Amicable Alimentations: Sticky Toffee Pudding & Friendships that Stick

The steamed pudding.

Amicable Alimentations: A series of posts with no predictable order or timing dedicated to a delicious food and the friend who most reminds me of it or inspired me to love it.  Here's the link to post number one, number two, number three, number four and this is post number five in the series.

*  *  *

When you're facing life as an ex-pat, the natural tendency is to compare.  To compare the familiar, the presumed-correct, the "normal," with the unfamiliar or odd or inconvenient.  Living in the UK was baptism by fire in this regard, especially because it is deceptively convenient in the sense that the language is ostensibly the same (it's really not) and the outlook, that of "first world" or "ally" or whatever other politically and culturally-charged label has been hoisted on the UK from the other side of the Atlantic, similar (it's really not).

I'm an open-minded person, one who doesn't mind certain inconveniences if the pay-out is charm or beauty or leisure, or even education.  But I'm also highly intolerant of inefficiency, laziness, and lack of perspective.  Not a whole lot of things I saw and learned in the UK really stuck with me in the end, but many of my experiences and friendships did. 

Another thing that did stick - almost inevitably, as it was a rather sticky thing - was a love of steamed puddings, and Sticky Toffee Pudding in particular.  Steamed Puddings.  Yep - that sounds kinda gross to an American audience, doesn't it?  It makes me laugh.  The first time I heard of Suet Pudding I kind of gagged a little bit.  Beef fat pudding?  Literally, steamed lard pudding?  "What could be more disgusting?" said my inner-food-snob, dismissively.  I was wrong, of course.  It's delectable, especially in its' savory iteration.  And while I am indeed a professed lover of savory things, I must also admit that it was a sweet steamed pudding that fully won me over to steamed puddings in the end.  Well, that and the colorfully named "Spotted Dick" dessert which, however displeasing an image it may conjure - runny, creamy custard oozing all over its' brown spotted glory - is strangely delicious.  But we'll return to Spotted Dick in a moment.

I think I first had Sticky Toffee Pudding one very rainy June - our first in London, only weeks before our basement flat on Warwick Road was violently thrashed by an unexpected flood, at a restaurant in Kensington called Ffiona's.  My dear friend Sandra, whom I always think of as my "New York friend" (because really she was literally the only person outside my co-workers I hung out with in Manhattan), and her husband Jed had made the trek across the proverbial pond to visit us in the UK during what we erroneously called a "short relocation period" to Europe before heading back to New York. (We never returned to New York, of course, and we ended up staying in London for almost 4 years, but never mind the commonplace oddities of foiled life-plans.)
 

Ffiona's Charming Exterior on Kensington Church Street
Image Credit

I'd long-before noticed Ffiona's as it fell along the pleasant bus trip from Earl's Court to Notting Hill which we often made on the weekends.  It was located on a particularly picturesque and winding road through central London called Kensington Church Street, not far from an even more picturesque church where there was the most enticingly beautiful flower stand I'd ever seen and never went to.  That's a regret.  Anyway, it was tucked away in a small series of stone buildings and had a quirky sign.  It was one of hundreds of restaurants I'd pointed out to Matt and said "We should go there!" and never did.  Such is life in London - so many things to spend one's money on, and so little money to do it with!  And, yet, in this case - we did go to Ffiona's, and all because of something else rather sticky and wonderful - my friendship with Sandra.

You know, it's not often one finds a life-long friend, but I did when I met Sandra.  And despite only having lived in the same place as friends for a little over a year, we've shared some awesome experiences together, and, most of all, continue to.  From tapas' nights cooked in tiny Manhattan kitchens to Grey's Anatomy Marathons to drooling over Bacon Naan at Tabla to Greek feasts in her first home.  From karaoke in a sleazy French quarter bar to near-fisty-cuffs outside a fancy restaurant in Nola.  From my pregnancy with Roman to watching her adopt her beautiful twins to now sharing Alexander's adoption, our lives have been, it feels, somehow divinely intertwined.  I'm happy to be able to look back and say that.

The Cozy Interior.
Image Credit

But back to the pudding.  As luck would have it, Sandra's husband's parents had lived in London too.  They'd lived less than a mile from our flat in Earl's Court, in a beautiful mew (Adam & Eve Mew, if I recall correctly) on the much nicer, less dodgy end of Kensington Borough.  They'd recommended Ffiona's to us and were good friends with the namesake owner of the joint.  We went and had a lovely dinner there - mostly due to ambiance and company, I must say - which ended with Ffiona's "infamous" sticky toffee pudding.  It wasn't the best STP I've had since, but it was good enough to be memorable and make me want more.  Also on that trip, as Sandra recently reminded me, we made a feeble but valorous attempt at making Spotted Dick (because, again, who can an opportunity to continue making fun of that name?) in our damnable but somewhat-charming basement flat on Warwick Rd., which, quite frankly, was falling apart long before the July flood of 2007.  In the midst of checking on the pudding, our oven door literally fell off very nearly smashing onto my feet at 400 degrees.  It was, as Sandra put it, a little bit scary at the time, but pretty hilarious afterwards.  Moments like that, with good friends and in memorable places, make foods come to life.

And so I dedicate this post to Sandra and our many memories, food and not, one of which has left the legacy of Sticky Toffee Pudding in my life.  Sandrett will be coming to visit me and meet Alexander in a week's time, and I can't wait to have another delicious adventure with her here - including making some STP again.  Hopefully the oven door won't fall off this time, but even if it does, we'll laugh just as hard.

*  *  *

English Sticky Toffee Pudding

Serves 8-10

I made this version of Sticky Toffee Pudding, the recipe for which I found on David Lebovtz's wonderful blog, and which is a derivatory version itself, being a variation on Mani Niall's version in the book Sweet!  I have to say, I deviated slightly on the tofee recipe as I, sadly, didn't have Lyle's Golden Syrup or Molasses.  And, also, I prefer to use a few more dates in mine (because I love dates).  This recipe has always been a winner for me - I think I made a toffee addict out of my brother-in-law Jim, for one thing - but I made it again a few weeks back and it worked a treat on the chill from a Mile-High Winter's day.  Best served warm. 

Cheers!

David Lebovitz's Sticky Toffee Pudding Recipe

Invoking Spring: Barrafina's Chorizo & Watercress Sandwich

Barrafina-inspired Chorizo Sandiwch with Watercress salad

Sometimes in the Spring, ever-so-fleetingly, I get nostalgic for London.  This year that was the case last week when I re-experienced the frustration of it being too cold to wear anything but a sweater in the middle of April.  It's just not right.  And it's just what I experienced every single spring in Londontown.  Even now, I shake my head at my British / UK-residing friends' facebook statuses about how they're almost convinced the sun will never shine again, that the weather will never warm up.  I shake my head in dismay, but also in solidarity.  I know their pain.

So this post is about invoking Spring in an otherwise un-spring-y circumstance.

I remember the first time I heard about the then-new Barrafina restaurant in London's west end back in February of 2007.  My hellacious boss (who I'll refer to as " Luca Delcattivo" here for the sake of anonymity) had taken a client to lunch there one day and came back to our offices raving about it.  Tapas.  New, delicious, refined Spanish tapas in London like none he'd ever had outside Spain.  I drooled at his brief but poignant descriptions.  Shortly thereafter, in March or April, Matt and I went there and we were so blown away that we insisted on taking most of our guests there too when they came to visit.  And a couple of Marches and Aprils later, they were all blown away too.  It's such a nice place to eat, but best in the Spring, when the window-walls fly open and you're left to enjoy the ambiance of Soho, crowds toasting glasses of wine as they wait patiently outside the door, wafts of gambas and garlic filling the air.

*  *  *

Top Things that Invoke that Springtime Spirit 

at Barrafina

watercress in a snowy garden

1. A Glass of Cava
 Maybe it's the stark, modern decor or the white-marble countertops, but, to me a glass of bright, bubbly Cava is the best-fitting drink to start your meal at Barrafina.  There is always a queue so forget the fantasies of walking in to a lovely white-linen-lined table and eating a leisurely meal.  Tables don't exist either (except for a few impossibly-small ones on the sidewalk outside if my memory serves).  You get there, you get a drink, and you stand outside with the rest of the world on the street, drinking, toasting, and feeling bubbly.  The cava brings the sunshine to you.

2. The Ooey-Gooey Tortilla Española (with shrimp)
The Spanish Tortilla is a thing of beauty.  Eggs and potato combined into round sublimity.  At Barrafina they cook individual-sized tortillas in tiny cast-iron pans, finishing them under the broiler so that the outside is set but the inside is an ooey-gooey, runny, eggy mess.  A revelation. Completely, absolutely, delicious.  They offer many different variations - often using seasonal ingredients (perfect for a time like Spring).  We especially enjoyed the one with shrimp.

3. The Pan con Tomate
Dreams of sun-ripened tomatoes haunt me at this time of year.  If you've never tried this uber-simple Spanish-staple, you must.  You will never look at a tomato and piece of bread the same way again. 

4. The Seafood
Nothing screams warm-weather and better-days more to me than a well-cooked piece of seafood.  Barrafina excels at taking fresh fish and highlighting its best aspects.  Get the octopus, the clams, the razor clams - or any of the fish.  They are all cooked simply and perfectly.

5. The Cheery Ambiance
The seating in Barrafina and the fact that you can't make reservations will either make or break the experience for you.  It's hard to sit at a long bar when you're with more than one person.  You are always seated next to a stranger.  There is no privacy because the cooks, the bar staff and chef are all running around in front of you, making food, drinks, taking plates and glasses, offering another round of painfully expensive Jamon Iberico which you will not be able to resist after a certain number of alcoholic libations.  But that's ok.  You'll feel shocked the next day when you remember the total cost of the meal, and marvel at how, truly, you're probably still hungry after having had 6 plates between the two of you.  But that's ok.  Sometimes its worth it just for the ambiance and for a couple of truly amazing bites of food.

*  *  *

Last week I decided to invoke the spirit of Barrafina by making what was one of our favorite dishes there (though we admittedly loved them all): Chorizo and Watercress sandwiches.  I'm not sure whether they still serve the chorizo sandwiches or not as it has been about four years since we've been there but judging by the reviews on Urbanspoon, whatever they are serving is still as good or better than what we had several years ago.  We loved the sandwich both because of its simplicity and its seamless fusing of Spanish and British cuisine: the Spanish chorizo and bread together with a quintessentially English crop - peppery watercress.

Bolillo and Chorizo

The chorizo I used is Mexican (I like it hot, what can I say?), and I simply formed small sausages from loose chorizo, grilled them, and paired them with a lightly toasted (grilled) Mexican bolillo.  I then placed a small helping of a watercress salad dressed simply with lemon juice, fresh garlic, salt and pepper on top.

Spring in sandwich-form. :)

A Time to Cheese.

Alluring cheeses at Borough Market, London 2010

In life there are times to cook, and then there are times to cheese.

Some days you just can't bring yourself to whip even the simplest of dinners up, and, lucky for me, I live with two men who will happily sit down to a table of bread and cheese as a complete meal.  Confession: I can't say I'm entirely with them.  I need something to go with the bread and cheese (prosciutto? olives? avocado? homemade jam? Membrillo!), but maybe that's the Mexican in me coming out.  My ancestral tendency to leave the cheese to the Europeans can't be entirely escaped.  (Translation: I'd still rather have some huevos rancheros.)  But despite all that, I do have to agree with my 3 year-old, there are most definitely days when you just have to cheese.

I remember well the feeling I had as the cheese cart was wheeled over to us at Daniel in NYC back in 2006.  (Brenda's inner-monologue: "A cheese course?! Amazing. OMG - what the hell do I choose?!")  It was the same feeling I used to get when I'd timidly walk to the cheese counter in Agata & Valentina and then run off pretending I didn't want cheese anyway.  Or how I felt going into the infamous Murray's Cheese with my chef brother-in-law for the first time.

Overwhelmed.

Slightly scared to ask questions.  Worried I'd pick the wrong one and end up not eating it, or, worse yet, not pick anything at all.  Then worrying the monger / waiter would judge me based on what I did pick.  Dreading that with one wrong turn I might end up with a shoe-box apartment that was not only stiflingly small, but also smelled like stinky feet.

A good meal.
Image credit: Marcus Ciardiello

  It has taken a couple of years (about seven, actually) for me to feel somewhat comfortable going to a cheese monger.  I didn't grow up eating a lot of cheese - outside of Oaxaca and Queso Fresco, of course.  As a remedy, it helped to live in London for almost four years.  There, cheese - good cheese - is available at even the worst supermarkets (well, not at the rather unfortunate Iceland, but you get the idea).  I dove head first into deliciously crumbly, aged Cheddars.  Dabbled in the world of wonderfully fruity Wensleydales.  And occasionally even tried a Stilton or two - ever-eyeing the Potted Stiltons at Fortnum & Mason - though I've, admittedly and somewhat shamefully, never been a huge fan of blue cheeses.

At some point in there, I also made a brief foray into the world of luxury food marketing and had the opportunity to visit Casa dei Giovani - and their cheese farm (a side business to their charity-fueled olive oil) where I took home a small wheel of handmade Pecorino plucked from the aging barn where the sheep themselves were tended to.  I carried it home to England, gently tucked in between my clothes on my carry-on.  I never looked at cheese the same way again.

These days, I am decidedly more adventurous in my cheesing.  I don't buy imitation Parmiggiano - Matt and Roman are far-too addicted to the real-thing to ever go back.  And I am lucky to, even in Denver, have grocers near me that carry wonderful, wonderful cheeses from both local (US) and international makers. 

After tasting many, many cheeses I feel it's truly an art and something that takes time to appreciate.  Each is different, unique and worth getting to know.  I still have some I like better (goat) than others (sheep), but at least now I can eat cheese for cheese's sake - without having to drown it in Membrillo or cold cuts.

Here are some of my favorites lately - maybe next time you don't feel like cooking, grab a few, sit down, and enjoy one of life's acquired-yet-simple pleasures.  Go on, cheese it.

*  *  *

Brenda's Top Five Favorite Cheeses

Lately, anyway, and in no particular order

Camembert, fruit, saucisson & olives: an old standby.
Image Credit: Marcus Ciardiello

 

 

1. Cypress Grove's Humboldt Fog, American, Goat's Milk
This is a cheese I discovered in Maine, though it's made in California.  I love the tangy goatness of it.  So delicious and creamy - kind of a crowd-pleaser, actually.  And yet somewhat more sophisticated than the average goat cheese because of the distinctive layer of vegetable ash running like a vein through the center.  I love that America is producing such great cheeses now - no longer have to only buy French, Swiss or Italian.

2. Gorgonzola Dolce, Italian, Cow's Milk
My local King Soopers Supermarket is a hidden gem of delicious and reasonably priced cheeses.  They have a bargain bin where all the pieces are under $5 - a deal for good cheese.  In one of those a couple of weeks back I found a great looking piece of Gorgonzola Dolce.  Being a professed blue-hater, I had no clue that this would be the cheese for me.  Developed specifically to be milder than regular gorgonzola, it packs a gentler, kinder punch.

3. Parmiggian Reggiano, Italian, Raw Cow's Milk
Does Parma make any bad food?!  This is a classic but it bears repeating: everything tastes better with a little Parmiggiano on it.  I've always cooked with it, but it's only been in the past few years that I've started eating it alone, serving it as part of my cheese plates, and letting Roman snack on it.  It's a strong flavor, but one that is complex and infinitely satisfying with its crumbly, yet substantial feel.  While I almost always buy the Italian original, it's worth noting that there are now some nice American counterparts (counterfeits? :)) from, of course, Wisconsin.

Personal goal: to one day have a whole wheel in my house for the holidays, and finish it. :)

4. Taleggio, Italian, Cow's Milk
What a stinker this cheese is!  But it's creamy and receives the honor of being classified as "truly delish" by yours truly.  I have to admit that I especially like when it's really aged and becomes runny.  I don't like keeping it in the fridge for long because it really does make it awkward when you have visitors who don't like / know much about stinky cheese and its surprisingly large stink-span.  I also think it's cool that this type of cheese (washed-rind, smear-ripened) has been around since the Roman times.  Cicero cheese, anyone?

5. Saint-André
This cheese is almost too much.  Triple-cream?  Seriously?  
Predictably, it's one of Matt's favorites - a self-professed cream-freak and lover of cow's milk cheeses.  And after having it several times, I've also come around to loving it.  I especially love the white, fluffly, billowy little mold skin that covers the outside of the cheese.  If left to properly come to temp, this cheese is the closest thing you'll find to eating really, really sophisticated cheese-flavored-butter.  Ok, something about that almost grosses me out.  I can't eat much when we do have it (not that Matt minds), but I do love having an indulgent slice or two.

Forgettable Shrove Tuesday; Memorable Baked Pancakes.

In all its Shriven Glory.

 I always forget about Shrove Tuesday.  How could I not when it is so obviously overshadowed by the infinitely more exciting Mardi Gras and Carnival?  Who wouldn't prefer gorging on Cajun food or dancing in Rio to being "shriven?"  Even with Papa Ratzi resigning in a somewhat foreboding reminder of of the Lenten season being upon us, I can't help but want to celebrate, pull out the marks, have a last hurrah of sorts.

I also forget Shrove Tuesday because, as a more somber holy day, I tend to associate it with my time in England.  In England it's known as Pancake Day (see my brief classicized homage here) - a time to use up the larder's contents before the fasting of Lent.  "What better way than to make pancakes (or, technically, crepes in the case of Britain)?" said nobody, ever. :) 

Well, they're not gumbo, that's for sure (And I even had my act together and put a batch of my wonderful gumbo in the freezer for the occasion!).  And did I mention I even bought Roman a Mardi Gras mask!?  But the other day I received the random newsletter I still get from the lovely deli / gourmet food store I used to frequent in my London Days: Melrose & Morgan.  And in it was contained a recipe for something I'd never really tried before (gasp!): baked pancakes.


My curiosity was sufficiently stirred.  And since Matt is in Florida for most of the week (back in time to make me Valentine's Dinner though :)), I figured we'd go with pancakes for dinner tonight.  Roman was thrilled.  As was I - with the result, that is.

It's fitting that a British deli should post this recipe - the result is like a flatter, eggier, more crepe-y Yorkshire Pudding.  I loved it.  I'd recommend making more than one as Roman and I greedily split one together and I could easily have had more.  But then I'm a bit of a piggy.

This recipe comes from David Eyre and was published in the infamous Essential New York Times Cookbook from back in 1966.  Can't wait to get my hands on the 2011 reprint.
The recipe is currently featured on the Melrose & Morgan webpage, but I'll copy it below as I'm certain it will be gone soon enough as we move onto other exciting, seasonal goodies.

*  *  *

David Eyre's Baked Pancakes

Makes 1 large pancake (crepe) to share

I'd make more if I were you. :)

You'll note that the ingredients are also listed in grams and milliliters, as is the British custom.  I would take this moment to recommend that you use this as an opportunity to go out and buy a cheap but accurate kitchen scale.  Weighing ingredients in baking and pastry is something that should not be undervalued.  Significantly more accurate, therefore guaranteeing consistency over time.  Just my two cents. :)

Ingredients
80g (a little less than 1/2 cup) Plain flour
120ml (1/2 cup) of milk
2 eggs, lightly beaten
Freshly grated nutmeg (optional, but do it)
Pinch of salt
30g (2Tbsps) butter

For serving:
2 Tbsp icing sugar
Juice of half a lemon


Method

Preheat your oven to 425F (220C).

Mix all ingredients except butter, icing sugar and lemon juice in a bowl.  Do not over-mix.

Melt the butter in a 12-inch (or 10-inch, in a real pinch) pan.

Once melted, pour the batter and place in the oven for exactly 10-12 minutes (or until the edges are golden).

DO NOT OPEN THE OVEN until the time is up!


Sprinkle with icing sugar and lemon juice.  Serve warm with jam or maple syrup.

Yum.  I feel shriven. :)

Malta: My Own Personal Benidorm

My Beloved Kinnie:
Bittersweetness in a sad, disgusting world of Maltese Benidorminess.

I'm not going to lie - I've seriously been avoiding posting my thoughts on our trip to Malta last October. Not that we had a bad time, but, well, the food was just terrible and to me that kind of taints the whole experience. Yes, I do realize it's been like 5 months, but it's such a dreary day outside, and if nothing else, we had great weather in Malta, so here's to the memory of that!

* * *

Have you ever seen the show "Benidorm?" If you haven't, you're not missing much. Well, ok, you are. because it's a comedic show that exploits the natural hilarity and inherent grotesque quality that is the reality of the used-to-be-quaint-village turned skyscraper-hotel-package-holiday-hell in the south of Spain called Benidorm.

Benidorm (the show) cleverly draws out and makes fun of the stereotypical (can't emphasize that word enough here!), working-class, Northern-European (read: British) tourist. It points out their quirks, annoying habits, and inevitably-familiar preferences. To them a vacation is an all-inclusive package of nothing but British food (English breakfast every morning!), bad cabaret shows put on by dolled-up locals who treat the tourists like the idiots they are, and days spent sunning (burning?) at the pool, critiquing the other "stupider" tourists and / or conspicuously flirting / making out by said poolside.

It hurts a little bit to watch shows like this because probably every single one of us either knows someone like the characters or has to admit to wanting their "eggs and bacon" breakfast everywhere they go. But it is hilarious because, in the end - whether it touches something personal or not - we all know exactly what they're talking about, and can laugh our haughty that-will-never-be-me-laugh from the comfort of our (my British) living rooms.

The Family: single-mother-daughter with token-interracial-baby, annoying brother, overweight dad, clueless mom. Mel & Madge, the feisty grandmother with the saggy-perma-tan and her (not-so) beau.

I did say grotesque.

But returning to the point of this post, I'm still not quite sure how Matt and I ended up in the real-life Maltese version of Benidorm in early October, but we did.

We were at a really nice hotel in the off-season in what was advertised as a "quaint village" north of Valletta in Malta. Numerous people on Trip Advisor had specifically commented on how great the buffet breakfast was --

* Small Note on Buffet Breakfasts *

I do not hold my nose up at buffet breakfasts. I am a fan of the buffet concept as a general rule, as long as it is done well. For example, the hotel we stayed at in Thailand had a buffet breakfast that rivaled many a la carte restaurants I've been to. Grilled fish, fresh tropical fruits, complimentary champagne...on the other hand, I've had my fair share of crappy Chinese buffets and so I do know the dangers that can and often do lurk beneath the stainless steal lids...

* end small note on Buffet Breakfasts*

-- and frankly, I was looking forward to my all-included gluttonous morning feastivities. The hotel had three pools (a must with the Master in tow), was in walking-distance from the beach, and offered easy access to both Valletta and Gozo. Great? Not so great.

* * *

My Top 5 Stories, Thoughts, Musings on the Maltese Experience
or, why Mellieha is Benidorm

5. Guido the Cab Driver
As is often the case, our first introduction to Malta came via our cab driver from the airport. Unlike in Brussels, the guy we got was about as close to the stereotypical idea of a sleaze-bucket-douche-bag as one man can get. His name was Guido (I won't get into the ironically appropriate implications there) and he knew everything there was to know on any subject worth knowing - and better than anybody else (especially women).

We weren't paying him to drive us, he was doing us a favor. He escorted us to the car by clicking his mouth to signal he was ready to go after leaving us to wait (me, seething) for five minutes while he chatted in Maltese with a fellow cabby, all the while lifting his shirt half-way to rub his nasty middle-aged belly, the way sleaze-buckets are wont to do. (This was at 2 in the morning, mind you.) He would only address Matt ("stupid women don't understand") and he claimed to speak four languages and assumed we only spoke one ("stupid Americans don't understand") even after we'd told him several times that wasn't the case (still seething).

He gave Matt a lecture on driving on the left-side of the road (even though he has done it pretty consistently for the three years we've lived in the UK, which we mentioned to Guido), told us to check "on top of [our] heads" whenever we park somewhere to see if there is a no-parking sign, told me that all women are after men's money and possessions and that's why he'd never married (apologizing the whole time for saying so but that it was true, "so, sorry") and was back in Malta living with his mother (silent internal screaming fit in Brenda's head start NOW.).

When we asked if there were any good restaurants in Mellieha (his hometown apparently), he patronizingly said, "well, none of them are bad - you'll get food no problem. It's not tough - just check the menu to see what they have and how much it costs before you go in or you might end up somewhere you don't want to be."

Thank you Guido. Seeing as the stupid American woman has never been to a restaurant, other country, or outside of the kitchen (where she permanently resides, barefoot and sometimes pregnant, scheming for her husband's money and possessions) frankly, it is a good thing we got you as our cabby.

Once we'd arrived, he then proceeded to say he didn't have change (in order to "con" the stupid American man out of an extra large tip) but quickly changed his tune when Matt said he had no problem waiting for him to go into the hotel lobby to get change from the concierge. Bastard Guido. At least now we knew where we stood as American tourists.


4. The Food Dilemma
The buffet breakfast was up to snuff...if you're a character in Benidorm. It consisted of a continental breakfast (not my bag) and a British breakfast, complete with badly cooked sausages, soggy bacon, baked beans, and copious amounts of ketchup and brown sauce available. In fact, probably the best things they had were the fresh rye bread loafs (which I could only snag on the days we were early) and the fried eggs (and even those were sometimes really bad). Oh and the little foil-wrapped cheese wedges you get at all European hotels. I'm a fan of those.

Thinking breakfast was an anomaly, we decided to try out the hotel's really well furnished pizzeria downstairs. It offered really basic fair that it would take a decidedly, determinedly bad chef to mess up: pizza, spaghetti, salads. Guess what, they had a decidedly - triumphantly, even! - bad chef.

The experience at every other place we ate was the same. The menu looked good, the place looked good, the food was horrendous, even their "typical Maltese dishes" which were generally "rabbit in a white wine sauce" (oh it sounds good, but oh it isn't!) or some horrific variance thereof.

To put it in black and white for you: Matt and I ended up eating at the local Chinese Restaurant 3 out of 5 nights we were there. Desperate times call for desperate measures (and fried ice cream).


3. Another Douche Bag and his Famiglia
When you're at a medium-sized hotel it's inevitable to run into other guests on a repeated basis. I actually find that charming about certain travel experiences - getting to know others on a basic, acquaintance level, so that you have someone to nod or smile to every morning at breakfast, at the pool, or even a new friend. Sadly, the only people (besides several German, senior citizen couples) this happened to us with was a douchey Italian power-couple and their catamite (as Matt shamelessly dubbed him) son.

I wish with every fiber in my being that I had mustered up the courage to take a picture of these people. You probably won't believe me when I describe them. Then again, if you've ever been to an Italian city or beach you are likely to have run into them or one of their many followers: Hands flying, chins jutting out and shoulders raising, they walk and talk as if they were being followed by an entourage of paparazzi at all times. After all, they are too cool with their curly hair stiff with too much product, a generous whiff of spray-on deodorant, skin-tight clothing and permanent sunglasses - at breakfast, lunch, dinner, while swimming, while coffeeing, day or night, inside or outside. Oh, and they all seem to possess an unshakable conviction that they can convince anyone of anything anywhere (I like to call this the "veni, vidi, vici complex"), just because they deserve to get their way.

Matt, Roman and I were lucky enough to see them everywhere every single day of our vacation. We breakfasted at the same times, swam at the same times (their 6 year old, for the record, swam entirely naked in the pool and I am compelled to comment here that I really think that age is a little past the cutoff where kids are "cute" when naked in public places), asked questions (well, demanded things) at reception at the same time, we arrived the same day and left the same day, and we even decided to take a day trip to Gozo and eat and play at the same beach the same day. It was funny in a "why the hell is this happening to us?" kind of way.


2. Gozo & Jeffrey's Restaurant
Gozo: If you don't plan to go(zo) there, you better not go(zo) to Malta. :) Ok, enough with the cheesy gozo jokes, and enough with the exaggeration: there were other nice places in Malta. Valletta was very pretty, actually, and has lots of amazing history. But Gozo is stunning. Stunn-ing. And if we hadn't gone there, I probably would have left Malta feeling really cheated because my favorite place we'd have gone would have been the indoor pool at our hotel. (Enough with the exaggeration, Brenda!)

But of course there was a catch: Jeffrey's Restaurant almost ruined Gozo for me.

We spent the day lounging on beaches, seeing Calypso's disappointingly small cave, and driving through beautiful little villages. The island itself is the picture of rusticity and untouched beauty with only one small "town" on the harbor for the large ferries that are constantly coming and going, and even that is very pretty. The most amazing thing we saw while there was what is sold to tourists as the "azure window." It is a rock formation that dramatically juts out onto the ocean on the wilder side of Gozo and one of the most beautifully wondrous places to see a sunset. Being there on the off-season, it was only lightly sprinkled with other sunset seekers. But it is awkward climbing on spiky eroded rock, and the light goes quickly, so if you do go, make sure you're not carrying a baby, or bring a flashlight. Or both. :)

After a small transcendentalist moment at the azure window, we, famished, headed out to find a restaurant that was open nearly 9pm, which in Gozo is much harder than one would imagine. Given that there are literally probably under 5 ATMs for the entire island, Matt and I jumped at the first half-decent place we saw that wasn't fast food and ended up at Jeffrey's Restaurant.
So quaint, so cute, and so jam-packed full of happy looking people, I sighed a great relief when Roman fell asleep and the women gave me a table despite not having a reservation (several people came through the door and were turned away after us). How could we go wrong? The menu was full of local dishes as well as international cuisine and had some decent sounding seafood. Matt and I felt happy to have finally found Malta's culinary redemption in an off-the-beaten-path little family joint such as this.

But then we got our food. Seafood soup - more unopened mussels and clams than open ones. Shady fish, and crappy broth. I ordered a filet mignon steak (mistake 1), then asked for it medium (mistake 2). What I got was something approximating leather in the form of a salisbury steak - so dry and old I almost threw up the moment I tasted it. Then Matt thought I was exaggerating (mistake 3) so he tasted it (mistake 4) and also almost threw up. I tried to compose myself as I gagged into my napkin and realized the maitre d' / owner had seen the whole thing. He brought the chef over who insisted on giving me a new steak. ONLY in order not to make a scene did I accept the second steak which was slightly less old but equally disgusting. I couldn't eat more than 2 bites. We paid and left as soon as we finished the "on the house" dessert we got to compensate us for the rotten 40Euro steak they had given us, TWICE.

Ah, we had a good time anyway. But if you like food and depend on it as a big part of your vacations - take it from us, don't go to Malta.


1. How Kinnie Saved the Trip
One out of two of the only truly and uniquely Maltese things that I found redeeming about this trip was, amazingly, a soda.

I don't drink much soda and therefore I'd never heard of Kinnie until this trip to Malta. I've still never seen it sold here in the UK, and think it would probably be hard to find almost anywhere. But I dream about it - oh how I dream about it.

Kinnie is like coca-cola with a few drops of orange bitters thrown in. It's like a grown-up version of a soft drink minus the alcohol. A campari and soda with the sweetness of pop. It's tasty, refreshing and comes in an awesome orange can reminiscent of the only other uniquely Maltese thing I found redeeming of Malta: its really cool retro orangey-yellow public buses.

GO KINNIE! At the end of the day, I took refuge in you, knowing that I would one day get back to my own kitchen again and eat normal food, but just a little bit the sadder also knowing that you would not be there to share it with me!

* * *

Some fun Maltese Moments


Roman at Ramla Beach;
still young (and cute) enough to go naked at the beach.


Fried Ice Cream at the local Chinese in Mellieha


The Azure Window: worth the trip to Gozo.


Maltese Public Buses - super retro, super cool.


So happy to be here.

British "Local Color" At Its Best: Lahore Kebab House

Absurdity Disclaimer: This is a mammoth post with an absurd amount of pictures. Don't hate me. I have to put my pregnant energy into SOMETHING.

Ludovictus Watch: T-minus 5 days (or 2 wks +5 days) and counting.

* * *

Good old Umberston Street.

The first (blessed) time Matt every mentioned Lahore Kebab House to me was a little over a year ago. He had gone there for a business lunch with his coworkers and couldn't stop raving about a little "BYOB hole in the wall Pakistani restaurant" with the most "electric food" he'd ever tasted, located in The City of London.

Our table after our ravenous endeavors.

Both being fans of a "good curry," as the British call it, we swore to make a personal pilgrimage to Lahore. After all, the place came recommended by Matt's boss, who, part Pakistani, knows his stuff. He has since then taken Matt and the guys to several more "hole in the wall" Indian / Pakistani joints around London, but Matt maintains this is the absolute best.

Bubbling cauldrons of deliciousness in the Lahore kitchen.

We finally made it over for the first time last October when my mom was visiting, before heading to The Tower of London for a historic witnessing of The Ceremony of the Keys. Mesmerized, we swore to go back again. And this weekend, we finally did.

* * *

Lahore Kebab House: Enough Said.

go there; go back; have the lamb chops.

Freshly made poppadum in the Lahore kitchen.

A Little British "Local Color"
This Saturday, 39 weeks and 1 day pregnant, we figured it was about time we headed over to see if the old wives tale about spicy food inducing labor really rang true. Good husband that he is, Matt rented a Streetcar for a couple of hours, and took me on a luxurious car ride down my favorite road in London (particularly beautiful at this time of year): Embankment. I can't tell you the aesthetic and primal thrill it is to fly down this road on my little red vespa in the Springtime!

It follows the River Thames all the way from West London to The City and passes everything from the Battersea Power Station to Westminster (read: Parliament & the somewhat freaky past leader statues in front of it) to the many and infamous London bridges.

Tubby Isaacs - Jellied Eels & Seafood; they cater, FYI.

Along the way we also passed a typically British thing worth mentioning: Tubby Isaac's - a jellied eel and seafood stand (established in 1919) famous for its uniquely East-end snacks. Not my cup of tea, but definitely a piece of "local color."

We also got a glimpse of the RBS building and its broken windows. Don't you just LOVE the mob mentality? Right, moving on...

Parking was a challenge at first but we ended up finding a cosy spot deep within a local, predominantly-Muslim neighborhood, where we found further examples of typical modern British culture:

Yes, that is a lovely black Lamborghini parked outside council housing.

Yes, that is a beautiful, locally painted mural dedicated to Allah.
Incidentally, we are right off "Christian Street."

Our Meal: The Real Deal
Coming recommended from a business man, one might expect a glammy-glitzy-high-end Cinnamon-Club-esque place (don't get me wrong - I'm a big fan of the CC), but Lahore couldn't be further from it. Cheap and cheerful, the restaurant is basic but very clean and efficient. Nothing is overstated, though the tables offer ample elbow room, the portions are generous and the waitstaff plentiful. The place was created as a blank but highly utilitarian canvas on which to showcase their artistic speciality: simple, authentic and delicious Pakistani food.

First stop as seasoned veterans of the Lahore experience: the local bodega to buy Matt some Cobra beer. Being a Muslim establishment, Lahore does not sell pork or alcohol, but they do allow you to BYOB. We indulged, as is our wont.

Prerequisite Cobra in hand, we were taken to our table where I was allowed to indulge in my great love of menu-browsing and ceremonious ordering, but not before taking a gander at their amazing open-kitchen behind the giant window-wall. One of the chefs even stopped to let me take a picture of the gigantic pile of poppadums he was carrying (very nice of him :) ).


Starters:
Even before you order, your table is automatically brought a giant bottle of water (to quell the anticipated fire, I would guess), some mint-yogurt chutney, and a big plate of sliced lettuce, tomato, and cucumber to nibble on till the games begin. I also got a mango lassi - my favorite.

Next, the much-loved, much-lauded Grilled Lamb Chops. I don't know how else to describe these besides saying they are spicy pieces of tender Lamb heaven. You cannot go to Lahore and not try them. They are grilled with an orange-colored, spicy Pakistani spice rub and sprinkled with cilantro.

Get the lamb chops or you will have never really lived.

Main Courses:
To help with some of the spice, we got one order each of handmade Chili Naan and Garlic Naan, straight off the cool charcoal oven.

Chili Naan! Real pieces of Jalapeno scattered about...score.

Still-warm Garlic Naan; copious amounts of Garlic abound.

We also got our favorite vegetarian course: Saag Paneer.

Yummy homemade cheese with delicious spinach and spices.

For the carnivores inside, I ordered Karahi Chicken and, a Pakistani / Indian prerequisite: rice for two.

Karahi Chicken, Lahore style.

Upon first inspection, the dishes look like your usual curry fare, but it is the uniquely Pakistani and freshly ground spice combinations that give these dishes the Lahore "touch" that I have not found replicated elsewhere.

This was all more than enough for two big eaters. Everything was brought quickly, hot, and delicious in typical metal curry dishes and was obviously made freshly. Highly recommended all around.


Pudding (as the Brits would say):

My box of goodies.

Matt and I made a familiar pact that, even after indulging in our incredible Pakistani feast, we would save just a little shred of room in our bellies to attack the alluring Bangladeshi sweet-shop we had passed on our way to Umberston Street.

Temptation in the form of Gulab Jam? Check.

This is where we got Gulab Jam and many other little tasty sweeties. The shop keeper pegged us for American tourists (and told us as much); he seemed annoyed when we told him we actually lived in London. I think he was hoping to get us to buy a kilo of sugary goodness instead of the 6 pieces we settled on. Oh well! As Matt so aptly noted: walking around looking like gringos will do that for you!

What a way to end an already culinarily and culturally delicious afternoon!

* * *

Lahore Kebab House
2-10 Umberston Street
London E1 1PY

Tel: 020 7481 9737
NB: Make reservations if you are going in the evening. It gets crowded and you want space to suck the bones dry! :)

My Favorite British Commercials - Part II

Happy 38 weeks! Officially two to four weeks away from the boy's big entrance and trying desperately not to go insane with the excitement and impatience of it all.

If I drop off the face of the earth (read: stop posting for an extended period of time), you know why. :)

* * *

As promised, here are my second five favorite British Commercials.

Today's five are slightly more random than yesterday's selection, mostly because most of them involve some kind of annoyance or bone-to-pick that I have with the way certain things are portrayed on British television. That said, life is too short to spend it on a soap-box, so I do have to admit that no matter how annoying or bizarre I find some of these commercials, in a twisted kind of way, I really do kind of enjoy watching them. :)

* * *

Brenda's Second Five Favorite British Commercials
again, in no particular order;
and yes, still my current poison of choice for killing perfectly good brain cells

1. The Nauseating "Sexy Drive" Peugeot Commercial
Is this what Americans sound like to British people? If so, I might consider faking an accent for a little while, because even I found myself nauseated by the way this guy talks. If you take a look at the comments on Youtube, apparently I am not the only one either. Oh, and the French Peugeot lips at the end...yeah, highly unnecessary.

This commercial does get bonus points because the sleazy American car salesman is pretty hot, but his hotness also definitely goes down on the scale because of the way he says "yadda yadda." "Noire" (with an extra syllable) and "Air Con" (which, incidentally, I've always found is more commonly called "AC" than "Air Con" in the US), serious-like, as if that's how we Americans have normal conversations. This Bucket-o-Sleaze is in serious overflow.

Oh and the smiotch doesn't get off either: who the hell says "fact me"?!?!?!




2. The Bizarre Absolute Radio Midget Commercial
How can I not love this commercial?

Midget? Check. Angry assertive midget? Check check! Random self-deprecating British person? Check. Unabashed midgety dancing? Yes my friends - check again.



Here's more of Doug dancing if you're a fan too; nothing but respect for all the LPs out there. :)


3. The "Thomas the Random Asian Suit-Wearing Surfer" Halifax Commercial
He can sing! He can dance! He's the bizarre little Asian man from the Halifax commercial!
Someone actually thought this would get Halifax more customers, right? I mean, that's the ONLY reason that this would actually make it past the "brainstorm" stage of the creative process in the Ad room, RIGHT?

Can't help but feel really sorry for the supposedly British, slightly effeminate, Asian guy wearing a suit that looks like it would fit a 10-year-old. If this commercial doesn't scream "stereotype" (a black surfer named "Brown?" Really!?), then I don't know what does. And yet, "Thomas from Leeds" was probably really psyched when he landed this part. I guess with all that crazy auditioning and the singing lessons he probably didn't realize that the Elvis-esque surfer party is NOT (contrary to British television's opinion) back.

Oh and for those of you not lucky enough to live here in the UK: the faux-hawk is, sadly, still alive and kicking.




4. The Ford Ka Commercial(s)
It was a real relief to me to find a car with a truly simple and fitting name. Not sure why, but Ford Ka just really appeals to me, and this first commercial of theirs seems to encapsulate simple, cool, and kinda hip. Don't you just love that song?

But it was the commercial below that really won me over to the Ford (Sport) Ka. Shout out to my sister, who I call Caaa - she's my younger, evil twin. :)



5. The Amp'd Busted Commercial
I don't know that this is even a British commercial, but it gets included anyway.

You'd think people would get sick of watching funny unassuming people singing music that appears out of character for them to like (think Michael Bolton on Office Space, or that fat kid who did the infamous "Numa Numa" Youtube video), but no. I still laugh pretty hard whenever I see this.





Today's Honorable Mentions:
Once again, a couple of noteworthy stragglers that I felt I should honor before signing off:

1. Vauxhall "Grown Up Kids" Commercial
I love this commercial because it took me almost 10 times watching it to figure out what these kids were saying. And once I did, I not only learned some cool British slang, I also thought it was pretty freakin' hilarious.


2. Tropicana Chef Breakfast Commercial
I often ask Matt in reference to this commercial: do you think this is what Marcus' (his chef brother) mornings are like? If so, sign me up because that OJ and whatever else looks damn good and maybe even almost worth living through the horrid hours of the food industry. :)

And if not, then at least that song should be everyone's soundtrack in the morning.


3. The Time-Life "Midnight Soul" Infomercial
But if you're not a Tropicana-soundtrack type of person, then perhaps this will suit you a little bit better. In the words of R. Kelly: "I don't see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind."

If anyone is ever desperate to buy me a gift, the entire Midnight Soul Collection currently sits on my "top 5 gifts I wish people would get me" list. Admit it - you could sing along to half of this infomercial too. (Thanks junior high school dances for that ability.)


Happy weekend to you all!