Spectator Life

What do you picture when you hear the term Art Deco? Fantastical ideas of Baz Lehrman’s Great Gatsby, gilded brasseries and de facto extravagance  fail to capture the pastiche of styles making up this early 20thcentury movement. Somehow, what was once a collective word for the artistic expressions that followed Art Nouveau has morphed into a dizzying, dancing circus troupe of hairbands, flapper dresses and sidecars. In Britain, the lasting legacy of the movement has been in our architecture.

I’m not sure that many people would choose the unassuming garibaldi as their favourite biscuit. Garibaldis aren’t flashy: there’s no luxury chocolate, no pretty, brightly-coloured icing, no fancy-pants shapes. They aren’t squidgy, trendy cookies, or wholesome buttery shortbread. In fact, they’re often called squashed-fly biscuits because the currants baked into the dough resemble, well, squashed flies. And yet, they persist. Garibaldi biscuits have stuck around for 150 years, outseeing fads and fickle consumers, keeping their place on supermarket shelves for longer than almost any other biscuit. The biscuits have an unlikely namesake: Giuseppe Garibaldi, an Italian General, who fought for Italian unification.

There is surely no better way of passing the time than by doing nothing at all, fuelled by a large well-chilled drink. Nothing beats hanging out with a couple of similarly empty-headed chums in a warm patch of sun, glass in hand, watching the world go by. It turns out that those past-masters of taking it easy, the Barbadians – or Bajans – have a term for this excellent use of one’s time: liming. And given that Barbados is home to the world’s longest-established rum distillery – the peerless Mount Gay, in operation since 1703 if not before – it’s all but impossible to lime without the aid of plenty of rum.

When I was first playing about with the recipe, the sun was shining. Every day was hotter than the last, and I found myself seeking out dishes that were cooling, that were fresh, and made me feel like I was on holiday. Looking ahead to when this recipe might go out I was fairly confident that it would hit the right note at the height of summer: July might have a damp day here and there, but overall, it seemed a relatively safe bet for days and nights of heat, the kind of time where there’s a sudden run on paddling pools, and ice cream becomes near medicinal. But as I write this, August is letting me down. The early summer spells have vanished and it is looking distinctly autumnal outside the window. My neighbour has just run past the window in a raincoat.

When a dear friend recently was clearing out her dad’s house following his death, she uncovered a tin of ancient Harrods’ Madras Curry Powder – several decades old and emblazoned for some reason with the name 'Ameer' on the front. This sort of attic find is considered an offending item nowadays, if the recent ‘curry is racist’ furore is to be believed. Madras curry powder is an essential ingredient of Anglo-Indian cuisine. Indeed, the flavouring is as much a part of British cuisine as Worcestershire sauce and English mustard. And it is, happily, still labelled 'Madras' – the imperial name for the city of Chennai –  when bought today. 'Chennai curry powder' doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.

I confess, the idea of a tres leches cake did not initially appeal to me. A dry sponge soaked in a variety of tinned milks sounds, at best, like bland nursery food and, at worst, tooth-achingly saccharine. ‘Milky’ has never been one of the words that I hope to see in connection with anything other than ‘coffee’ or ‘Way’. But I saw it likened to trifle and curiosity got the better of me – and I’m so glad it did. Actually, a tres leches cake is not terribly like a trifle at all, although I can see where the comparison came from. Soaked puddings are nothing new, and that’s really what a tres leches cake is.

I’m normally averse to leftovers: it’s not a trait I like in myself. I’d far rather be able to eat the same thing for days on end, especially when it’s seasonal veg, or an enormous, hearty stew that I’ve spent ages making. It’s a sensible way of cooking: healthy, seasonal, cheap, time-saving. But I’m easily bored, and the best laid plans of mice and men the night before, clingfilmed or tupperwared up, no longer appeal the following lunchtime. I end up parcelling those thoughtful, carefully prepared dishes onto my husband and plumping instead for so-called novelty in the form of toast, or a sandwich. For some reason, soup is the one dish that doesn’t suffer this fate.

Leg of lamb à la ficelle: 'First, inherit an ancient stone farmhouse lost somewhere in the hills of the Luberon, then string up a leg of young lamb over a smoky wood fire...' As I chuckled over this sardonic intro to a recipe in one of my favourite cookery books of recent years, Sardine by Alex Jackson, my laughter quickly died as I realised that not only will I never inherit such a farmhouse — but I’ll also never again go to the restaurant that launched the book. Sardine was one of my best-loved London restaurants of the last decade, tucked away in an unlikely and not especially salubrious corner behind a drive-thru McDonald’s in the unfashionable hinterland between Old Street and Angel.

The odd torrential thunderstorm aside, the summer is in full swing. Hurrah! Of course, most of us are going to have to enjoy it here in Blighty rather than sur le continong or in the Maldives or Mauritius, so ridiculously complex and uncertain does travel abroad remain. But, heck, if we can’t neck fine Provencal rosé by some sun-dappled French pool then we can darn well drink well here. France can come to us in vinous form and we can wallow with joy in our native vino too, with English sparklers and still wines better than ever. Transport yourself with my following suggestions for a great British summer.

The great British summer is upon us. And, since few of us are venturing abroad, now might be the time to enjoy this season’s round of 'makeaway' boxes and bring something special to those long overdue barbecues. Upgrading the supermarket burger and sausage shop to fancy charcoal-griddled kebab part prepared by a catering professional has never been easier thanks to the array of cook at home boxes emerging from shuttered restaurants during lockdowns. Plus, it’s a mighty easy way to impress pals not seen for many months. All you need is the requisite Pimms, enough firelighters and a few sun dances.

One of the great sorrows of the pandemic has been India. Its own harrowing experience of the virus has been dreadful to see. And less importantly but still poignantly, India’s disappearance from the list of possible destinations for travel for the foreseeable future has created a sense of morose yearning among those itching to get back. So long as we’re barred from going, London is perhaps the best city on earth to recreate some of the finest ambience, tastes and smells of the subcontinent and with that in mind I set out to experience the best of India through a clutch of sophisticated restaurants only a Tube ride away.

Summer barbecues open up a wealth of opportunity for culinary exploration. Here are four tips for taking your barbecuing to the next level, followed by three of my recipes to try for yourself: lamb cutlets with asparagus, garlicky prawns and the delightfully colourful Pepper Piedmontese. Each of these dishes have been paired with wine chosen by Andrew Peace so that you can bring out the very best of those barbecue flavours.  Choose your charcoal wisely Food cooked over an open fire has a different flavour altogether than food cooked on the stove or in the oven. For the best flavour use sustainably sourced British charcoal which burns longer so you’ll use less and isn’t packed with chemicals like mass-produced charcoal.

There are few things more comforting than a pie, but often that level of comfort is directly proportional to the amount of effort required to make it. Pastry bases that must be prepared, then chilled, lined, blind baked and re-baked; fillings that require pre-cooking, or sauces that need thickening. Not so with spanakopita. Spanakopita is a Greek cheese and spinach pie, encased in several layers of filo pastry, each sheet painted with butter or oil; once baked it is golden brown and crisp on the outside, and soft inside, fresh from the herbs, and rich and salty from the cheese. Filo is forgiving and easy to handle, the butter-brushing smoothing the filo into your pie dish, as well as bringing colour and flavour.

In Tokyo the 32nd Olympic games are well underway and unless you’re trying for a medal chances are you’re watching from home. Not to worry though, as London is full of ways to get a taste of Japan while travel restrictions remain in place. Here are some of the best places to eat and drink like you’re in Tokyo this summer. Sakaya at Pantechnicon, Belgravia Now up and running after lockdown delays, the ambitious Pantechnicon development offers Japanese and Nordic dining across multiple stories. Sakaya bar and bottle shop, occupies a little corner on the ground floor. The four-seater venue is inspired by Japanese Izakaya – traditional drinking spots that range in size from something like a pub to tiny counters folded into alleyways and subway stations.

I have an ambivalent attitude to sushi. It has become, on the one hand, one of the favoured foods of the joyless ‘clean eating’ and perpetually-dieting brigade. On the other, sushi is as delicious as it is healthy; filling but not heavy; dainty but not pretentious. No need to feel abashed then about being a sushi fan: just get your tips from an itamae (sushi chef) rather than Gwyneth Paltrow. Making sushi at home makes a lot of sense. A sushi dinner for the family is suddenly a more affordable proposition, and it is surprisingly easy. It is also one of those foods that is essentially the same effort whether you’re serving one person or a dozen: perfect party food then, if you’re getting together with friends to watch the latest Olympics action from Tokyo.

I don’t know about you, but my brain has felt like soup for the last week. If I were to see you in real life, I would probably say to you ‘My brain feels like soup; does yours?’ and then ten minutes later I’d ask the same question, because my brain is soup and I am incapable of normal human behaviour. I am, it turns out, not made for heat. Or at least, not made for it in a context where I’m required to work and commute and make decisions and reply sensibly to emails, rather than lie in the shade on a sun lounger reading a trashy book until it’s time to go out for dinner and cocktails. In England we are simply not made for such scorching temperatures.

We have all become rather used to socialising outside. Thanks to the pandemic, for perhaps the first time in our national history, al fresco dining has become the norm well outside of the summer months. We shivered under wraps for the last nine months only to finally be allowed to socialise indoors once more just at the moment when we’re all keen to light up the barbecue and enjoy the warmth outdoors. Nothing compares to the pleasure of a lunch or dinner en plein air in the summer months. It sharpens the appetite and provides happy opportunities for people or garden watching when the conversation bores. Sometimes you can even get away with taking off your shoes. The appeal lies above all in its novelty.

In one sense, a madeleine is simply a small cake. In fact, it’s an extremely classic cake, made with the genoise method. But there’s more to a madeleine than that: the proportions of madeleines, their miniature nature and scalloped shape, mean that they have a perfect contrast between their slightly sticky, almost crisp outside, and impossibly light and soft interior. Traditionally they are made with browned butter, which does what browned butter does best, bringing depth and complexity to a straightforward sponge. The dark muscovado and honey in the recipe elevate these little sponges from a miniature cake into something really special. The holy grail when madeleine making are those characteristic bumps in the centre of the cake, sitting like pregnant tummies.