A richman’s breakfast

(There’s some repetition of this earlier post – I must also apologise for the lack of blog activity of late – things are busy. This blog post was written in late December last year).

I thought now was a good time to resurrect Billy and Me. Poor ole Billy has been neglected of late.
So here, in a food market stall in Quito I’ll bring him back. (I say ‘ bring him back’… I’ve been ravenous since I arrived, so I think the comeback is all his).

And this breakfast is certainly worthy of his unholy appetite. I’d planned a light fruitshake breakfast. I find it interesting that it’s in third world countries that something as simple as blended fruit can be found in abundance. In Ireland we now prize healthy fresh smoothies so much that they are considered a luxury. In slightly poorer countries they’re associated with poverty and US imports like Sunny D win out as the richman’s choice… Okay… *I* find that interesting. That an everyman’s drink in a poor country is frowned upon in wealthier nations and considered a luxurious treat in the richest.

In any case it wasn’t to be. Billy took one look at the foods on offer and seized control. I can’t actually remember the ordering itself clearly, I was like a man possessed, but soon I had this…

… Placed in front of me. A wodge of seabass, fried potatoes, rice, popcorn, lime, ceviche (a soup made from raw fish ‘cooked’ in lemon juice) and some veg to fill out the plate. Delicious. I didn’t eat again til nine that night.

I had the breakfast in the Mercado Central. It was the highlight of my few days in Quito. It’s a common tactic of mine – if I can’t figure out a city, can’t plug into it, I find the local food market. Early in the morning you often find yourself the sole tourist among the local workers filling up on starchy tasty food for a long day ahead. The city comes alive in such places and, if you find yourself in Quito, ill-at-ease and unable to access the town, head down here early one morning. Order a plate sized for Andre the Giant and slowly nibble away and just sit and smile and watch and think about how lucky you are. How privileged you are to be in such a place.

Best thing I have ever seen is Extreme Rice

This is how I eat from this moment forward

Pickles are go!

So I cracked open my pickles a few minutes ago and, all expectations of botulism aside, they aren’t too bad. They’re not great; they taste more like mass-produced store-bought pickled eggs than the ‘little old stall in a local farmers’ market’ flavour I was going for.

But I’m still breathing so not bad for a first attempt.

I tried two different recipes. One was my own invention and the other the already-mixed Sarson’s pickling vinegar (as a control test). Unfortunately the flavours of each aren’t a million miles apart. So I need to tweak the recipe and try again… I also need to get these ones eaten. Luckily today is Norway Day (fitting after their runaway success last night on the Eurovision) so I should be able to palm them off at our local Norweigan picnic. They’re mad for the pickles these Scandinavians.

Any advice for improving the recipe would be appreciated:
6 eggs (hard boiled)
1 cinnamon stick
1 chopped garlic cloves
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cloves
1/2 tsp ginger
Malt vinegar about 350ml

Boil all the above and simmer for 15 minutes and store for one month (in this case they’ve had about 6 weeks).

Pickling here… Pickling there…

I’ve embarked on a new hobby! I’ve entered the world of the pickler. And not in a bizarre pseudo Dexter way, you understand. No, this is honest saltoftheearthwork. Apart from scrapping my fingers along cheese grater while getting the rind off a lemon, thus pushing both lemon juice and high strength vinegar into my flesh, it seems to be going well so far.

Well… I’m assuming that… I haven’t tasted anything yet. Check back in 5 months to see if I’ve contracted botulism. But hey, they look convincing.

How does a gentleman dine?

I’m sure you’ve often asked yourself this vital question. Well, I’ll show you:

Hell yes.

Hemingway’s in Florence… I’m going to need to change my shorts

If you’ve any appreciation for chocolate, walk right across the city to get here. In fact, if you happen to be in Italy, get on a train. In fact, just get on a plane wherever you are.

It was toward the end of quite a long, though very enjoyable, day. We’d walked around the southern edge of the city. Up and down hills. Marveling at views. Listened to some monks. Ate some biscuits. And now we were tired and on our for dinner…. Dinner would have to wait.

I’d heard about this place, and as a testament to Mrs.Waxy’s tolerance for my wiles, she had patiently listened to my read out each review and dabbed my chin with tissue as I drooled over menus. So when we spotted it as we dragged our feet to dinner and she said “no, really, we should go in right now”; it really was an act of love.

We ordered pretty much randomly from the menu and got a triple shot of fine rum, a collection of chocolate truffles with a watermelon jus poured liberally over them and the thickest greatest 70%cocoa-ist hot chocolate I’ve ever had.

The rum, which I don’t normally like, had a smokey flavour akin to whiskey, and that absence of burn which denotes fine spirits. The truffles were fresh and delicious, a thin crisp layer of dark chocolate cradling a creamy succulent centre. And the drinking chocolate! Ah, the chocolate! So thick your spoonleft erect and defiant peaks in its wake. At 70% cocoa; the flavour was rich and deep and long-lasting. Like a fine wine.

Needless to say I left the place staggering, drunk and on a crazy sugar high. Dinner was off and Mrs.Waxy helped me back to our room to sleep it off.

It’s a great place. The staff are friendly. There’s a real buzz in the air (though that may have been the alcohol and sugar rush) and there’s a lot to see nearby.

Eoin: 8
Billy: 8 (which is quite surprising, but a cup of solid chocolate is pretty filling)
Google map here

If I die in a bacon zone…

… vacuum seal me and send me home.

We’re hatching plans. Deep in the drunken depths of an arts and crafts night we hatched plans. Plans for New Years Eve. Plans to go over the top. Plans for bacon.

New ordinance has come in and we’re itching to try some of these new toys out. Bacon weaves. Fat washed bourbon and more.

I don’t know if we’ll be able to come back from this one. I don’t know if we’ll be the same even if we do.

Bacon changes a man.

If I die of bacon…

A very short post as this week has, I’m afraid, been surprisingly busy. But Billy demands airtime so… so be it.

In honor the horror of no Irish pig coming fully into effect I present a link I’ve just been sent from a friend: http://www.holytaco.com/if-i-die-bacon-related-death-id-it-be-because.

To give you a preview of the delicious terror to come look at this:

Frying lattic of bacon

Mine eyes have seen the glory!!!

Purple in Streatham

Purple
The High Parade
Streatham High Road
Streatham
SW16
020 8677 2277

Glancing over the post title you might be expected a letter sent to an agony aunt page but no, it’s a Waxy restaurant review.

We, Billy, my lady and I, have been living in the area for about 3 1/2 years. On the first day I visited the Waterfront (which Billy and I would very much recommend; it was a safe port if the storm of a flat without furnishing or heat) and later that night we passed by Purple on a rather grim stretch of the A23. I was intrigued by its down-home charm and meaty menu… but, as is often the case, many years came and went and still we had not taken the step to visit.

With my mother over some weeks ago we needed somewhere local, relatively cheap, and pleasant. We had been out for a full day of gallerying and were in no mood for pretensions or travels. Purple fitted the bill nicely.

We ordered whitebait to share for starters. My maternal unit worried upon a lamb’s shank, my lady on fish of some sort… I wasn’t really paying attention. Billy was hungry and that never ends well.

I politely ate around the edges of the shared starter; trying to balance the greatest quantity of aoili on each mouthful as possible. Praying that Billy would be, at least temporarily, satiated. Or at least stunned by the heady mixture of garlic and lemon.

The gamble paid off and our pig’s belly arrived. Pig belly is a dish I seldom order. I’m a slow eater (as I savour and appreciate each mouthful) and, as the layer of fat cools, the dish grows less palatable. But oh yes! Oh Yes! Billy was intent on speed. It was served well; a moist underlay of meat, a mantle of luxurious fat, all protected by a rich crust of crackling. A nice variation in both flavour and texture as I bit through.

The staff are lovely; that nice, and exceedingly rare, combination of competence, a sprinkling of deference and a ready wit. Too often competence leads to rudeness and deference to limp pretension and that way lies the dark side.

So, Purple? A hit. Main courses ranging from about six to sixteen pounds. A wide ranging menu; usually a sign of disaster but it all seemed to work out here. Warm and unassuming and sometimes that’s exactly what you want.

It’s not hard to guess why Nineteen next door, though more designed and professional in both appearance and menu, is starting to not challenge but lag behind this longlived Streatham staple.

My London: Gordon’s Wine Bar and the Ghost of Theodore Bromley

Gordon’s Wine Bar in Embankment (Tuesday 12th November 2002)

Had an odd thing last night. A friend of mine and myself met outside in Gordon’s Wine Bar. If you haven’t been there (and you can somehow secure a seat; note that this was far from a balmy summer night and we sat under the stars) it’s well worth a visit. The cellar bar is an old creepy affair rife with sentiment and age. The cheese on offer; both youthful and crumbling beneath its age kept Billy happy and content. It’s arched ceilings force visitors to bow down close together to avoid colliding with the dust and moss. The walls are adorned with aging photographs and rotting newspapers of times long past. It was only here in this place that I could have met Mr.Theodore Bromley.

We sat down outside and ordered a bottle of red and, having not had the opportunity to meet in some months, shared a fine time in one anothers’ company. Both of us wrapped warm against the encroaching winter; me in faux moody hoody and overcoat and her in dainty bright scarves and hats.

We had thought that we were alone in the narrow laneway when a large figure abruptly dropped down on the seat beside us. I acted fast to save our table from capsizing at his sheer presence.

He was a large gentleman; in both stature and charisma. He was also evidently quite drunk; apparent from both his slurred voice and powerful aroma. His words dribbled out from beneath his proud thick ‘tache in a wonderfully rolling bassy English accent:

My name is Theodore Bromley.

Oh, hello. My name’s Waxy.

(A long stare; he didn’t like that, not one bit).

I am from… Australia…

Really?

I *AM* from Australia.

We’re from Ireland.

My name is Theodore Bromley. Whooooo are yooooo?

This continued for some time, his voice rising with indignation, until finally he lent in close (slyly pilfering a bottle of white from a neighbouring table). I leaned forward to hear his words, quiet as they were.

You have done my country wrong, sir, you have done my country wrong!!!!

A tear crept down his face.

I think you might have mistaken me; what wrong was done to you?

You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country -

Mr. Bromley collapsed forward in a tide of grief and flatulence. Our table capsized; our drinks safe.

He swirled to his feet and faded off into the night; vanishing a moment as the shadows overwhelmed him.

A ghost?

Seemed like a pleasant fellow.