spoonful of brothy beans and a showering of parmesan.
Leftover rice fried up in sesame oil, Teriyaki sauce and LaoGanMa chilli crisp with diced courgettes, the ends of tender stem broccoli sliced into rounds and a fried egg on top.
Blanched tender stem then steeped in a marinade of grated garlic (2-3 cloves), lemon zest, lemon juice (1/2 lemon) and olive oil (1/4 cup); grill for five minutes then scatter toasted almonds and a heavy twist of salt and pepper.
Pearl barley cooked then fried with thinly sliced lemons and fresh fennel and a pinch of fresh chilli flakes; drizzle with tahini (tahini, water, lemon juice, salt) and dukkah.
Since I Asked.
I think we all know what it's like to meet someone and it be love at first sight. For me and Meg, it was love at first conversation about food and American road trips. Early last year we met once at work; the next time we saw each other IRL was post-lockdown 1.0, but with many wine-fuelled Zooms in between. Meg is literally me, if I were tall and curly-haired and a touch cooler. Meg introduced me to martinis, so she's clearly in my life forever. Meg makes food so comforting I could sleep in it, but she's also wild in a spontaneous way that I've never been able to pull off, which makes her endlessly mysterious. She's the Eve to my Babitz and we were meant to roam the United States with a case of wine permanently located in the boot and tacos permanently attached to our hands. California, if you see two women hopped up on natural wine and small plates, that's us, say hi and let's party?
This is Meg making me a martini and wearing an exceptional outfit.
If you were a dish, what would you be and why?
It’s hard to know whether I’m choosing pasta because it encapsulates me, or just because I eat it four times a week. But I would be pasta. A double portion (because I’m greedy) of something quick to rustle up (because I’m easily persuaded), with spaghetti or linguine (because I’m a bit messy), with loads of herbs, anchovies, capers and an entire tub of ricotta (because I need everything to be full on). Served in a dish that claims to be a ‘serving platter’ but acts as my personal pasta bowl. Again, greedy.
We’re going on a trip (notice this is a statement, not a question). Where are we going, staying; what are we eating / doing / drinking. Just basically dream up our perfect road trip, ok?
Well I’ve been trying to convince you to go on a trip with me since the first time we met, so this is great news. I think we both know we’re hitting the West Coast, starting in LA for tacos, Korean barbecue, noodles at Pine & Crane, afternoon movie screenings and the odd hike in the Los Feliz hills — ending with a Jamón Pepin at Squirl. With a trip to Joshua Tree someone in there. Then we’d drive up the coast via Santa Cruz for some yoga, beer and surfing (you surf, I’ll watch with the beer) and end in San Francisco for a debaucherous all-nighter in the Castro.
Sum up three of your most Meg moods in food. (Like, for me happiness is a roast chicken and sadness is not even bothering to make a meal, eating crisps and then ordering a disappointing burger at midnight).
I think my three basic moods are: abrasively hyperactive, cosy and ‘knackered-at-home-and-never-leaving’. Hyper, I’m out ordering too much food and a second bottle of wine somewhere buzzy and fun; something amazing like Keralan fried chicken and bhel puri at Kricket or those fried aubergines at Bubala. Content, I’ll be sitting opposite someone I love and don’t have to say much to, possibly hungover, and we’ll be eating pizza, coconutty noodles or ham and pickle sandwiches. Drained at home, bra off at 4.30pm, I’m making tomato pasta with chillies, anchovies and a bit of honey, or this chicken rice recipe.
The best recipe you’ve ever cooked and can you sum it up in five words?
It just has to be the Ottolenghi prawn orzo I know you love too. I make it probably once a month and can’t actually believe how delicious it is every time. To sum it up in five words: satisfying, punchy, rich, soothing and a bit fancy.
Leftovers.
This honey, chilli and oregano glaze on everything.
Loved this interview with Padma Lakshmi by ex-BA editor, Sohla El-Waylly
A beautiful Conversations On Love interview with Delia Ephron, sister of Nora.
Everything about this fried chicken sandwich.
I love this poem about a Girls’ Night Out.
How I feel about potatoes.
Please can this song be the theme tune to my not-yet-written sitcom about being a teenager?
A case for making your own chilli oil.
Yes or no: butter should be so thick on a ham sandwich that it can be mistaken for cheese. (The answer is yes).