It was about 9pm on a Monday night that I looked over at the 15 or so boxes and 10 big bags of clothes that it struck me that I was really about to leave. I had cleared out most of the freezer – fries in the oven, every herb, condiment and vegetable whizzed into a salad dressing, the last of the mayonnaise laced with anchovy paste – and while I was cooking, perhaps for the last time in this kitchen, my friend Alex was furiously packing boxes. An expert at packing precious, fragile things – Alex is the maker behind Kettle Objects – she tessellated glasses, plates, bowls, egg cups, vases and various ceramic objects, wedging them between bed sheets and towels, linens and newspaper, writing little notes on the top of each box like “Cat, please be careful, love you,” as if deliberately ambiguous whether she meant with the boxes or just in general.
I cried on Saturday morning in a grassy puddle in the middle of Highbury Fields, this time because a different friend was leaving, although I think it was then that I began to allow the wall to drop. Perhaps it was stoicism or just pure adrenaline or genuine excitement, but I’ve not been sad about leaving. I know it will hit me like a train when I see the flat I’ve lived in for 6 years completely bare. The only flat I’ve ever lived in here.
I’m sure I’ll write more about number 23, and then about number 8, the keys for which I will be given on Thursday, approximately 6 and a half hours after I leave this flat. I’ve not had much time to write, or even to think but I’m sure the cumulative 20ish hours of driving I’ll do in the course of the week will stimulate some deeper thoughts.
For now, here’s a very belated leftovers – I’ll be back after the move with more cohesive and thoughtful words!
I’ve eaten so well, my bank hates me. A lot of potatoes. A lot of butter. A lot of wine. I’ve written a fairly comprehensive list on my favourite places to eat in London based on your mood, but some greatest hits over the last couple of weeks (none new; all revisits – creature of habit etc)
Rita’s is in my top three favourite dinner spots. Feels like you’re in New York. Get a late reservation (after 9pm), order the hamachi tuna crudo that’s swimming in a nuoc cham-style marinade. And the beef tartare under a blanket of herbs. Get a mini martini and at least two gildas. It’s sexy and romantic, god it’s good.
Jolene is my forever favourite, not because it’s the ‘best’ restaurant in London (whatever that means) but because it’s a place that is truly the sum of all its parts: incredible menu, brilliant produce, consistent but never boring dishes, reasonably priced, frozen margs in the summer, an excellent house white, the best toilets in London (facts) and always the kindest staff.
Canton Arms is my favourite pub to eat at because it feels like a proper boozer but with unbelievably delicious food. Get whatever they have to share between 2 on the menu. The rillette is always insanely good. Their house-made blood orange rosé is perfect in the sunshine.
Josephine is pure indulgent French cooking at its finest. They plonk a bowl of pork scratching on the table as soon as you sit down and I can confirm eating that with a glass of champagne will make you feel 10 times better than when you walked in. Obviously the poulet roti is delicious. As is in the lapin au moutarde. Whatever you do get the pommes purée over the fries. Creamy, buttery, salty perfection.
Ducksoup is an incredible restaurant, even better when you treat it like a bar. We stopped in after a quick half at The French House, and sat outside to sip on spritzes and to share an appetiser – a plate of verdant asparagus drowning in a ricotta sauce. Lined our stomachs before martinis at Rita’s.
Leila’s for a Friday lunch because it’s tradition for me and Meg to slip out of work mode and into lunch – Alex’s Afghan lamb stew with tart rhubarb was a revelation the other day. I recommend ordering two starters, the bread, a salad and one main between two of you.
Made approximately 2.5 meals in the past two weeks here – mainly loose and buttery eggs placed in tortilla folds and big salads. Last night I raided the freezer and found fries (M&S ones are the best IMHO), the last of some kimchi and seaweed seasoning, and various things to make a salad. This time: snap peas, fennel, radish, little gem in a green dressing: dill, mint, capers, anchovy paste, garlic, dijon mustard, miso, lime juice, olive oil and yoghurt.
On a particularly grey day when I was feeling full of cold, the trifecta of chicken stock, leftover chicken and rice was exactly what I needed. If you want the taste of Hainanese chicken rice, grate a lot of ginger into your congee/jook and add spring onions and chilli oil at the end with soy sauce and a little honey.
Next time you’re going for a park picnic or sun-soaked barbecue buy this wine – I got a bottle from Goodbye Horses and can’t stop drinking it. It’s got the beautiful blush of a rosé, the lightness of a white and a little tannic punch because it’s a cabernet franc.
Rewatched The Worst Person In The World and the scene where Julie and Eivind first meet is always a reminder to myself to cherish being single because there’s nothing more heady and romantic and sensual than connecting with someone for the first time!
A very important read about the relationship between food and politics, especially in a place like Palestine. In Freekeh and Fellahin: A Symbiotic Relationship of Sumud, Amanny Ahmad “examines the relationship between the Zionist narrative and the construction and projection of an Israeli culinary identity, which absorbs heritage ingredients like freekeh to reposition them as keystones to an imagined “Israeli food.””
Food has been wielded as a weapon since time immemorial; it is only the application, location, and ingredients of the recipes that change. Invariably, colonial settlers manipulate subsistence resources to starve and consequently force Indigenous populations into submission. It is one of the most effective tools used against entire populations by colonial forces in “war,” particularly in the case of Palestine’s more than a century of oppression and occupation. In modern times food is weaponized not only in its physicality – through agricultural and economic subjugation – but also as a medium to disseminate propaganda.
A frankly wild and admirable sex diary from a 42 year old art director in New York via The Cut. I read this aloud to Alex last night and we were honestly shocked and jealous at the amount of action this woman is getting from her husband. Good for her. Four times a week. At least. I mean. Wow.
A couple of friends went to the launch party of Extended Lunch, a beautifully bound cook book by Mafruha Ahmed, who is currently the chef-in-residence at Young Space, an independent record label in my neighbourhood. The book is beautiful, contains a little zine at the back and most importantly feels like something you would want to cook from! Also amazing illustrations by Sophie Glover.
My wonderful friend
is cooking at Palm 2 in Hackney on 13th June. This supper club is all about showing an appreciation for Kashmir – its culture, its history and its food. I sadly can’t be there but you should absolutely go and support – there will be Mother Root drinks on offer! Tickets are £70 and are available here.Officially obsessed with smelling incredible. I want someone to walk past me and say FUCK YOU SMELL AMAZING. I’ve just bought Cowboy Grass by DS & Durga but I’ve been tempted by Byredo’s Desert Dawn and might just have to be that girl. And yes I do only wear scents that are inspired by California and the American West.
WIP playlist for leaving the flat. Some gooduns on there.
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