Lemon crêpes with Earl Grey ice cream

As if I need an assigned day of the year to give me an excuse to make pancakes. Those of you who are regular followers of my culinary endeavours will know that I rarely let a weekend pass without celebrating that period of the day between 11am and 1pm more commonly known as "brunch time". I'm a big fan of experimenting with the humble pancake in all its shapes and forms, but for pancake day you can't beat the traditional French crêpe. Wafer thin and delicate, its pale surface mottled with brown spots of heat from the pan, it demands to be filled with something delicious. The classic lemon and sugar combination is hard to beat, but I thought I'd add a twist to it with some home-made ice cream. I've been wanting to try out Earl Grey tea as an ice cream flavour before, and given the affinity between Earl Grey and lemon, it seemed only natural to pair it with these pancakes. My original idea was a lemon tart, but I love the contrast of something hot with cold ice cream, and pancakes are a happy medium - not so hot that the ice cream melts instantly (I hate melted ice cream), but warm enough to provide a pleasing difference in temperature.

I have to say, it is a revelation. Until you try it, you can't possibly imagine what Earl Grey ice cream will taste like. I have to admit that I actually hate Earl Grey tea. I can't stand the overwhelmingly perfumey fragrance of the bergamot, for some reason, which is odd given that I generally enjoy flowery notes in food. But when combined with cream, milk and sugar, the flavour becomes an absolute delight. It's like drinking a sugary cup of Earl Grey tea with a lot of milk, but cold and even sweeter. Even the colour of the ice cream is lovely, like a rich tea biscuit. I didn't use Fortnums tea because I am a snob (though I suppose I am), but because it was the only Earl Grey I had, as it came with a little hamper of tea I got given by my mum last year. I like to think the ice cream was extra special as a result.

The crêpes are just a standard pancake batter, filled with standard lemon juice and sugar...but with the addition of the ice cream, they become more like a proper dessert. The sweet lemon juice inside goes so well with the Earl Grey flavour; its strong bergamot notes stop it tasting overly sweet. I like to make my crêpes slightly thicker than a French person - I'm sure - would, and the soft warm batter with the crunchy sugar and soft ice cream is just divine. "Lush", as one of my dinner guests declared.

Also in the spirit of crêpes and ice cream, I filled a few of them with caramelised apples. Just sliced Cox apples browned in butter and demerara sugar, with a dollop of golden syrup and a sprinkling of cinnamon at the end to make them all sticky and delicious. Cox apples are good ones to use for this, because they have a sharpness and a firmness that stops them collapsing and means they stand up well to the doughy pancakes. I think apples and cardamom are a pairing of flavours I might have to pay more attention to in future; it works very well.

The great thing about pancakes is they're a very effortless dessert, but also very versatile. Fill them with whatever fruit you like, serve them with whatever ice cream you like, and people are bound to think you've gone to loads of trouble. The only thing I would suggest is to have the oven on a low temperature while you make all the pancakes; that way you can keep them all warm and plate up at the last minute, rather than serve everyone as they come out of the pan. Although that has a certain informality about it that is quite nice. Up to you.

Crêpes (makes about 12, in a 15-20cm frying pan):

  • 120g plain flour
  • 2 eggs
  • 300ml milk (or 200ml milk and 100ml water)
  • Pinch salt
  • Knob of melted butter
  • Sift the flour into a large bowl. Make a well in the centre and crack in the eggs. Using an electric whisk, mix the eggs into a bit of the flour, then slowly add the milk, whisking all the time to avoid lumps. Add a pinch of salt and a little melted butter then whisk again. You can leave the mixture to stand for a while, even overnight, if you want to make it in advance. 

To cook, heat a little butter in a frying pan - you want it quite hot before you start. Use kitchen roll to cover the base of the pan evenly with the butter. Dollop on the batter using a ladle - you want a very thin layer, just enough to coat the base of the pan. Cook for a minute or so, until the edges start to curl up, then use a palette knife or spatula to flip over, and cook the other side for a minute or so. You can keep the finished pancakes warm in the oven while you make the rest. 

Earl Grey ice cream (makes about half a litre):

  • 250ml whole milk
  • 250ml whipping cream
  • 3 tsp loose Earl Grey tea (or 4 teabags)
  • 100g caster sugar
  • 4 egg yolks

Place the milk and cream and tea in a saucepan. Heat gently until just below boiling point, then remove from the heat and leave for an hour or so to infuse (taste to see how strong the flavour is - if too weak, add more tea, heat up again, and leave again). When you're satisfied with it, sieve to remove the tea leaves, or remove the teabags.

Whisk the egg yolks with the sugar until thick and creamy. Gradually incorporate the milk and cream mixture. Then place the whole lot in a saucepan and heat gently, stirring constantly, until the mixture thickens into a custard (this will take about 15 minutes - don't heat it too quickly or it will curdle).

Pour into a jug, leave to cool, then chill until cold. Then churn in an ice cream maker and place in the freezer to firm up (2-3 hours). 

Vanilla French toast with roasted rhubarb

Pancake day is fast approaching, and thus the newspapers and food magazines are full of various sweet and savoury recipes for these glorious mixtures of milk, eggs and flour. So, naturally, I have decided to go against the trend and provide you with an alternative brunch recipe. And what a wonderful alternative it is. Amazing how some of the most frugal dishes - often characterised by their attempt to salvage old bread - can be some of the most delicious. In this case, day old bread is soaked in a mixture of eggs, milk, vanilla and sugar, then pan-fried in butter. The result is a hugely satisfying doughy texture with a bit of crunch on the outside; so much richer than normal toast. This soothing blanket of carbohydrate is just right to team with something sharp and palate-awakening. In this case, roasted rhubarb, because I can't get enough of the stuff, and it is just beautiful.

A lot of fancy restaurants serve French toast as a dessert, but they call it pain perdu - lost bread. I suppose because you're rescuing bread that would otherwise be lost to the bin, or the birds. I rather like the idea of a lost slice of bread wandering around, waiting to be swept up and carried away to its rightful home: a dish full of milk, beaten egg, vanilla and golden granulated sugar. There it lies, thirstily drinking up this elixir, until you transfer it to a pan of foaming butter.

It seems odd to buy a loaf on purpose to use for something that is meant to make use of leftover stale bread, but there you go - I'm just living the life of expendable luxury. I left the slices out overnight to go hard, so they'd absorb more of the lovely milk and eggs and wouldn't go soggy. I like to slice the bread very thickly for French toast, so you end up with something crunchy on the outside but deliciously soft and fluffy in the middle. It also looks more generous and appealing on the plate - particularly when you have done 1.5km in the swimming pool beforehand and haven't eaten since dinner the night before.

The sound of the soaked bread sizzling as it hits the hot butter in the pan is joyous. Even more wonderful is flipping it over onto the other side, and seeing that the egg has turned brown and golden in patches. The best bit of the whole piece of French toast is the middle, which is all soft and fluffy, though the crusts are good too. Some recipes tell you to cut off the crusts - ignore them; this is clearly nonsense. 

A drizzle of rhubarb syrup, a few pieces of cooked rhubarb (roasted in orange juice with sugar), a sprinkle of icing sugar, and you have an incredible brunch for so little effort. Even easier than pancakes. I have never had French toast, nor made it, before, so I'm pretty impressed by this recipe, and can't wait to experiment with all sorts of loaf/fruit pairings. Next up I want to try brioche with cinnamon and caramelised apples. Watch this space.

Vanilla French toast with roasted rhubarb (serves 2):

  • One day-old small whole white loaf
  • 2 eggs
  • 150ml whole milk
  • 1 tsp vanilla extract
  • 8 tbsp sugar
  • Knob of butter
  • 4 sticks rhubarb
  • Juice and zest of 1 orange

For the rhubarb, slice into short lengths and place in a baking dish with the orange juice, zest, and 5tbsp sugar. Place in the oven at 180C for about 20 minutes or until tender to the point of a knife.

Slice the loaf into pieces about an inch thick. Beat the eggs with the milk, vanilla and sugar in a shallow baking dish. Place the bread slices in for around 5 minutes, pressing down, then turn over. You want them to have soaked up most of the mixture.

Heat the butter in a frying pan until foaming. Place the bread in (you might have to do this in batches). Let it sizzle for a few minutes then flip over and cook for a few more minutes. It should be quite firm on the outside but still soft in the middle, and should have browned in places. Keep warm in the oven while you do the other slices. 

To serve, drizzle with the rhubarb juices, place some rhubarb on top or at the side, and sprinkle with icing sugar.

"Rotted bovine lactation?"


I can say with some confidence that, for most students, life is too short to make your own cheese. However, as I'm sure you've surmised from a) the existence of this blog and b) the fact that I post on it daily at the moment and c) most of the things I cook are slightly more labour-intensive and time-consuming than beans on toast, I am not 'most students', when it comes to the kitchen. (You could also surmise several other things, namely that I spend my time cooking in order to reassure my desperately insecure self, faced with the nightmare-inducing fear of entering the real world after a life locked in the musty closet of academia, that there is at least one thing I am able to achieve in this world of pain and constant rejection). I do not set myself apart from the general student body in a smug, self-satisfied kind of way: sometimes I wish that I could spend a whole day working on my degree without having to get up every few minutes to check the infusion progress of an ice cream base, or turn giant pieces of hare carcass over in its marinade, or knead some bread to springy, elastic perfection. But I accepted long ago that food will always interest me far more than work. People talk about finding a work-life balance: I find a work-food balance. One fine day last week when the balance swung precariously in favour of food, I decided to make my own cheese.


I told one of my friends this. His response was "Doesn't it take ages?" I replied that no, this form of cheese only needs about 30 hours. He then replied, "But isn't it still just rotted bovine lactation?" I probably shouldn't have put that quotation near the beginning of this blog post, because now you're not going to want to read on to discover just how delicious said fermented lactation turned out to be. I will persevere, however: there isn't any rotting involved in this process. In fact, it is probably easier than making most things, like cakes, bread, or even toast. All that is required is for you to mix two types of yoghurt (cow's and goat's) in a bowl, add salt, then pour it into a sieve lined with muslin, suspended over a bowl, and leave in the fridge for 24-36 hours. The whey drains out of the yoghurt, and you are left with a firmer, cheese-like substance, with the texture of cream cheese but a more tangy flavour. It's hard to describe, but it is very moreish. In the Middle East, they call it labneh. It is often dried and formed into balls then preserved in olive oil with herbs and spices. In Syria they eat it for breakfast with bread and olive oil. I had it by the sea in Jordan covered in walnuts and garlic. The crunchy nuts and tangy garlic are perfect partners with something so thick and creamy, and that's basically the gist of this recipe, too.



As with bread, there is something very rewarding about making your own cheese. I was amazed at how it had transformed with absolutely no intervention from me. Yoghurt, something that anyone who knows me will know I detest, overnight becomes a sort of more interesting Philadelphia. I spread it out in a big bowl, and topped it with a mixture of olive oil, garlic, chopped olives, pine nuts, pistachios, lemon zest and parsley. The result is rather sharp from the garlic and lemon, and goes perfectly with the creaminess of the cheese. I also roasted some tomatoes to go alongside the cheese, and baked some big Iranian-style flatbreads to scoop it up. The combination is excellent, and could probably serve as a meal in itself.


However, I decided to try out a recipe from my Iranian cookbook as a main course. It's a stew of chicken, more yoghurt, raisins, celery and saffron. I want to tell you how delicious this stew is, but it's difficult. Obviously everything I cook and discuss on this blog is edible, otherwise I wouldn't share it with the world, but generally everything I put up here has been really tasty. Which means that when a recipe comes along that is really good, it's hard to convey just how good without resorting to an excess of hyperbole. Suffice to say that this stew must be made. It's amazing how these ingredients combine to form something so good. It's rich and creamy from the yoghurt and saffron, yet with a hint of sourness, sweet from the raisins and celery, meaty and starchy from the chicken and onion, but fresh-tasting from spices and citrus. A sprinkling of crunchy pistachios on top brings the whole thing together. All you need alongside is some crisp salad, like watercress, and something to mop up the delicious juices: more flatbread, in this case, but rice or couscous would work perfectly too. It is a very rich dish, and you probably don't need either a starter or a big dessert afterwards (I'd suggest a nice fruit salad of orange and pomegranate to cleanse the palate). And even I am saying this, which means it must be true, as I am obsessed with dessert.



I ate vast portions of both labneh and stew. And I don't even like yoghurt. That's how good these two recipes are.

The recipe for the labneh, by the amazing Yotam Ottolenghi, is here.

Chicken with saffron, yoghurt, raisins and pistachios (serves 6):

Don't let the longish ingredients list put you off - this is simple to make and it's all cooked in one pot.

2 onions, finely sliced
4 sticks celery, finely sliced
1 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp ground cardamom
1/4 tsp cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp black pepper
1kg diced chicken breast or boneless thighs
1 bay leaf
550ml chicken stock mixed with 1tsp saffron threads
Zest and juice of 1 lime
Juice of 1 orange
1 tsp sea salt
350g thick natural yoghurt (I used Greek-style)
1 tsp cornflour
1 tbsp water
1 egg, lightly beaten
4 tbsp raisins
2 tbsp chopped pistachios

Heat a little olive oil in a large casserole dish. Add the onions and celery and fry until soft and translucent. Stir in the spices and fry for another couple of minutes. Add the chicken and brown over a high heat for a minute, coating with the spices. Add the bay leaf, stock, citrus juices and zest and bring to the boil. Add the salt, then lower the heat and simmer for an hour.

When the stew is cooked, whisk the yoghurt in a bowl. Mix the cornflour with the water and add to the yoghurt with the egg. Stir well to combine. Turn down the heat on the stew to barely a simmer, then stir in the yoghurt mixture. Add the raisins and pistachios and cook gently for about 5-10 minutes. Don't let the sauce boil or it will curdle, though it will slightly anyway - this doesn't matter.

Taste and adjust the seasoning, then serve with rice or flatbread, and a green salad.

(Adapted from Saraban by Greg and Lucy Malouf)









Home-made pizza


I've ranted about this elsewhere on this blog, but I'll say it again: I hate chain pizza restaurants. The main reason I hate them is for their disgusting stinginess when it comes to pizza toppings. When you're paying over a tenner for what is essentially a slice of bread with some cheese and tomato on top, the least the restaurant could do is be generous with ingredients that cost them a few pennies. But no, every time I am disappointed, presented with a measly slab of dough garnished with a couple of token vegetables or pieces of chicken. The leek, roasted veg and blue cheese pizza I had in a chain restaurant a while back springs to mind: three slices of frazzled, dried-up leek that resembled potpourri, a few slices of red pepper that tasted raw, and a couple of dollops of blue cheese in the middle of the pizza. The rest was a vast expanse of unadulterated tomato, a desert of sauce where no item of veg had ever gone before. As I picked at the bland item of food in question, I calculated the probable mark-up of this pizza; it must have been around 1000%. Depressing.



You'd never find such things in Italy. I remember visiting a hole-in-the-wall pizza place in Venice one summer. Now, this is Venice, bear in mind. In Venice you can be charged for pretty much anything: bodily functions, space on the pavement, the right to wield a camera, oxygen... And yet, the pizza cost about a fiver and fed two of us. It also came absolutely laden with aubergine, mozzarella, tomato sauce and herbs; I'm pretty sure I staggered under the weight of it and had to sit down on some steps outside a church to consume it. Quite handy, really, because eating that pizza really was a semi-religious experience, a hymn of worship to the god of generous toppings and a crisp base.


Essentially, if you want good pizza in England, you'll have to either seek out somewhere with a proper wood burning oven and Italian staff who understand how to top a circle of tomatoey dough, or make it yourself. I often choose the former, but it's been a long time since I last made my own pizza, so I decided last weekend to have another go at it.


It's a big reward for very little kitchen work. I find that moment where a ball of dough has magically risen to something that resembles a giant alien mushroom incredibly satisfying; even more fun is knocking all the air out of it, rolling it out, and getting a feeling of heady anticipation as you realise that molten cheese, tangy tomatoes and that unmistakeable hint of oregano are moments away. This really is incredibly easy, and I'd urge you, if you've never made pizza before, to try it. You'll never want to buy a supermarket pizza again.



So seriously do the Italians take their pizza, that in Naples, where it was supposedly invented, they have the 'Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana', the True Neapolitan Pizza Association. It's like a fancy gentleman's club, but for tomato-topped carbohydrates. Founded in 1984, it has established specific rules that a pizzeria must adhere to before it can bear this golden standard. The pizza must be baked in a wood-fired oven at 485C for no more than 60-90 seconds; the base must be kneaded by hand and not rolled with a rolling pin (you may have seen Italian chefs spinning the base around in the air with their hands to stretch it); the pizza must not be bigger than 35cm in diameter or more than 1/3 of a centimetre thick at the centre. I remember seeing pizzerias in Naples bearing the plaque above their doors announcing that they made pizzas conforming to these exacting standards - I was usually straight in the door after spying it, and I was not disappointed.


Now, I'm fairly sure my home-made pizza failed to meet every single one of these criteria. Actually, no - I did knead it by hand, and it didn't exceed 35cm in diameter. That's about it, but considering I lack a wood-fired oven, and the Italian skill for spinning a pizza base on my hand, my attempt was pretty incredible, even if I do say so myself. I could have tried to spin the base on my hand, of course - I may have uncovered my only secret talent, if only I'd tried - but I didn't fancy pizza with a topping of kitchen floor, so I refrained.


What's more, home-made pizza could not be easier. It's about as close to those disgusting cardboard-like ready made pizza bases you get in the supermarket as fillet steak is to a can of Spam. It's also not much more effort. Mix yeast, water, flour, olive oil and salt, knead for a few minutes, put somewhere warm to rise (in a bowl, obviously - don't chuck it in the bath or on top of the radiator or anything) for an hour, roll out, and you're ready to scatter with all sorts of goodness.


I went for a combination of tomato, parma ham, mozzarella, mushrooms, parmesan and basil. It's good. Very good. The ham hardens and becomes crispy in places, and lends a nice saltiness to the earthy mushrooms and the fresh basil. The cheese melts beautifully and starts to bubble and brown on top in the heat of the oven. But you don't need me to tell you in detail what a good pizza tastes like, hopefully. Let me just assure you that this is as good as most pizzas I've ever eaten in restaurants (except, of course, for those Neapolitan treasure-troves).


Home-made pizza (makes two pizzas, around 25cm in diameter):

350g strong white bread flour
2 tsp salt
2 tsp instant yeast
1 tsp caster sugar
2 tbsp olive oil

Sift the flour, salt, yeast and sugar into a bowl and make a well in the centre. Add the olive oil and 240ml hand-hot water. Mix to a dough, then turn onto a floured surface and knead for about five minutes until springy and elastic.

Put in a bowl, cover with clingfilm or a tea towel and place in a warm place for an hour (I used the airing cupboard). It should double in size.

Pre-heat the oven as hot as it will go - I heated it to 250C - and knock all the air out of the dough once it has risen. Sprinkle a worktop with polenta/cornmeal (this gives it that lovely Italian grainy texture on the crust) and roll the dough into two balls. Flatten each one and roll out thinly with a rolling pin. Place them on a piece of baking parchment, and you're ready to top them with whatever you fancy.

When topped, simply place the baking parchment directly on the oven shelf, and cook for around ten minutes. Delicious, almost-authentic Italian goodness is now yours to devour.



Pig's cheeks braised in cider with apples and celeriac mash

If the title puts you off instantly, I beg you to persevere. For a start, pork belly has become a widely accepted gastropub staple all over this country, yet a few years ago most of us would have started in horror at the notion of consuming the gastric organ of a pig. Similarly, lamb shanks - you're basically eating the knees of a cute little baby sheep. Steak and kidney pie trips off the tongue so nicely that few people actually dwell on the fact that it contains the biological systems that filter bovine urine. So why should pig's cheeks make us recoil in horror? Perhaps because there's something just fundamentally odd about eating an animal's face. I admit, when I went to the butchers and asked for pig's cheeks, I wasn't exactly expecting him to pick up a pig's head, intact, from his display, whip out a sharp knife and slice off half its face. Yet he did, and it didn't spoil my appetite at all. Conversely, I fully believe in knowing exactly where your meat comes from, exactly what slicing and dicing has to be done to get it to you, and cooking it in a way that appreciates that effort and sacrifice, and makes the most of it. This recipe is exactly that, and I hope at least one person out there will try it, simply because it is amazing how something so visceral-sounding can transform into something so utterly delicious.

The idea of cooking pig's cheeks was suggested to me ages ago by a recipe in a food magazine I was reading, but I'd forgotten about it until I had lunch at Gordon Ramsay's York & Albany restaurant a few weeks ago, where they appeared on the menu. I was very impressed - as well as being delicious, they had a flavour and texture not unlike slow-cooked pork shoulder. This is mainly why I believe everyone should sample pig's cheeks at some point, to prove that really they don't have some sort of disgusting aftertaste because they came from the head of a pig; they're actually indistinguishable from many other cuts of meat in most ways - just much richer.

The reason for this is because the muscles in a pig's cheek do an awful lot of work. Think about how much pigs eat, how much time they spend chewing. Imagine the muscle that builds up over the course of their lives. Muscly cuts of meat require much more cooking than lean cuts like fillet, but prove much more rewarding if you put the time in. The fibres in the meat dissolve into something gelatinous and soft, resulting in that melt-in-the-mouth, falling off the bone texture. You could eat these with a spoon. It's probably one of the tenderest cuts of meat I've ever eaten. 

Having purchased my pig's cheeks, I soon realised they were not what I wanted. Or rather, there was more than what I wanted. I was after the small medallion of muscle inside the fatty skin of the pig's face, but I really did have half the face in my freezer. 

Fortunately, I got some very sharp knives for Christmas, so a few minutes of amateur butchery later, I had the meat I wanted. There isn't much of it, and it shrinks a lot during cooking, but luckily I managed to find another butcher who prepared the cheeks for me, so I ended up with six - three per person is just right. I couldn't believe it when he weighed them and told me that four cheeks would set me back £1.25. This isn't only tasty cooking; it's budget cooking. I won't call it student cooking, because I'm pretty sure most students don't cook pig's cheeks for recreation, but it should be.

Unfortunately, these meaty wonders are quite hard to obtain. I was lucky that the butchers in question happened to have a couple of pig's heads in and were willing to cut them up for me. Odd, because pig's cheeks are becoming rather trendy and appearing on menus now (Gordon Ramsay is a case in point), like the pork belly of old, so you'd think more butchers would stock them and be willing to literally give them away. I guess they don't have a market for them, so don't bother. Hopefully I will be lucky again in my hunt for them, because this is definitely a recipe I'd like to repeat.

So, having procured my meaty morsels, I set about cooking them. There aren't many recipes out there for pig's cheeks, and I didn't want to follow any of them, so I tried to recreate the Gordon Ramsay dish from memory. There had definitely been star anise in there, and some form of alcohol, and something sweet. Stews and braises are pretty easy recipes to make up, once you follow a basic principle: brown meat. Add vegetables. Cook. Pour in liquid, add herbs. Cook.

I figured the combination of pork and apple is hard to beat, so I used cider as the braising liquid and put some apples in at the last minute. For aromatics, I used star anise, thyme, and a bay leaf. Other than that, I put in some honey and tomato purée for a sweet, rich depth of flavour, and that was about it. I let the cheeks simmer away for a good three hours. What had been small, pellet-hard morsels of meat in the beginning had softened into an unctuous mass that nearly collapsed under the spoon as I stirred it. Beautiful.

Not many adornments needed for a stew this good; I made celeriac mash and steamed some dark, leafy kale for a nice contrast in texture and flavour. I will take this opportunity to sing the praise of a gadget called a potato ricer: it's like a giant garlic press that you push cooked potatoes through in order to make the smoothest mash you'll ever create. It's genuinely a revelation; restaurant-quality mashed potato is one purchase away, and I'd urge you to make that purchase. 

Meat, mash, kale. A garnish of apple wedges, which I'd cooked in the sauce for a few minutes until soft, and an apple crisp (sliced apple cooked in the oven until dry), and you have the perfect dinner for a cold February evening. Or any time, really. I am so keen to encourage everyone to sample pig's cheeks if you can find them. I believe Waitrose sells them occasionally, but the word is spreading so they often sell out. Get hunting - you won't be disappointed.

P.S. If you're interested, have a look at the article I wrote for lovefood.com on the subject of porcine faces.

Pig's cheeks braised in cider with celeriac mash and apple crisps (serves 2):

Heat a little oil in a pan. Season six pig's cheeks, then brown all over in the hot oil. Remove to a plate. Lower the heat and sauté a chopped celery stick, garlic clove, onion and carrot until softened. Return the pig's cheeks to the pan. Put in a bay leaf, a star anise, a dessert spoon of dried thyme (or a sprig of fresh thyme) and 1tbsp tomato purée, along with a teaspoon of honey. Stir to coat everything in the honey and aromatics, then pour in a bottle of cider. Allow to bubble for a few minutes, then put on the lid and turn down to a very low simmer.

Leave for around three hours, until the meat is tender enough to eat with a spoon (stir occasionally). While this is happening, if you like, make the apple crisps by slicing an apple very thinly, brushing it with oil, and baking in the oven at 180C until dry.

For the mash, boil a third of a large celeriac and two small baking potatoes, both peeled and chopped into chunks, until soft, then push through a potato ricer (or use a normal masher), adding butter, milk, and seasoning to taste.

Remove the pig's cheeks to a plate and keep warm in the oven while you reduce the sauce. Turn the heat onto high and bubble the sauce until reduced by around half. Strain it to remove the vegetables. If it needs it, thicken it with a teaspoon of arrowroot or cornflour dissolved in a little water. Chop up an apple (I used granny smith, for the sharpness) into thin wedges, and put these in the sauce to soften. Add a little parsley to the sauce. Taste and check for seasoning - if too sweet, add a little lemon juice, though you want some sweetness to contrast with the rich meat.

When ready to serve, put the pig's cheeks atop the mash, spoon over some sauce, arrange the apple slices around and serve with steamed kale.

Baklava with rose, cardamom and almonds


I can't remember which happy occasion led me to first sample this irresistible and other-wordly combination of nuts, pastry, butter and syrup, but I do know that it sparked a love affair that shows no sign of dwindling. The weeks I spent in the Middle East last summer rarely featured a day that didn't involve baklava; on the first night in Istanbul I procured a kilo of the stuff and managed to devour most of it (I then spent the next two hours with a hideous headache in a bipolar state that swung from hyperactive to exhausted and back again - not recommended). I do enjoy most sugary things and pretty much all desserts, but if I had to select my favourite, it would be impossible to choose between crumble and baklava. There's something amazing and almost alchemical about the way simple ingredients - pastry, nuts, butter, sugar, water - can combine to produce a taste sensation that is curiously indefinable. It's nutty, crunchy, soft, flaky, sticky, sweet, and perfumed all in one. There's the crunch as you bite down through the crispy top layers of pastry, followed by the dense, sticky mass of nuts in the middle, then the softened, compressed pastry underneath. Truly wonderful. I have never, until now, attempted to recreate it myself, and I think doing so has actually done me more harm than good - now that I've discovered that it takes barely more effort than a crumble, my teeth and my waistline are in certain jeopardy.




This is a recipe from my Saraban Iranian cookbook, and uses almonds for the baklava filling and rosewater for the syrup. It also includes a squeeze of lime in the syrup, which stops the whole thing being too sweet (though, of course, the recipe does use half a kilo of sugar, so it's not exactly stuff to please your dentist). The basic principle for all types of baklava is the same: layer pastry with butter, add a filling of ground nuts, layer more pastry over the top, bake, then drench while hot in a thick, intensely sweet syrup.


For the filling, I just combined sugar, ground almonds and ground cardamom in a bowl. As simple as that. The pastry is also fairly easy - brush with butter, layer up, brush with more butter, etc. The only thing I would say if you want to try this too is to buy a cheap baking tray. You will end up scratching it to pieces as you try and cut the pieces of baklava out at the end, once they've solidified into a dense, sticky mass. Luckily I bought one from Tesco for £4, rather than the £20 anodised non-stick specimen I was eyeing up in the department store. I think I shall reserve it for baklava alone from now on.



It's up to you really how many layers of pastry you decide to use - the filo I bought didn't fit in the tin when folded in half, so I had to sort of fold it into a shape that would fit, meaning it was doubled up on one side but not on the other, so I just tried to even it out by layering the pastry in the right way. It's not rocket science, though - all you need are lots of layers that fit snugly inside the tin (about 3-4 sheets on either side of the almond filling).


Once the pastry and the filling are layered up in the tin, you have to score the baklava so that the syrup can soak in when it comes out of the oven. This is where your baking tray will endure some fierce scratching. Use a very sharp knife and make sure you cut down through all the pastry layers right to the bottom - the hideous scratch of knife on metal will make you aware that you've done so. Then it goes in the oven for half an hour or so, and you can make the syrup.



Oh, the syrup. I remember walking into a baklava shop in Jordan and spying great bigs vats of the stuff, bubbling away ferociously. They looked a bit like pots of boiling oil, giant deep-fat fryers, and I couldn't help thinking that they'd make a (literally) sticky end of any enemy if poured from the walls of a besieged castle. It's not like your basic sugar syrup of caster sugar and water that you'd use for making sorbet or Italian meringue; it's much thicker, darker, and more fragrant. The reason for that is the proportion of sugar to water - twice as much sugar as water, so the resulting mixture becomes very thick and almost honey-like. Once it's bubbled away for a while and achieved this consistency, I left it to cool for a few minutes before stirring in some rosewater and lime juice. The flower water is, I think, essential when making baklava - it gives the finished product that ethereal, mysterious flavour that takes the edge off the sweetness. I want to try a version with orange flower water, too.



Once the baklava has been in the oven and has turned crisp and golden, it's time to drench it in the syrup. This is incredibly satisfying; covering that dry surface with unctuous, steaming syrup and watching it soak into all the slits in the pastry, knowing that the end product will ooze sugar at every mouthful from its fragrant centre, is a cook's dream. A sprinkling of ground pistachios, and the baklava is complete. Now all you have to do is be patient and wait for it to cool - not as easy as it sounds. This really is such a wonderful, wonderful taste sensation. Serve with glasses of mint tea or strong Turkish coffee, and you'll make lots of friends (and probably need lots of fillings). Tooth decay never tasted so good.



Persian baklava with rose-lime syrup (makes one tray, about 30-40 pieces):

Preheat the oven to 180C. Brush a 28x18cm baking tray (or whatever size you have - just make sure the pastry fits snugly when you fold it over) with melted butter (keep a bowl of melted butter handy for the pastry - you'll need about 100-150g). For the filling, combine 300g ground almonds, 200g caster sugar and 2tsp ground cardamom in a large bowl.

Take a sheet of filo pastry, brush with butter and fold in half (or vaguely in half - you want it to fit snugly inside the tin). Put it in the tin, and brush with more butter. Repeat with another 2-3 sheets. Use a sharp knife to trim the filo so it fits neatly inside the tin. 

Pour the filling onto the pastry and pack it down tightly with a spoon. Brush another layer of filo with butter, fold in half, brush with butter and place butter side down on the filling. Brush with butter and then add another 2-3 layers. Brush the top layer with pastry, and trim the edges again to fit inside the tin.

Cut the baklava diagonally into diamond-shaped pieces with a knife - you want to cut down all the way to the bottom, but try not to dislodge the top layers of pastry. Sprinkle with a few drops of water then bake for 30 minutes. Check halfway through that it isn't browning too much - if it is, cover with a layer of foil.

While it's cooking, put 150ml water and 300g caster sugar in a small pan and bring to the boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Let it bubble away for 10mins or so until it is thick and syrupy. Allow to cool for five minutes before adding 2tbsp rosewater and 1tbsp lime juice.

When the baklava is ready, remove from the oven and immediately drench in the syrup, allowing it to seep down into all the diagonal cuts. Garnish with ground pistachios and leave to cool.

Best to try and serve this at once to eager guests - it will just test your willpower, and ultimately prove it non-existent - if you keep it in your fridge. I speak from experience.

(From Saraban by Greg and Lucy Malouf)






Where to eat (well) in Oxford


It's inevitable. I tell someone that I am interested in food, and their next question is, without fail, "Oh, so where is good to eat in Oxford, then?" Now, it's not that I could ever get bored of discussing food with people, but rattling off the same litany of restaurants time and time again does get a little bit tedious, particularly as I know they're going to forget all the names and locations straight away, and carry on eating at Pizza Express for the rest of their student days. So from now on, I shall direct them here. These are, in my opinion, some of the best places to eat in Oxford. I've attempted to vaguely group them by cuisine.



La Cucina - 39-40 St Clements Street
Probably my favourite Italian since Dante. The interior is relaxed and cosy, the staff are great and the food is excellent. It's not particularly expensive - no more so than your average chain Italian - but the dishes are better and more inventive. They do a lovely pasta with duck sauce (as well as classics like bolognaise and carbonara), great pizza (the goat's cheese and roasted vegetable is really good, as is the parmesan and parma ham with rocket), and a really good range of starters - the goat's cheese salad with roast pepper and balsamic is delicious, and the baked mushrooms stuffed with smoked cheese are sublime. There are also a good range of antipasti and breads to choose from (the foccaccia is really good). My favourite thing about the restaurant is that, if you sit in the back room, you can watch them making pizza in the open kitchen. It really does feel like a family-run trattoria in the heart of Italy.

Marios - 103 Cowley Road
A bit of an Oxford institution. If you haven't been, you haven't enjoyed probably the best pizza outside Italy. It's a cosy little place, run by Italians, with a proper pizza oven, and you can tell. What I particularly love about Marios pizzas is how generous they are with their toppings. I was once outraged when, upon ordering a leek, roasted vegetable and blue cheese pizza in an Italian chain restaurant, I was presented with a small piece of dough topped with a thin layer of tomato sauce, three blobs of cheese, and three pieces of dried up leek. The mark up on pizza in these restaurants is about 800%, and it's not as if leeks are going to break the bank. It's similar with a lot of chain restaurants - they're just so stingy with their toppings. Not so with Marios. When you order, for example, the 'Pizza Mario', ten minutes later a gigantic flying saucer of cheese and tomato will appear in front of you, groaning under the weight of spicy sausage, ham, artichokes, olives and anchovies. You're given proper pizza knives to eat it with, and it's probably about five times the size of your head. This is how pizza should be. Another absolute gem is the pizza topped with bresaola (cured beef) and gorgonzola. Sounds a bit of an odd combination, but it is incredible. Mind you, they're all good, and you can make your own topping if you don't fancy a combination on the (extensive) menu. As well as that, they do very good pasta (spaghetti with clams is delicious) and selections of cheese and meat antipasti. But to be honest, you won't need them - it's all about the pizza. They also do takeaway.


Olives - 42 High Street
The only place worth going for a brilliant baguette. Olives is a tiny independent sandwich bar run by Frenchman Christophe, and will satisfy any gourmet or hungry student with its array of delicious sandwich fillings. The Olives 'favourite' baguette is a combination of buffalo mozzarella, sun dried tomatoes and parma ham with rocket. It's not cheap at a fiver, but neither is it your everyday baguette - this is something special. The focus of the shop is its deli counter, home to all sorts of enticing charcuterie, breads, pates (they once had a lobster terrine on offer) and cheeses. You can have a sandwich made up for you incorporating any combination of these, though there are pre-existing combinations on the blackboard on the wall behind the counter. A personal favourite is the goat's cheese with roasted vegetables, onion marmalade, and rocket. When you choose a filling, you can choose (for free) from three of the following: onion marmalade, rocket, cucumber, tomatoes, roasted veg, chutney, and a few other things that I've forgotten. Baguettes are fairly good value, too, ranging from about £2.50 to the £5 extravaganza that is the aforementioned Olives 'Favourite'. Olives if not a one-trick pony, though: it also sells excellent real Italian ice cream in the summer, very good coffee, pastries, a range of panini and soup, and the Olives 'baguette of the week', which has included the amazing combination of roasted pork, thyme-roasted onions, brie and plum chutney, or roast beef with horseradish and blue cheese. There's a small selection of deli-style items on sale as well, like jars of duck confit, a chocolate absinthe cake (delicious), various chutneys and sauces, and pasta and bread. Oh, and as you'd expect, they also sell olives.

The High Table - 71-3 High Street
I want to call this a hidden gem, but it's not exactly hidden, being smack bang in the middle of Oxford's busy High Street. For some reason, I hardly ever see it more than half-full. This is a shame, because the entire dining experience really is excellent. The interior is beautifully decorated and feels a lot more luxurious and expensive than the menu would suggest. Upon ordering, you're given a basket of wonderful bread (several varieties - the walnut one is particularly good) along with olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. This alone makes it worth a visit. However, even better is their amazing value set lunch and dinner menu (12-7pm). You can have two courses for £10.95, usually with three options to choose from for each course. You don't get given small portions or inadequate food for that price, either. I've had an amazing beef burger with thick cut chips, a beautiful roast rump of lamb, some exquisite haddock, sausages and mash, and a very good pea and mint risotto. The food is always stunning, like something you'd find in a Michelin-starred restaurant. They do an interesting array of ice cream flavours for dessert, too (basil and strawberry, rum and sultana, apricot, white chocolate, pineapple, lychee...) along with delicious classics like lemon tart or spiced poached pears. The a la carte is a bit more expensive, but again is good value for money - there are a range of soups, pastas, salads, and grills. Prices range from £4-6 for starters, £9-16 for mains, and desserts for around a fiver. Again, I can't understand why this place isn't always full - the food is beautiful and the service excellent. You feel like you're in a posh London restaurant, but for a fraction of the price, and it's a great place to take parents or friends for special occasions (I went there on the day I finished my finals, which is perhaps why I have such fond memories of it). It deserves more custom. Maybe I'll regret publicising it on here one day...

Door 74 - 74 Cowley Road
I don’t know whether it’s the name, the small and cosy interior, or the splendid cooking, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that while eating at Door 74 I was sitting in somebody’s living room, somebody who would disappear back to the kitchen every now and then and return bearing delicious dishes they had prepared earlier. Perhaps it was the lovely rustic presentation of the food, the generous portions and the comforting nature of it all. This felt like good, old-fashioned home cooking, rather than pretentious restaurant food with ludicrous garnishes and tiny servings. The interior is on the small side, but nicely decorated. Everything exudes calm and relaxation, from the single waiter who managed to pay attentive care to all the tables, the fairy lights on the dark purple walls, to the small menu that suggests carefully chosen ingredients and flavour combinations.

The starters are just big enough to whet the appetite without making you doubt your capacity for dessert. My aubergine and lamb wraps were very satisfying; the aubergine was rich and smoky and the spiced lamb delicious. My guest’s asparagus with egg mimosa was beautiful: the asparagus was perfectly cooked and seasoned. Main courses were a feast for both the eyes and the tastebuds. I ordered the marinated chicken with panzanella salad. Far from being bland as chicken often is, this was zesty and tender. However, it was the accompanying salad that really made the dish: big chunks of toasted ciabatta, ripe tomatoes, cucumber, caperberries, olives and red onion in a lovely tangy dressing that soaked into the bread. It was colourful, full of flavour and a superb lively accompaniment to the chicken. The potato cake filled with mushrooms, pine nuts and halloumi cheese was an excellent meat-free option. Eyeing the next table, the risotto and whole baked fish also looked amazing, and I had to fight hard to resist the urge to ask for a taste.

There was a limited choice of four desserts, which usually suggests high-quality options, and did not disappoint. My lemon meringue ice cream served with fresh mango was simple but wonderful. It was pretty as a picture and full of tangy fruit flavours that ended the meal nicely. The chocolate semifreddo with vanilla ice cream was served hot from the oven. A chocoholic’s dream, it was smooth and very rich: no insipid milk chocolate here. Definitely a winner in terms of both food and atmosphere, Door 74 guarantees a thoroughly enjoyable dining experience. 

Fishers - 36-7 St Clements Street
A seafood restaurant, as you'd expect from the name, Fishers' menu changes daily depending on what the restaurant receives directly from fishermen and markets throughout the country. A particular highlight is the seafood platter (hot or cold versions available), placed ceremoniously in the table and accompanied by a bizarre array of silver implements for extracting the various bits of seafood from their exoskeletons. When I went, I had prawns, langoustines, clams and smoked salmon, garnished with parsley and lemon and a pot of tangy mayonnaise. The bucket of bread to go with it is wonderful - dark and nutty, it's a perfect match for the sweet seafood. It's a good conversation starter, as well, if you're there on a date that's going a bit awkwardly - nothing like snapping the heads of defenceless crustacea to get the romance going. The main courses share a common theme: fish as the centrepiece, minimally adorned to let its quality shine. I've had a very good turbot, with mash and mushroom cream sauce, and a lovely lobster thermidor. For dessert they offer gastropub-style classics like sticky toffee pudding, and a nod to the classic fish and chip shop dessert, banana fritters with toffee ice cream. Decor is fun and nautically themed, and service is friendly but can be on the slow side as it's often busy. Seafood of this standard, however, is something to enjoy lingering over. It's on the expensive side (£10-18 for mains), but they do several cheaper set menus, and it's definitely a place to come to treat yourself or a fellow seafood-lover.

Moya - 97 St Clements Street
This is normally the first place I mention when asked where to eat in Oxford. It's brilliant. Definitely a hidden gem, it's not that noticeable when you first walk past. It's half restaurant, half cocktail bar (try the 'brain haemorrhage' or the 'choc-chip mint cookie'), and the dining area is quite small. The food more than makes up for that though, both in flavour and in portion size. It's Eastern European, which is interesting in itself because you don't find much of that around. I was definitely a convert after my first visit there, and can't stop going back. Traditional dishes such as goulash and dumplings are on offer, as well as a selection of tempting options for the piscatorially inclined such as trout, black prawns, sea bass, fishcakes, and – once – a special of cod cheeks. The specials board changes regularly, but the à la carte is so packed with inviting options that this may only complicate matters of decision-making. The “devil’s toast” starter has become one of Moya’s specialities; they also serve it as a bar snack. A crisp slice of sourdough toast topped with smoked sausage, onion, tomatoes, peppers, chillies and grilled goat’s cheese, it is a truly delightful combination of smoky and tangy flavours. The fasirka, a spiced venison and pork cake served with horseradish and a fruity relish, is rich and savoury, nicely offset by the sweetness of the fruit. Other options include vegetarian dumplings and a Slovak potato salad. Prices are around £5 for starters, and although they may seem small, once the sizeable main courses materialise all will become clear. The segedin, a creamy pork and sauerkraut (pickled cabbage) goulash, is lightly spiced with nutmeg, paprika and caraway. The acid cabbage provides an unusual foil to the rich, spiced meat, and the dish is served with knedla – steam cooked bread dumplings, which mop up every drop of the delicious juices. The traditional goulash – tender beef in a spicy tomato and pepper sauce, fragrant with paprika – is also delightful, the meat so tender you could eat it with a spoon. Moya use home-milled sweet paprika for an authentic taste, and it provides a lovely fragrant note in many of their dishes. Lighter main courses include salads (black prawn or sausage) and a vegetarian bean goulash. Most mains cost around £9-12, but you certainly get your money’s worth.

Although the mains may pose a challenge for some appetites, ensure you leave room for dessert (£4-5). Far more exciting than your usual chocolate fondant or crème brulée, you can choose from an unusual selection of ice creams and sorbet – think cappuccino, almond and amaretto, dark cherry or apricot – as well as traditional offerings: a Slovak fruit dumpling, Tatras apple cake, or Bublanina (bubble cake), a light sponge studded with seasonal fresh berries. The dumpling haunts my dreams to this day. It's light and filled with apricot, a tart contrast to the dough, and covered in a sublime poppy seed and butter sauce that adds a little crunch. Seriously, you must try it - it sounds bizarre, but it's incredible. The apple cake utilises that unbeatable combination of apple, sultanas, walnut and cinnamon to great effect, encased in a flaky pastry and served with a rich vanilla ice cream. After dinner coffee is accompanied by little sugared biscuits, a nice touch, though perhaps geared more towards the eye than the appetite – after three courses at Moya, you won’t be hungry again for a long time. I can't stress enough how great this place is.

Pierre Victoire - 9 Little Clarendon Street
A proper French bistro in the heart of Oxford, Pierre Victoire serves well-presented, good value French dishes where the emphasis is on flavour and quality. They do a range of set menus which makes dining there not only great fun but also great value. I went on my birthday, and for £20 had moules mariniere, venison, and a trio of ice cream. Their menu is imaginative, with a range of delightful starters such as a goat's cheese soufflé with sautéed apples, the obligatory moules, pigeon breast salad, paté, and other French classics. Mains are usually based around a single ingredient, such as a fillet of salmon, a good steak, or a beautiful grilled sea bass. The desserts are - as you'd expect - delicious, with offerings like chocolate and orange cheesecake or lemon tart, as well as a more simple selection of ice cream for those who have overindulged on the previous courses. The service is friendly and there's a great atmosphere because it's such a popular venue; I'd recommend it heartily for something a little bit more interesting than your average chain restaurant. (I'm not even going to try and compare it to Chez Gerard, which I loathe and detest with a passion).

Al Andalus Tapas Bar - 21 Little Clarendon Street
My best tapas experiences have always involved being on holiday with my family in Andalucia; a quartet of non-Spanish speakers, subsisting off our ability to point at interesting-looking dishes in various bars. To this very day I am saddened by the fact that many of the delicious dishes I have sampled over the years remain unidentifiable due to my lack of Spanish knowledge. This is just one of the reasons why Al Andalus, the tapas bar on Little Clarendon Street, proved such an exciting prospect when a friend suggested we sample its wares – some of the plates that appeared on our table were almost identical to those enjoyed on holidays past, and now I actually know that it was marinated octopus that I took such a liking to in Seville. One of the other beautiful things about tapas is the sharing, and Al-Andalus caters well for people such as myself who find the prospect of sharing rather nerve-wracking – what if the last piece of tortilla disappears before you have a chance to sample it, busy as you are tucking into patatas bravas with spicy tomato sauce? Luckily, the provision of side plates means you can grab a bit of everything before it disappears. And you will want to. The food is excellent: portions are surprisingly large (you would be unlikely to finish more than three plates of tapas each) and everything is packed full of flavour (due, I suspect, to liberal amounts of fine Spanish olive oil). Classics such as patatas bravas and tortilla were excellent; though with the exciting array of plates on offer you may want to attempt something a little more adventurous, such as the deep-fried goats’ cheese with honey; a sublime combination. If that isn’t enough to supply a goats’ cheese fix, the milhojas de queso de cabra (goats’ cheese baked with potato and serrano ham) will definitely do so. The calamares romana were on the right side of crispy, with a lovely seafood flavour still shining through from the squid. A seafood addict, I also ordered the marinated seafood salad: octopus legs and mussels marinated in Spanish vinaigrette, which was a fresh-tasting foil to the abundance of potato, cheese and ham adorning our table. For ardent carnivores and fans of hearty food, the montaditos de lorno y queso, pork loin marinated in paprika and olive oil and served on tomato bread with melted cheese, is as good as it gets: a hamburger with a twist. Just make sure you have a napkin at hand. The all-round favourite at our table, however, was the delightful datiles con bacon: dates stuffed with blue cheese, wrapped in bacon and grilled. An interesting combination, but try it and you will not be disappointed: the sharp creaminess of the blue cheese and the sweetness of the chewy dates cuts through the saltiness of the bacon, and the result is pure gastronomic heaven. You can even get them with beef on a skewer, if the bacon isn’t enough red meat.

Al-Andalus also offer main courses; several grilled meat dishes, and the classic paella. Unfortunately, we were all far too full to even attempt a main, let alone dessert; though from what I could spy at the adjacent table, the desserts are definitely worth a try. As is the sangria, available by the glass or in litres in authentic-looking earthenware jugs that reminded me of a memorable (or not so, as the case may be) episode in a bar in Barcelona. All in all, a perfect destination both for large groups (they also offer a set menu for parties of seven or more) or diner a deux. It is also very good value, with plates of tapas ranging from £3.50 to £5.50; a couple could share five and probably not need dessert. However, do be careful to check your order – we were brought several plates of bread and tortilla that we hadn’t ordered; assuming (perhaps naively) that they were complimentary, we tucked in with relish and were then charged for all of them, whilst some of our ordered dishes seemed to have been forgotten by the kitchen. Though, the meal was so enjoyable that I will ascribe this to the fact that the restaurant was busy and that we did order about twenty different dishes between us, so I’ll let them off. 

The Rose - 51 High Street


When deciding to embark upon that most venerable of English institutions, afternoon tea, one perhaps immediately turns to the alluring surroundings of the Grand Cafe or the central, shining classiness of Quod’s interior. This, however, may be a mistake. Walk a little further down the High Street and you will stumble upon The Rose, who claim to serve the finest scones in Oxford. Unfortunately I have not sampled every scone in Oxford, but I have had my fair share, and The Rose wins in every respect.



Not only do they make their scones, breads and cakes from scratch using organically produced cereals, the Rose also prepare two to six batches of scones every day, to ensure they are always freshly baked for eager customers. Add to this local clotted cream from Jersey cows’ milk and jam with at least 50% berries, and you have a winning formula that tastes superb. The interior is small and cosy, with muted white and pink decor and a distracting cake counter. The Rose offer three afternoon teas: the Light Afternoon Tea consists of toasted teacakes, jam and butter, and a pot of tea. Go one step further for the Classic Cream Tea and you will be rewarded with fresh, warm, crumbly scones, clotted cream, jam, and tea. However, the ultimate treat is the Cream Tea Special, featuring the mandatory pot of tea, finger sandwiches, a scone, clotted cream, jam, and a choice of cake. Which brings me on to the cakes. Usually the same selection – lemon, coffee and mascarpone, carrot and walnut, flourless chocolate and almond, or apple pie – the Rose’s cakes are sublime and worth the rather extravagant price tag (around £3.50-5 a slice). I do have authority to say that, having tried all of them. The apple pie in particular is a feat of engineering, comprising about five layers of carefully tessellated apple within a thin shortcrust pastry case – almost enough to enable you to argue that it’s healthy, packed as it is full of so much fruit. The slices may not look as enormous as they will later feel in your stomach (and that can only be a good thing). The Rose also boasts a comprehensive tea menu from which you can choose to accompany your afternoon extravaganza, detailing the origin, fusion times and recommended accompaniment for each tea. My particular favourite is the pungent, smoky Lapsang Souchong, made by smoking the leaves over pine fires; if that is too much of an acquired taste, classics such as Darjeeling, Ceylon and Oolong are also excellent partners for a feast of baked delights. As well as this array of teas, the coffee is also very good.

But, lest you be thinking the Rose is no more than a nice tea room, I can inform you that they also do breakfasts (ranging from ‘traditional English’ to continental) and very good lunches. Think of the sort of hearty, homely food you’d like to come home to during the vacation, and that may give you an idea. The menu changes several times a week, but usually features a soup of the day, a selection of sandwiches (standards such as ham, cheese and tuna, but also Croque Monsieurs and specials such as the delightful Vegetarian Sandwich – goats’ cheese and caramelised onions on foccaccia – or the Sandwich au Bedat – panchetta, smoked salmon and mango chutney, which works a lot better than you might expect), omelettes, salads and hot dishes. The salmon fishcakes accompanied by a sweet tomato and chilli jam (all jams are also available to buy) were delectable, not overpowered by potato, and had a lovely home-made appearance. Other excellent dishes I have sampled include a mozzarella, fig and parma ham salad dressed with lemon oil (a good capitalisation on the fact that fresh figs and milky white cheese are one of nature’s greatest gifts), and a dish of muffins topped with poached egg, spinach, roasted tomatoes, beetroot and a pesto dressing which was flavoursome and satisfying yet light enough to allow for an exquisite piece of carrot and walnut cake to follow; its creamy filling and icing are enough to make one want to renounce any other food forever. The organic burger with cucumber pickle is also, apparently, very good.

Not a destination you’d choose for your regular lunchtime purchase or sugar fix, The Rose is something a little bit special for an occasion (even if it’s just the family visiting for the day). Although it may be more expensive than you’d expect, once you’ve sampled the food you will understand that you’re most definitely paying for quality. 

Manos - 105 Walton Street
Deli and cafe by day, restaurant by night, the common denominator in all Manos’s guises is excellent Greek food, simply cooked, and an atmosphere of conviviality that conjures up a little corner of Greece in the heart of Oxford. Situated on a corner of Walton Street, Manos’s bright white exterior and cheerful blue and white awning already convey a touch of Greek sunshine. Step inside and this becomes more pronounced, with the photos of Greek landscapes on the wall and an outside courtyard, perfect for continental-style al fresco dining (though the large umbrella covering the tables is a nod to its British location). The layout is that of a deli proud to showcase its products; most food is displayed in a glass counter for customers to deliberate over, and blackboards on the walls announce the day’s specials as well as current offers.

Manos is first and foremost concerned with producing excellent Greek food. You are at liberty to order from the counter as and when something takes your fancy, or wait for table service. The tables upstairs in the deli provide a casual cafe feel even in the evening, where proceedings are less about formal service and more about great food and company. There is a larger dining room downstairs for a more restaurant-style experience, featuring Grecian-themed art. The staff are helpful and patiently put up with customer attempts to read the Greek titles of menu items, as well as advising those with dietary requirements about menu options. There is a sense of real care for the quality of food produced at Manos, and a real love of good cooking.

There is no set format for dining: you can point at something in the deli counter that takes your fancy, or order from the menu. The food is often simple but bursting with fresh flavours; lemon, oregano, garlic, tomato. The best way to try as many of the mouthwatering starters as possible is to order a mezze platter, consisting of small portions of four starters of your choice, served with a basket of warm pitta bread. Surprisingly filling, at £4.95 it is excellent value. Choose from a selection of dips such as tzatziki, hummous and taramasalata, or Greek classics like dolmathes (stuffed vine leaves), marinated red peppers stuffed with feta cheese and chickpea salad with parsley and lemon. There is also a selection of olives including feta-stuffed, kalamata, and lemon and dill. A far cry from the tiny olives you can buy in jars, these are enormous, glossy, and delicious. Most single starters cost between £3 and £5.

Ensure you leave room for Manos’s hearty main courses, all of which are served with a (sometimes unnecessary, considering their size) side of hummous, Greek salad or olives. There is a good range of vegetarian options, including a spinach and feta filo pastry pie, a delicious combination of crispy pastry and tangy, creamy filling, and gigantes plaki, butter beans baked in a tomato and herb sauce. Also available are classics such as imam bayeldi (baked aubergine), Moussaka, and arni me kritharaki, spiced lamb so tender you could eat it with a spoon, served with kritharaki pasta. One of the stars of the menu is the chicken souvlaki, a gigantic flatbread filled with moist marinated chicken (or falafel for vegetarians), hummous, tzatziki and Greek salad. At £5.95 it is perhaps the cheapest route to a full stomach in Oxford. Most main courses are available as smaller portions, enabling you to try a couple. Prices range from around £7-12, or around £4 for smaller portions. All dishes are available to take away, and Manos also offer meal deal combinations of salads, pasta and drinks for lunch on the go.

The display of desserts in the deli counter is a smart move; having eyed them covetously on your way in, you will make a point of leaving room for at least one syrup-drenched pastry. Traditional baklava is available in flavours such as almond or pistachio (ranging from 90p to £3 depending on size), as well as apple strudel and a variety of home baked cakes that are guaranteed to make you hungry all over again.
Manos also provide an outside catering service for parties and events.

They serve a range of freshly pressed juices with inventive titles, designed to refresh and rejuvenate – try the orange and ginger. They also offer a range of hot drinks to accompany that all-important pastry: a variety of teas and coffees, and the unusual Greek coffee (for some, an acquired taste). 




Al-Shami - 25 Walton Crescent
Located at the end of a residential street off Walton Street, this taste of Lebanon in Oxford is easy to miss. Don't. If you've never had Lebanese food before, you're in for a treat. I went there because Lebanese food is very similar to Syrian food, and I was craving some of the wonderful taste sensations I experienced there last August. It didn't disappoint - I could locate pretty much all of them on the menu, and they were just as good as I recalled. They serve an extensive menu of mezze (small dishes to share), plus lots of main courses (mainly grilled meat or fish). I'd recommend going in a group and ordering whatever takes your fancy, then diving in when it arrives, splendid looking and beautifully presented, at your table. Some highlights are the moutabel (smoked aubergine purée, an incredibly moreish and wonderful dip), the mohammara (red pepper, walnut and pomegranate dip - vibrant red and equally vibrant in mysterious flavours), the foul (a mixed bean dip with lots of garlic and olive oil - very Mediterranean-tasting), fatayer (spinach pasties with pine nuts), falafel (deep-fried spiced chickpea patties - crunchy and wonderful), kellage halloum (essentially a halloumi cheese toasty - salty and creamy on the inside, crunchy on the outside), kibbeh maqlia (lemon-shaped deep fried patties of ground lamb, bulgur wheat and nuts), and the kafta kebab (ground lamb shaped into sticks and grilled). Most dishes are served with a big basket of delicious flatbread, perfect for scooping up morsels of dip and sauce, and it's a great place to go to try something a little bit different. The baklava they serve for dessert is also amazing, but baklava normally is.

The Anchor - 2 Hayfield Road
One of the best gastropubs in Oxford, the Anchor is the perfect destination both for Sunday lunch and for any lunch. Or dinner, for that matter. The inside feels like a proper country pub, yet it's only about 15 minutes' walk outside the centre of town. Their normal menu looked very inviting when I was there, but it was a Sunday, so we were presented with the Sunday lunch menu, with a choice of starters, mains (mostly roasts) and desserts. The starters, such as chorizo and chicken terrine with quince and pickled walnuts, or cured duck salad with chicory and a poached duck egg, are enough to make you consider forgoing the mains altogether, but don't. The venison sausages with beetroot mash and mustard jus are simply incredible, the sweetness of the beetroot mash contrasting perfectly with the rich, salty sauce and meaty sausages. The roasts are incredibly generous, with the meat presented separately from a huge platter of roasted vegetables. There's a choice of lamb, pork or beef. Other options include spiced smoked haddock fishcakes with a lime and coriander mayonnaise and chips, or a vegetarian spinach and cheese tart. You can look at their menu online - if it doesn't make you hungry no matter when you last ate, I'd be surprised.

But I must add that the main reason to go to the Anchor is for their treacle tart. I dithered for about twenty minutes between sticky toffee pudding and the aforementioned tart, and was so glad I opted for the latter. It is a feat of brilliance, just the right level of sweetness with a dense, sticky filling. It comes with ginger cream, though I asked for ice cream - either would set off this exquisite dessert perfectly. The only problem is I wanted another slice (though the portion was quite generous - I am just greedy when it comes to sugary concoctions). That said, the sticky toffee pudding and the chocolate fudge brownie both looked amazing - the latter is about the size of your face, which can only be a good thing where chocolate is concerned.

The Royal Oak - 42-44 Woodstock Road
Another good gastropub, the Royal Oak is closer to the centre of town and can get quite busy at times, but also feels like a classic, cosy country pub. They offer an extensive menu, with classic pub dishes like fish cakes, fish and chips, cottage pie, burger with cheese and bacon, steak, roast lamb and gammon hock. What I like about the menu is that it adds a twist to these dishes, even if it's just a high-quality ingredient or an unusual flavour - beef brisket cottage pie with celeriac and horseradish mash, or fishcakes with horseradish cream, or steak with rosemary chips. They also do interesting and slightly more unusual dishes such as seared pigeon with bacon, mushroom and potato salad, or mackerel with beetroot, dill and potato. There's a limited range of starters - soup, prawn cocktails, potted pork with chutney - but the main courses are really the stars of the show. On Sundays they do roasts like chicken with bread sauce, which comes with a huge helping of veg and a Yorkshire pudding, and is really delicious. Desserts are, again, pub classics like sticky toffee pudding, cheesecake, crumble, lemon tart and chocolate brownie. The sticky toffee pudding is a thing of joy. It's a generous helping, warm and fluffy in the middle with the most wonderfully rich, sugary, caramelly sauce, and a scoop of ice cream to hold the whole thing together. The cheesecake is also delicious and again a generous portion. This is a perfect venue for lunch or dinner on a chilly evening, and they also serve hot mulled cider or wine in the winter.

Edamame - 15 Holywell Street
I'm not sure this needs any publicity from me, as it's in most travel guides to Oxford and has a queue several yards out of the door most nights, but Edamame is as good as Japanese food (in England) gets. Often full of Japanese people (always a good sign) it's family run and absolutely tiny, hence the queues. However, they move quickly and the food is worth waiting for. You share tables with total strangers, which isn't as weird as it sounds, and the food is speedy and satisfying. The lunch menu features complete dishes, like marinated salmon, noodle soup, stir-fried noodles or chicken katsu curry (which all come with delicious and satisfying miso soup), whereas the dinner menu is more about choosing a variety of meat, veg or fish dishes and some sort of carbohydrate to go alongside. The marinated pork is very good, as is the stir-fried squid. At lunchtime, I love the chicken yakisoba noodles, or the ramen soups. The eponymous edamame beans are also a must - order them to nibble on while your food arrives, popping them out of their green pods. It's not a place to linger over dinner, as you can often see a queue of hungry diners out of the window waiting for you to vacate your table, but for a taste sensation it's excellent. The sushi on Thursday nights is also exquisite, and great value for money, and they usually offer a range of specials written on the walls.

Also worth mentioning are The Big Bang on Walton Street for the best sausage and mash experience you'll find anywhere; Paddyfields on Hythe Bridge Street for great Chinese in a lovely setting, and the Old Parsonage on Banbury Road for refined cuisine in stunning surroundings.

Feel free to comment if you have any more recommendations, or disagree with me...

Coconut 'panna cotta' with lychees in lime syrup


I say panna cotta, but this doesn't actually have any cream in it (and 'panna cotta' literally means 'cooked cream', in Italian), so I guess it's actually closer to that old fashioned dish, blancmange. It's just coconut milk set with gelatine into a delightfully wobbly, dome-shaped creation. Hours of fun can be had just poking it or wobbling the plate. Of course, minutes of fun can also be had eating it, which is what I'd suggest you do soon afterwards. This came about really as a way of using up the vast amounts of lychees that keep appearing at the markets at the moment - I know they'll disappear for months soon once the season is over, and there's something so exotic and moreish about their delicate perfume that I am inspired to use them in as many ways as possible. You don't find many lychee recipes out there, so I'm making my own.


Lychees go well with several flavours, many of them also rather exotic - lime, fresh ginger, coconut. Sometimes they need something to bring out their shy flavour, and a combination of lime and sugar works rather well. I did this in syrup form, boiling sugar and water with lime zest until thick, then adding a squeeze or two of lime juice at the end. It's a bit of a faff peeling and de-stoning the lychees, but once you mix them with the syrup and take a bite they're really excellent. I was going to use them as a topping for a lime-flavoured cheesecake (more on that next week...) but then a coconut pairing occurred to me, and for some reason my mind landed on panna cotta.


It's very simple to make the coconut 'jelly' - warm some coconut milk, add sugar, add gelatine, put into moulds, and set in the fridge. I used a cook's blowtorch to get the jelly out of the moulds, because it was a bit stubborn (OK, so I could have used a knife, but why would I ever turn down a reason to use fire?) The moment when it slithers out of its metallic casing and forms a perfect shiny dome on the plate is rather satisfying. A sprinkling of lime zest and desiccated coconut brings all the flavours together, and the result is subtle but tasty. I have to admit, I'm not the biggest fan of the texture of panna cotta (but I do keep making it in an effort to force myself to like it), but my friends (/victims) reported that it was very good, and ate it all, so I suppose that's the best way to judge.


Coconut 'panna cotta' with lychees in lime syrup (serves 3):

Put a can of coconut milk (full fat, or use half coconut milk and half single cream/coconut cream, depending on how creamy you like your panna cotta) in a small saucepan. Heat gently, adding 60g caster sugar and a drop of vanilla extract (this helps to bring out the coconut flavour), and allow the sugar to dissolve. Put a couple of tablespoons of warm water in a bowl, and sprinkle over 2 tablespoons of powdered gelatine. Leave for a few minutes - meanwhile, lightly grease three ramekins or dariole moulds with a flavourless oil. Whisk together the gelatine and water, and whisk into the coconut mixture. Sprinkle some desiccated coconut into the moulds, then pour in the mixture and place immediately in the fridge for 3-4 hours.

For the lychees, bring equal amounts of sugar and water to the boil in a small saucepan, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Add the zest of a lime and bubble away until it has thickened. Leave to cool for five minutes then add the juice of half a lime.

Peel and de-stone some lychees (however many you like, really). Take the coconut jellies out of the fridge, and invert the moulds on a plate. If they don't come out, use heat or run a knife carefully around the edge, and tap them to release the jelly. Arrange the lychees around the jelly, and pour over some of the lime syrup. Garnish with extra lime zest and some desiccated coconut.

Traffic-light vegetarian paella


So-called because of its wonderful contrasting reds, yellows and greens. Paella is one of my favourite dishes; I always make it for big crowds because it's easy and it's adaptable to whatever you have on hand. OK, so a Spaniard would probably weep at some of the bastardised paellas I've produced on self-catering holidays and the like, incorporating bits of bacon, tuna, prawns, frozen squid, and whatever else I could scavenge from the strange aisles of foreign supermarkets, but I think the basic formula I always use is fundamentally Spanish: onions, red peppers, garlic, peas, rice, saffron, tomatoes. I've read somewhere that paella didn't actually originate as a seafood dish in Spain; initially it was made with things like rabbit and snails (a version which I'm keen to try at some point). A seafood paella is a beautiful thing, but I was curious to see what would happen if you removed all that fish and added a few more vegetables and spices. This is the - excellent - result.



A lot of the flavour in this dish comes from the use of spices - turmeric, paprika, and cayenne pepper - but there's also a big hit of garlic, a richness from the stock and tomatoes, and a satisfying meatiness from the addition of olives. The idea of a paella with just vegetables might strike you initially as rather bland, but persevere - this recipe really is delicious. The proof of the paella lies in the eating: I made enough for five people, and three of us gobbled it up eagerly. It would make a very good main course for when you fancy a break from meat and fish; I'm pretty sure even the most ardent carnivore would enjoy it.


 It's fairly simple to make - there's a base layer of sautéed peppers, onions, garlic and fennel (an unusual addition which I might start adding to all seafood paellas now, for the lovely hint of fresh aniseed it brings), then the rice goes in with the spices, stock and saffron, and you leave the whole thing alone for about half an hour (unlike a risotto, you don't stir a paella). Towards the end, stir in some halved baby plum tomatoes and frozen peas, and then the final additions are some marinated artichokes and black olives. There's so much flavour considering it's basically just vegetables and rice; I guarantee it will surprise you.


Plus, it feels incredibly healthy. Eating that amount of vegetables can't not be good for you, and the vibrant colours are an instant tonic for the mood as well. Even better - it's all made in one pot, so hardly any washing up. What's not to like?


Vegetarian paella (serves 4):

Sauté two chopped onions for five minutes in a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. Add four sliced peppers (two red and two yellow) and a sliced bulb of fennel (reserve the leaves for garnishing), and fry until golden and softening. Add four crushed garlic cloves and cook for a minute more, then add two bay leaves, a teaspoon paprika, a teaspoon turmeric and a pinch of cayenne pepper (or more if you like it spicier). Stir, then add 300g paella rice (you can get it in Tesco and most other supermarkets). Stir for a couple of minutes, then pour in 200ml white wine, a pinch of sugar, two teaspoons saffron, half a teaspoon salt, and 900ml vegetable or chicken stock. Turn the heat down to low and simmer for about 30 minutes, without covering or stirring. When most of the liquid has been absorbed, taste to check the rice - it should be slightly chewy, like a good risotto, but not still chalky in the middle.

Blanch 300g frozen peas in boiling water, then drain and add to the cooked rice, along with a few handfuls of sliced baby plum tomatoes, 4tbsp chopped parsley, and a couple of handfuls of black olives. Cover the pan and leave for ten minutes or so, then stir the rice, check the seasoning, and serve, garnished with lemon wedges, more parsley, and some marinated or tinned artichoke hearts.

(Adapted from Plenty by Yotam Ottolenghi)






Raymond Blanc's Kitchen Secrets

I am so glad that this excellent programme is once again on TV. So glad, in fact, that I have decided to share it with the world (and by that, I mean my limited readership) and urge anyone interested in food to have a watch themselves. The format is simple: chef Raymond Blanc invites viewers into his "Oxfordshire Kitchen" (which, I assume, is the kitchen of Le Manoir, his restaurant in Oxfordshire, which lies so tantalisingly close in distance to, and yet so far in affordability from me that it makes me want to weep) and prepares a variety of dishes based around a type of ingredient. What I like about this is that he doesn't choose obvious categories like "meat", "fish", "vegetables". Instead we have a whole episode devoted to apples, or mushrooms, or tomatoes. In the new series he starts off with shellfish.


The Guardian didn't take too kindly to Raymond's offerings, dismissing them as impractical and impossible to recreate at home. I think they have missed the fundamental point of most cookery TV: gastropornography. We don't watch Raymond preparing lobster with caviar and red pepper and cardamom jus because we are actually thinking of tracking down a lobster and preparing it ourselves (I've done it, it's painful). Ditto his creation of pan-fried scallops with spiced cauliflower three ways (pureé, crisps, and bhajis). We - or at least, I - watch it for the beauty of his dishes, and for the interest in food that prompts us to seek out such programmes in the first place.

All of this is helped, of course, by the fact that Raymond is an excellent presenter. He doesn't have the in-your-face sexuality of Nigella, the painfully forced nonchalance and casualness of Jamie, the self-conscious masculinity of Gordon. He is, of all the TV chefs, the most at ease on camera. Even the brilliant Lorraine Pascale, whose Baking Made Easy series I am an avid fan of, often seems a bit uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the studio lights. It's a little thing, but the way TV chefs taste their food is very telling about their comfortability as a presenter. Sophie Dahl, whose series was widely slated last year, would timidly poke her finger into the food and then shyly disappear off camera to - probably - throw it in the bin. Lorraine Pascale must have some strange eating disorder whereby every time food passes her lips, she has to giggle coyly at the camera. Yes, Lorraine, we know you're flushed with your amazing success as a former model and now TV chef, but there's no need to rub our faces in it. Nigella gobbles down her culinary concoctions as if they were female viagra, and Nigel Slater simply describes everything he eats as "so good". Really, Nigel? As if you're going to say "Hmm...it's alright, I suppose, needs a bit more salt...might not try this recipe again..."

Not so with Raymond. When it comes to tasting, he gets one of his sous-chefs to do it, and then they have a little chat about the dish. It's an informal discussion of the various elements of the dish, much more relaxed than Masterchef's John Torode, who feels it necessary to list enuemerate single flavour and ingredient in his enormous mouthful in a sort of litany to the camera: "Sweet scallop, salty jus, creamy pea puree, that taste of the sea..." Raymond chats to the viewer as if they were an old friend, cracking jokes, making mistakes (he refers to a bhaji as a bungee at one point), bantering with sous-chef Adam (a frequent feature on the show, and a constant source of amusement as he puts up with Raymond's mad antics - he makes him eat a lobster lung in the first episode), and rhapsodising over his ingredients. Indeed, he claims that a scallop makes him emotional, such is the quality of the produce.

Well, Raymond, me too. I get mildly emotional over beautiful food and the satisfying, wonderful alchemy that comes with cooking with good ingredients. I could not have been happier than I was at the point where Raymond killed a lobster using a special machine that electrocutes it, killing it instantly and humanely. I was genuinely worried that my respect for Raymond would diminish as soon as I saw him plunge the living crustacean into a pot of boiling water, but no. Not Raymond. He genuinely cares about his ingredients, and I find it rather endearing that he can get so excited about something as humble as a cauliflower.

Sure, the dishes aren't really recipes to recreate at home (although his episode on bread was full of fairly manageable ideas for home baking). But for the true food-lover, I don't think that matters. What is enjoyable is taking inspiration from Raymond's recipes, even if it's just ideas for flavour pairings, like scallops and spices, or lobster with ginger (which I know for a fact is a constant feature on the menu of the trendy London Italian, Bocca di Lupo). What is even more enjoyable is Raymond's genuine charm, passion for food, and the way he conducts himself on camera. His wonderful French accent and slightly eccentric mannerisms don't hurt, either. It's rare that food television actually makes one laugh, but Raymond's caperings about the kitchen are certainly a source for amusement, as well as admiration.

Oh, and the food looks divine. My mum said she'd take me to Le Manoir when I graduate. I graduated about nine months ago, so I might start hinting.

But if I do go, I'm going to ring up first and check Raymond will be there. I wonder if he's married...

Iranian-style roast teal


A couple of weeks ago I visited Borough Market for the first time. For someone who expends every waking thought on culinary matters, this was rather an exciting experience. It reminded me of the Real Food Festival; lots of independent retailers selling weird and wonderful things - the favourites seem to be cheese, artisan bread, and chorizo sausages. I was expecting more of a generic market, so I was pleasantly surprised. I loved the fruit and veg markets especially, with their lush displays of glistening fresh cherries, lychees, champagne rhubarb and quinces. I haven't seen quinces for a while now, so I bought a load of them eagerly for future use. They were the most perfect quinces I have ever seen; smooth and with a perfect, unblemished surface. But this isn't about the quinces. Another exciting purchase came in the form of a brace of teal from a butcher's. I've never seen teal before; the butchers here have never had it in stock, so I've only read about it in my game cookbook. It's a very small breed of wild duck, and I was struck by just how tiny it is - smaller than a wood pigeon. Always keen to try cooking something new, I bought a couple, with no idea of what I was going to do with them.


Inspiration came, though, from my Iranian cookbook, Saraban. There's a recipe for duck breast with fesenjun sauce, a thick, rich, unctuous concoction of pomegranate molasses and walnuts. Seeing as teal is a kind of duck, but its meat is much more strongly flavoured and gamey, I figured it would go very well with a rich, aromatic and sweet sauce. My mum had also recently been for a meal at an Iranian friend's house, and she raved about the fesenjun stew she had tasted. She told me proudly that she'd even obtained a bottle of the pomegranate molasses from her friend to make it, which she would give to me - why on earth she didn't think I'd have some already, I don't know, but I'm a bit addicted to the stuff so more is always a good thing. I wanted to try this culinary delight for myself; the notion of walnuts and pomegranates together in a sweet-sour sauce is something that appealed to me immensely.

In classic fesenjun recipes the meat is cooked in the sauce until it is tender and melts in the mouth, but overcooking such a tiny, beautiful game bird would have been a horrible thing to do, so I made the sauce separately.


The sauce is simple to make: the ingredients go in a pan and bubble away happily for an hour or so, until the mixture thickens and becomes rich and glossy. It's not the prettiest sauce to look at, but it tastes amazing. There's a richness from tomato purée, a sweet-sourness from pomegranate molasses, and an aromatic depth from cinnamon, turmeric, bay and black pepper.


For the teal, I seasoned them with salt and pepper then browned them in a pan full of hot butter. I brushed their skins with a glaze of honey, pomegranate molasses, black pepper and crushed cardamom, then they went in the oven for about ten minutes. Sounds like a very short time, but they are very small birds, and the meat is best eaten rare. They were perfectly cooked; a deep, scarlet red inside, with wonderfully soft, grainy meat.


Add some saffron couscous and a bunch of watercress, spoon over the sauce, and you have a delicious and moreish combination of intriguing flavours. Scattering over a few pomegranate seeds makes it look pretty and also adds a welcome crunch and freshness. The sauce is very good just stirred into the couscous and eaten on its own, but it's even better when coupled with a mouthful of iron-rich game. I can't wait to try a proper fesenjun stew with chicken.

You could use regular duck breasts for this recipe as well, or even a wild mallard (though you'll need to cook a mallard for a little longer).

Roast teal with fesenjun sauce (serves 2):

First, make the sauce. Roast 100g shelled walnuts in a baking tray in the oven for ten minutes. Remove to a food processor and blitz to thick crumbs - try to retain some texture. Heat some oil in a small saucepan and fry a small onion, finely diced, until soft. Stir in half a teaspoon cinnamon, a quarter of a teaspoon turmeric and black pepper. Add a dessert-spoon of tomato puree. Fry for a couple more minutes, then add the walnuts, a dessert-spoon of pomegranate molasses, a bay leaf, 20g sugar, 150ml pomegranate juice and 200ml chicken stock. Bring to the boil, then lower the heat and simmer gently, stirring regularly, for an hour or so, until the mixture thickens and becomes rich and glossy. Taste to check the seasoning - if too sweet, add some lemon juice.

Start cooking the teal once the sauce is ready. Pre-heat the oven to 180C. Season the teal inside and out with salt and pepper. Get an oven-proof frying pan quite hot and add a knob of butter and a splash of olive oil. When sizzling, place the teal in the pan, breast-side down, and sear for a minute or so until golden. Repeat with the bottom of the bird. Mix a tablespoon of honey with half a teaspoon pomegranate molasses and a pinch of black pepper and ground cardamom, and brush over the browned skin of the teal. Place the pan in the oven for ten minutes, then remove the birds, cover with foil, and rest for a few minutes while you make the couscous.

For the couscous, just put it in a bowl, sprinkle on some saffron, then pour over boiling water to cover it by half a centimetre or so. Cover with a plate and leave for five minutes.

Serve the teal with the couscous, some watercress or rocket, the sauce, and some pomegranate seeds sprinkled over.

A Valentine's pavlova

For this was on seynt Valentynes day/Whan every fowl cometh ther to chese his make ~ Chaucer


Just as I believe you shouldn't need Hallmark to tell you when you should be showering your beloved with affection, so I also believe you shouldn't need an occasion to make a spectacular pavlova. This is my contribution to the day of St Valentine. The man himself is someone we actually know almost nothing about. The first association between romance and the Saint came, in fact, from my favourite man of all time - Geoffrey Chaucer. In his poem, The Parliament of Fowls, he describes all the birds flocking to a parliament in order to choose their mates, because it happens to be the day of St Valentine. Perhaps a dish of bird in some shape or form would have been a more appropriate Valentine's day emblem, in this case. Newspapers and magazines nationwide for some reason decide that making a chocolate fondant for your loved one is the appropriate way to celebrate, along with the usual suspects - oysters, scallops, fillet steak. I reckon this rhubarb pavlova is a far more apt metaphor for romance: sweet and delicious, but with a tart, astringent edge. 



I used to be able to make perfect meringues, until for some reason one day I produced a long string of successive failures. I think perhaps I was becoming too conscious of the complicated alchemy that occurs when you mix egg whites, air and sugar. Terrified of overwhisking, I think I didn't allow enough time for the mixture to thicken, ending up with a runny white liquid that definitely didn't set into soft peaks. However, I am pleased that this sad time seems to be over. My pavlova was, even if I say so myself, excellent. The trick is to add a couple of drops of lemon juice to the egg whites before you start whisking, to make sure they are thick enough before you start adding the sugar (hold the bowl over your head - you should stay dry), to add the sugar in batches and whisk enough each time to end up with a mixture the consistency of shaving foam. This should result in a beautiful light, glossy meringue that will hold its shape when you form it on a baking sheet into whatever shape takes your fancy. There's something immensely rewarding about spreading the white foam onto a dark baking sheet, flattening it in the middle and raising it at the sides, sweeping across the structure with a spatula to create smooth contours of sugary perfection.


The traditional filling for a pavlova is, obviously, summer berries. But, obviously, it is not summer, and I can't afford the £3 or so Tesco charge for a tiny box of imported blueberries or raspberries. Better to use one of my favourite seasonal ingredients, and one that is so beautiful at this time of year that I cannot help but marvel over it. Champagne rhubarb is truly one of nature's gifts, and I genuinely find it hard to believe, every time I use it, how something that comes up from the muddy ground can be so shockingly pink. It doesn't seem natural, somehow. Very few foods are that pronouned in colour. The pink looks wonderful against the cream of the meringue, particularly with some mint leaves scattered over. As a bonus, you're left with lots of lovely poaching liquid from the rhubarb, which is delicious mixed with a sliced blood orange and drizzled over a bowl of muesli the next day. Certainly a breakfast to wake one up.


If I were making a berry pavlova, I'd probably use cream in the middle, or a mixture of whipped cream and mascarpone, flavoured with the seeds from a vanilla pod. However, I used yoghurt, mixed with icing sugar and orange zest. The orange notes bring out the flavour of the rhubarb perfectly, and there is a slight tartness from the yoghurt that stops the meringue being overly sweet. It's also slightly healthier (that is, if you ignore the vast amounts of sugar that you pour into the egg whites...)


A delicious combination of chalky, stiff meringue that turns gooey and fluffy in the middle; sweet, tart rhubarb, and orange-scented yoghurt. If Geoffrey Chaucer were still alive, I'd make this for him. 


Rhubarb pavlova (serves 6):

Preheat the oven to 160C.

Place four egg whites into a large mixing bowl. Make sure the bowl has no traces of damp or grease in it, or the whites won't whisk properly. Add a couple of drops of fresh lemon juice. With an electric beater, whisk the egg whites until thick - you should be able to turn the bowl upside down and for them to stay there, or to lift the beater from the mixture and end up with soft, stiff peaks. 

Measure out 225g of white or golden caster sugar (the latter gives a nice toffee colour to the meringue). Add a quarter to the whites, whisking all the time, until they have thickened some more. Keep adding the sugar in batches, whisking after each addition, until the mixture is the consistency of shaving foam. It should stand up when you remove the whisk.

Place a sheet of baking parchment on an oven tray. Using a spatula, place the meringue mixture onto the baking parchment in whatever shape you like - just make sure the middle of the shape is slightly flatter - you want to end up with a sort of bowl shape with raised sides, to hold the filling in. Sprinkle with flaked almonds if you like (it looks pretty).

Bake at 160C for five minutes, then turn the oven down to 140C and bake for an hour. When the time is up, turn the oven off, leave the door slightly ajar, and leave the meringue there until totally cold.

For the rhubarb, place four big sticks of rhubarb, sliced into chunks, in a baking dish. Squeeze over the juice of an orange and sprinkle over 3 tbsp sugar. Bake for about 20 minutes at 180C, or until the rhubarb is tender to the point of a knife.

Mix 250ml yoghurt (the stiff, Greek kind is best) with 4tsbp sifted icing sugar and the zest of an orange. Spread into the centre of the meringue. Spoon over the rhubarb (try not to spoon over too much juice, or the pavlova will be soggy and leak everywhere when you cut into it). Decorate with icing sugar and mint leaves, and serve.

Ragu of hare with red wine and cocoa

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood/Clean from my hand? ~ Macbeth


I had only come across hare in a culinary context once before I attempted this classic Italian dish. My housemate last year fancied trying his hand at jugged hare (which, if you are unaware, means cooking the hare in its own blood). Fortunately, he asked the butcher to do all the cutting and jointing for him. So when I entered our communal kitchen to find blood spattered everywhere (we later found some inside the kettle), I was more than a little confused, and was told that apparently the butcher hadn't cut it into enough pieces. He stood there, gore-stained knife in hand, hacking away at a deep red carcass and looking decidedly sheepish. To this day I am unsure if perhaps the hare story was a clever ruse to cover for some sort of kitchen-based murder.



In 2006, a UKTV Food survey of 2021 people found that 70% of people stated that they would refused to eat jugged hare if it were served at the house of a friend or relative. Although the idea doesn't bother me in the slightest (seriously, people, man up - it's basically the same as eating a rare steak), I settled on a slightly less gory way of cooking this wonderful animal, in case my four dinner guests comprised those people who object to the idea - braising the joints in a mixture of red wine, cocoa, bacon, vegetables and aromatics (juniper, bay, thyme), and serving it with pasta. This hare ragu is served throughout Italy with pappardelle; thick, wide strips of pasta that hold the rich sauce perfectly. 


I'd never tried hare before; I knew it was very different to rabbit, and much more like venison both in its appearance and flavour. I didn't realise quite how much larger than rabbit it is; the hare and its braising liquid could barely fit in my Le Creuset (and that, avid readers, is perhaps the most middle-class sentence you will ever find within this blog). Nor was I prepared for the sheer amount of blood that the meat seems to shed, even when it has already been jointed. I felt a little bit like Lady Macbeth, frantically scrubbing bright red blood from under my fingernails. 


That said, it's a magnificent animal. The meat has a fresh, glistening look about it, and a startling red colour that will satisfy any carnivore. The saddle of the hare is good roasted, which I'd quite like to try. However, the legs are best braised; because the hare is such a muscular animal with hardly any fat on it, roasting the leg joints would probably result in dry, tough meat.

This is a very straightforward dish, and one that doesn't require much attention. Marinate the hare joints overnight with crushed juniper berries, a bay leaf, thyme, a chopped onion, chopped carrots, leeks and celery, and olive oil. Then brown the joints in a casserole, remove and fry some streaky bacon until crisp, then add the vegetables and cook until softened. Pour in some red wine, a teaspoon of cocoa, and some tomato pureé, leave to bubble for a bit, then return the hare joints to the pan. Cover with water, put on a lid, and simmer for at least two hours. The cocoa is an interesting addition: the pairing of chocolate and venison is not that unusual, so I suppose it makes sense: it adds a depth to the sauce.


It depends on the age and toughness of your hare as to how long you'll need to cook it, but mine was perfect after just two hours. The meat fell off the bone in beautifully thick, deep russet strands, which I stirred back into the cooking liquid to make the ragu. It's hard to describe the taste of the meat, but it's incredibly strongly flavoured. In fact, the smell of it is almost unpleasantly strong, though the taste is excellent. If you like venison and don't object to gameyness, you'd probably like it. The sauce needs lots of grated parmesan to cut through the meaty richness, but what you'll end up with is an immensely satisfying - and unusual - bowl of pasta. I'd quite like to try cooking hare with some form of fruit; I think it needs sweetness to complement its dark, iron-rich meat. Watch this space.


Hare ragu (serves 6-8) (taken from Game: A Cookbook)

Place a hare, jointed, in a large bowl with a shredded bay leaf, the leaves from a sprig of thyme, 6 crushed juniper berries, 4 crushed cloves of garlic, a finely diced onion, 2 finely diced carrots, leeks and stalks of celery, and 2tbsp olive oil. Mix together and leave in the fridge to marinate overnight.

Heat some oil in a large casserole and brown the hare pieces all over. Remove to a plate and fry 100g smoked streaky bacon until it becomes crispy. Add the vegetables and any marinade juices. Add 500ml red wine and allow to evaporate partially, then add 1tbsp tomato pureé and 1tsp cocoa powder. Return the hare to the pan and cover with water. Season and bring to the boil; cover and simmer gently for at least two hours, or until the hare falls off the bone.

Remove the hare from the pot and let cool until you can handle it. Shred the meat from the bones and be careful not to snap off the ribs and put them in the sauce too (ouch). Mix the shredded meat back into the cooking liquid - you may need to add more water to loosen it, or arrowroot or cornflour to thicken it. Serve over cooked pasta with lots of grated parmesan.


For more wonderful game recipes, I'd strongly urge you to buy this recipe book. It's very rare that you find such an enticing selection of recipes in one place, and if you're a big game fan (that is, a big fan of game, not a fan of big game like rhino), you'll know that finding nice recipes can be a struggle, because the meat is so underrated in this country. Click the link...you know you want to.

Lychee sorbet


Lychees are everywhere at the moment. I always associate this wonderful little fruit with Christmas, I think because when I was younger they were always included in the obligatory fruit salad my mum made to follow Christmas dinner. They still have that hint of the exotic about them, perhaps because unlike a lot of other fruit, you can only get them at a certain time of the year. How perfect, that they start appearing just as your palate is bored of hearty winter stews and comforting flavours. Their sharp juiciness and hint of sweet perfume is just what you need on a gloomy January day, and, along with rhubarb, their colour can't help but cheer you up a little bit. Their texture is also immensely satisfying; despite them often being used for children in Halloween games to replicate eyeballs, I still love the smooth, slippery flesh with its translucent and sometimes slightly pink hue. The other day I spied a two-kilo box of lychees at the greengrocers' for £4. I can't resist fruit in a box; I think it's the sense of abundance and plenty that it carries with it. Perhaps that's why I love alphonso mangoes so much. There's something very satisfying about carting home a whole box of fruit, knowing that your vitamin supply is well and truly secured for the next week or so. Needless to say, I bought the box without hesitating.

 

However, even I - fruit addict that I am - cannot eat that many lychees without help. The problem with lychees is that they tend to go off quite quickly, and once one turns mouldy, the entire batch swiftly follows (as I found out to my dismay a few weeks ago). I did a quick google for lychee recipes, but there are surprisingly few, perhaps because it is a fruit that is pretty perfect raw and unadulterated. Also, those fiddly stones make cooking with them a bit of a faff. 


I remember eating a delicious lychee sorbet at G&Ds ice cream café a couple of summers ago, and decided to replicate it. I wanted something that would capture the delicate perfume of the fruit without confusing it; a sorbet consisting of just water, lychees, sugar and a squeeze of lime juice seemed a good solution. However, I reckon an ice cream made with lychees and coconut milk would be amazing too - lychees have an affinity with both lime and coconut, probably because they grow in similar regions. I might have to try that at some point...perhaps I will go and get another box tomorrow.

Lychee sorbet recipe:

Peel 600g lychees and put them in a pan with 300ml water and 100g white sugar. Bring to the boil until the sugar has dissolved, and then turn off the heat and allow to cool. When cool, de-stone the lychees, add 2tbsp lime juice (or more, or less, to taste), and blitz the whole lot in a blender. Then just churn in an ice-cream maker to set, place in the freezer to firm up, and garnish with desiccated coconut and lime zest when ready to serve - and perhaps a few fresh lychees, if (like me) you're desperate to use them up.

Where to eat in Oxford

[Note: this page was created in 2011. While I can verify, after recent trips to Oxford, that many of the recommendations still stand, it's always worth checking current reviews and menus before you visit these places!]

I created this list when I lived in Oxford as a response to the constant stream of people who would always ask me, "Oh, so where is good to eat in Oxford, then?" Now, it's not that I could ever get bored of discussing food, but rattling off the same litany of restaurants time and time again did get a little bit tedious, particularly as I knew they would forget all the names and locations straight away, and carry on eating at Pizza Express for the rest of their student days. So I decided to just direct them here. These are, in my opinion, some of the best places to eat in Oxford. I've attempted to vaguely group them by cuisine.

La Cucina - 39-40 St Clements Street. Probably my favourite Italian since Dante. The interior is relaxed and cosy, the staff are great and the food is excellent. It's not particularly expensive - no more so than your average chain Italian - but the dishes are better and more inventive. They do a lovely pasta with duck sauce (as well as classics like bolognaise and carbonara), great pizza (the goat's cheese and roasted vegetable is really good, as is the parmesan and parma ham with rocket), and a really good range of starters - the goat's cheese salad with roast pepper and balsamic is delicious, and the baked mushrooms stuffed with smoked cheese are sublime. There are also a good range of antipasti and breads to choose from (the foccaccia is really good). My favourite thing about the restaurant is that, if you sit in the back room, you can watch them making pizza in the open kitchen. It really does feel like a family-run trattoria in the heart of Italy.

Marios - 103 Cowley Road. A bit of an Oxford institution. If you haven't been, you haven't enjoyed probably the best pizza outside Italy. It's a cosy little place, run by Italians, with a proper pizza oven, and you can tell. What I particularly love about Marios pizzas is how generous they are with their toppings. I was once outraged when, upon ordering a leek, roasted vegetable and blue cheese pizza in an Italian chain restaurant, I was presented with a small piece of dough topped with a thin layer of tomato sauce, three blobs of cheese, and three pieces of dried up leek. The mark up on pizza in these restaurants is about 800%, and it's not as if leeks are going to break the bank. It's similar with a lot of chain restaurants - they're just so stingy with their toppings. Not so with Marios. When you order, for example, the 'Pizza Mario', ten minutes later a gigantic flying saucer of cheese and tomato will appear in front of you, groaning under the weight of spicy sausage, ham, artichokes, olives and anchovies. You're given proper pizza knives to eat it with, and it's probably about five times the size of your head. This is how pizza should be. Another absolute gem is the pizza topped with bresaola (cured beef) and gorgonzola. Sounds a bit of an odd combination, but it is incredible. Mind you, they're all good, and you can make your own topping if you don't fancy a combination on the (extensive) menu. As well as that, they do very good pasta (spaghetti with clams is delicious) and selections of cheese and meat antipasti. But to be honest, you won't need them - it's all about the pizza. They also do takeaway.

Jamie's Italian - George Street. To be honest, I'm not a huge fan of chain Italian restaurants (see above rant about stingy pizza toppings). But if you're going to go to one in Oxford, you could do a lot worse than Jamie's. It's big and bustling with a decent atmosphere helped by the open kitchen (which happened to have just produced a plate of luscious lemon meringue cheesecake as I walked in - a very effective advert for their dessert menu...see below...) and partitioned dining room, upstairs and down. The menu features some interesting dishes that you wouldn't find in your standard chain Italian: mushroom arancini appetisers, for example, or prosciutto with melon (a classic in Italy and one that I love, but that doesn't seem to make it over here much). I tried the lovely crab and fennel bruschetta, which is a far nicer idea than your average watery tomato version, featuring substantial chunks of sweet crab meat with crunchy wafer-thin fennel and a hint of chilli on rustic, flavoursome bread. They also offer big sharing boards or 'planks'  with a variety of breads, meats, cheeses and pickles, though I find the serving of them balanced on top of big tomato tins a bit gimmicky. Mains offer a good range of protein - fish stew, steak, Italian burgers, lobster, turkey Milanese - and salads with an Italian twist (the 'Superfood Salad' is served with a fennel blossom Sicilian harissa, for example). Points for featuring calves liver, a classic Venetian dish but one that you don't often find on chain menus here (are we too squeamish?) The pasta menu does offer a couple of interesting dishes - I enjoyed my rotolo of spinach, squash and ricotta with toasted breadcrumbs, which wasn't too dense or flabby as that sort of thing can sometimes be - but the rest aren't hugely exciting, mostly just your standard bolognese, carbonara, tomato sauce and seafood spaghetti. I was hoping for some ravioli, which I always order in restaurants because it's such a faff to make at home. I did, however, really enjoy the sausage pappardelle, which is a little bit different and reminded me of some incredible sausage pasta I enjoyed once in Bergamo; again, it's not something you find in most chain Italian restaurants here, despite being really delicious. I found it a bit strange that the osso bucco (pork not veal or beef, for some reason) came with no accompaniment: it was literally just two huge slabs of braised meat in a bowl, and definitely needed something to break the - albeit tasty - monotony. Often the downfall of really good Italian restaurants, even in Italy (especially if, like me, you don't like tiramisu or panna cotta), the dessert menu has a good bit of variety - lighter dishes like macerated pineapple or chocolate and pear pavlova sit alongside heavier classics like the chocolate brownie (I do wish they wouldn't refer to it as 'Epic', though), and they offer a nice range of ice cream flavours. One of my pet hates in restaurants is when dessert menus offer 'a selection of flavours; ask your server' and the flavours always seem to be strawberry, chocolate and vanilla. We had a choice of salted caramel, honeycomb and coffee, to name a few, which came with a selection of toppings. I really enjoyed the lemon meringue cheesecake, although I question the need for the meringue on top; it looks pretty, but doesn't really add anything to the dish apart from a rather blandly sweet foaminess. The lemon curd and blackcurrant accompaniments, though, were delicious and the perfect tart foil for the creamy cheesecake. Although it does offer several dishes that you'd find on any chain Italian restaurant menu, Jamie's is a good introduction to some of the other less well-known flavours of the country, simply and rustically presented, and provides a fun, bustling atmosphere in which to enjoy them.

Olives - 42 High Street. The only place worth going for a brilliant baguette. Olives is a tiny independent sandwich bar run by Frenchman Christophe, and will satisfy any gourmet or hungry student with its array of delicious sandwich fillings. The Olives 'favourite' baguette is a combination of buffalo mozzarella, sun dried tomatoes and parma ham with rocket. It's not cheap at a fiver, but neither is it your everyday baguette - this is something special. The focus of the shop is its deli counter, home to all sorts of enticing charcuterie, breads, pates (they once had a lobster terrine on offer) and cheeses. You can have a sandwich made up for you incorporating any combination of these, though there are pre-existing combinations on the blackboard on the wall behind the counter. A personal favourite is the goat's cheese with roasted vegetables, onion marmalade, and rocket. When you choose a filling, you can choose (for free) from three of the following: onion marmalade, rocket, cucumber, tomatoes, roasted veg, chutney, and a few other things that I've forgotten. Baguettes are fairly good value, too, ranging from about £2.50 to the £5 extravaganza that is the aforementioned Olives 'Favourite'. Olives if not a one-trick pony, though: it also sells excellent real Italian ice cream in the summer, very good coffee, pastries, a range of panini and soup, and the Olives 'baguette of the week', which has included the amazing combination of roasted pork, thyme-roasted onions, brie and plum chutney, or roast beef with horseradish and blue cheese. There's a small selection of deli-style items on sale as well, like jars of duck confit, a chocolate absinthe cake (delicious), various chutneys and sauces, and pasta and bread. Oh, and as you'd expect, they also sell olives.

The High Table - 71-3 High Street. I want to call this a hidden gem, but it's not exactly hidden, being smack bang in the middle of Oxford's busy High Street. For some reason, I hardly ever see it more than half-full. This is a shame, because the entire dining experience really is excellent. The interior is beautifully decorated and feels a lot more luxurious and expensive than the menu would suggest. Upon ordering, you're given a basket of wonderful bread (several varieties - the walnut one is particularly good) along with olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. This alone makes it worth a visit. However, even better is their amazing value set lunch and dinner menu (12-7pm). You can have two courses for £10.95, usually with three options to choose from for each course. You don't get given small portions or inadequate food for that price, either. I've had an amazing beef burger with thick cut chips, a beautiful roast rump of lamb, some exquisite haddock, sausages and mash, and a very good pea and mint risotto. The food is always stunning, like something you'd find in a Michelin-starred restaurant. They do an interesting array of ice cream flavours for dessert, too (basil and strawberry, rum and sultana, apricot, white chocolate, pineapple, lychee...) along with delicious classics like lemon tart or spiced poached pears. The a la carte is a bit more expensive, but again is good value for money - there are a range of soups, pastas, salads, and grills. Prices range from £4-6 for starters, £9-16 for mains, and desserts for around a fiver. Again, I can't understand why this place isn't always full - the food is beautiful and the service excellent. You feel like you're in a posh London restaurant, but for a fraction of the price, and it's a great place to take parents or friends for special occasions (I went there on the day I finished my finals, which is perhaps why I have such fond memories of it). It deserves more custom. Maybe I'll regret publicising it on here one day...

Door 74 - 74 Cowley Road. I don’t know whether it’s the name, the small and cosy interior, or the splendid cooking, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that while eating at Door 74 I was sitting in somebody’s living room, somebody who would disappear back to the kitchen every now and then and return bearing delicious dishes they had prepared earlier. Perhaps it was the lovely rustic presentation of the food, the generous portions and the comforting nature of it all. This felt like good, old-fashioned home cooking, rather than pretentious restaurant food with ludicrous garnishes and tiny servings. The interior is on the small side, but nicely decorated. Everything exudes calm and relaxation, from the single waiter who managed to pay attentive care to all the tables, the fairy lights on the dark purple walls, to the small menu that suggests carefully chosen ingredients and flavour combinations. The starters are just big enough to whet the appetite without making you doubt your capacity for dessert: aubergine and lamb wraps; asparagus with egg mimosa; sardines on toast. Main courses are a feast for both the eyes and the tastebuds: the marinated chicken with panzanella salad was zesty and tender, but it was the accompanying salad that really made the dish: big chunks of toasted ciabatta, ripe tomatoes, cucumber, caperberries, olives and red onion in a lovely tangy dressing that soaked into the bread. It was colourful, full of flavour and a superb lively accompaniment to the chicken. The potato cake filled with mushrooms, pine nuts and halloumi cheese was an excellent meat-free option. Desserts range from the classic (meltingly delicious chocolate pudding with ice cream) to the more exotic - lemon meringue ice cream served with fresh mango, or a white chocolate and mango cheesecake. I've also found myself wanting two desserts on several occasions, especially when they listed a banana bread on the menu. Definitely a winner in terms of both food and atmosphere, Door 74 guarantees a thoroughly enjoyable dining experience. 

Fishers - 36-7 St Clements Street. A seafood restaurant, as you'd expect from the name, Fishers' menu changes daily depending on what the restaurant receives directly from fishermen and markets throughout the country. A particular highlight is the seafood platter (hot or cold versions available), placed ceremoniously in the table and accompanied by a bizarre array of silver implements for extracting the various bits of seafood from their exoskeletons. When I went, I had prawns, langoustines, clams and smoked salmon, garnished with parsley and lemon and a pot of tangy mayonnaise. The bucket of bread to go with it is wonderful - dark and nutty, it's a perfect match for the sweet seafood. It's a good conversation starter, as well, if you're there on a date that's going a bit awkwardly - nothing like snapping the heads of defenceless crustacea to get the romance going. The main courses share a common theme: fish as the centrepiece, minimally adorned to let its quality shine. I've had a very good turbot, with mash and mushroom cream sauce, and a lovely lobster thermidor. For dessert they offer gastropub-style classics like sticky toffee pudding, and a nod to the classic fish and chip shop dessert, banana fritters with toffee ice cream. Decor is fun and nautically themed, and service is friendly but can be on the slow side as it's often busy. Seafood of this standard, however, is something to enjoy lingering over. It's on the expensive side (£10-18 for mains), but they do several cheaper set menus, and it's definitely a place to come to treat yourself or a fellow seafood-lover.

Moya - 97 St Clements Street. This is normally the first place I mention when asked where to eat in Oxford. It's brilliant. Definitely a hidden gem, it's not that noticeable when you first walk past. It's half restaurant, half cocktail bar (try the 'brain haemorrhage' or the 'choc-chip mint cookie'), and the dining area is quite small. The food more than makes up for that though, both in flavour and in portion size. It's Eastern European, which is interesting in itself because you don't find much of that around. I was definitely a convert after my first visit there, and can't stop going back. Traditional dishes such as goulash and dumplings are on offer, as well as a selection of tempting options for the piscatorially inclined such as trout, black prawns, sea bass, fishcakes, and – once – a special of cod cheeks. The specials board changes regularly, but the à la carte is so packed with inviting options that this may only complicate matters of decision-making. The “devil’s toast” starter has become one of Moya’s specialities; they also serve it as a bar snack. A crisp slice of sourdough toast topped with smoked sausage, onion, tomatoes, peppers, chillies and grilled goat’s cheese, it is a truly delightful combination of smoky and tangy flavours. Other options include vegetarian dumplings and a Slovak potato salad. Prices are around £5 for starters, and although they may seem small, once the sizeable main courses materialise all will become clear. The segedin, a creamy pork and sauerkraut (pickled cabbage) goulash, is lightly spiced with nutmeg, paprika and caraway. The acid cabbage provides an unusual foil to the rich, spiced meat, and the dish is served with knedla – steam cooked bread dumplings, which mop up every drop of the delicious juices. The traditional goulash – tender beef in a spicy tomato and pepper sauce, fragrant with paprika – is also delightful, the meat so tender you could eat it with a spoon. Although the mains may pose a challenge for some appetites, ensure you leave room for dessert. You can choose from an unusual selection of ice creams and sorbet – think cappuccino, almond and amaretto, dark cherry or apricot – as well as traditional offerings: a Slovak fruit dumpling, Tatras apple cake, or Bublanina (bubble cake), a light sponge studded with seasonal fresh berries. The dumpling haunts my dreams to this day. It's light and filled with apricot, a tart contrast to the dough, and covered in a sublime poppy seed and butter sauce that adds a little crunch. Seriously, you must try it - it sounds bizarre, but it's incredible. The apple cake utilises that unbeatable combination of apple, sultanas, walnut and cinnamon to great effect, encased in a flaky pastry and served with a rich vanilla ice cream. After dinner coffee is accompanied by little sugared biscuits, a nice touch, though perhaps geared more towards the eye than the appetite – after three courses at Moya, you won’t be hungry again for a long time. I can't stress enough how great this place is.

Manos - 105 Walton Street. Deli and cafe by day, restaurant by night, Manos is first and foremost concerned with producing excellent Greek food. You are at liberty to order from the counter as and when something takes your fancy, or wait for table service. The tables upstairs in the deli provide a casual cafe feel even in the evening, where proceedings are less about formal service and more about great food and company. There is no set format for dining: you can point at something in the deli counter that takes your fancy, or order from the menu. The food is often simple but bursting with fresh flavours; lemon, oregano, garlic, tomato. The best way to try as many of the mouthwatering starters as possible is to order a mezze platter. Choose from a selection of dips such as tzatziki, hummous and taramasalata, or Greek classics like dolmathes (stuffed vine leaves), marinated red peppers stuffed with feta cheese and chickpea salad with parsley and lemon. There is also a selection of olives including feta-stuffed, kalamata, and lemon and dill. A far cry from the tiny olives you can buy in jars, these are enormous, glossy, and delicious. Ensure you leave room for Manos’s hearty main courses, all of which are served with a (sometimes unnecessary, considering their size) side of hummous, Greek salad or olives. There is a good range of vegetarian options, including a spinach and feta filo pastry pie, a delicious combination of crispy pastry and tangy, creamy filling, and gigantes plaki, butter beans baked in a tomato and herb sauce. Also available are classics such as imam bayeldi (baked aubergine), Moussaka, and arni me kritharaki, spiced lamb so tender you could eat it with a spoon, served with kritharaki pasta. One of the stars of the menu is the chicken souvlaki, a gigantic flatbread filled with moist marinated chicken (or falafel for vegetarians), hummous, tzatziki and Greek salad. At £5.95 it is perhaps the cheapest route to a full stomach in Oxford. Most main courses are available as smaller portions, enabling you to try a couple. The display of desserts in the deli counter is a smart move; having eyed them covetously on your way in, you will make a point of leaving room for at least one syrup-drenched pastry. Traditional baklava is available in flavours such as almond or pistachio, as well as apple strudel and a variety of home baked cakes that are guaranteed to make you hungry all over again. 

Al-Shami - 25 Walton Crescent. Located at the end of a residential street off Walton Street, this taste of Lebanon in Oxford is easy to miss. Don't. If you've never had Lebanese food before, you're in for a treat. I went there because Lebanese food is very similar to Syrian food, and I was craving some of the wonderful taste sensations I experienced there last August. It didn't disappoint - I could locate pretty much all of them on the menu, and they were just as good as I recalled. They serve an extensive menu of mezze (small dishes to share), plus lots of main courses (mainly grilled meat or fish). I'd recommend going in a group and ordering whatever takes your fancy, then diving in when it arrives, splendid looking and beautifully presented, at your table. Some highlights are the moutabel (smoked aubergine purée, an incredibly moreish and wonderful dip), the mohammara (red pepper, walnut and pomegranate dip - vibrant red and equally vibrant in mysterious flavours), the foul (a mixed bean dip with lots of garlic and olive oil - very Mediterranean-tasting), fatayer (spinach pasties with pine nuts), falafel (deep-fried spiced chickpea patties - crunchy and wonderful), kellage halloum (essentially a halloumi cheese toasty - salty and creamy on the inside, crunchy on the outside), kibbeh maqlia (lemon-shaped deep fried patties of ground lamb, bulgur wheat and nuts), and the kafta kebab (ground lamb shaped into sticks and grilled). Most dishes are served with a big basket of delicious flatbread, perfect for scooping up morsels of dip and sauce, and it's a great place to go to try something a little bit different. The baklava they serve for dessert is also amazing, but baklava normally is.

Edamame - 15 Holywell Street. I'm not sure this needs any publicity from me, as it's in most travel guides to Oxford and has a queue several yards out of the door most nights, but Edamame is as good as Japanese food (in England) gets. Often full of Japanese people (always a good sign) it's family run and absolutely tiny, hence the queues. However, they move quickly and the food is worth waiting for. You share tables with total strangers, which isn't as weird as it sounds, and the food is speedy and satisfying. The lunch menu features complete dishes, like marinated salmon, noodle soup, stir-fried noodles or chicken katsu curry (which all come with delicious and satisfying miso soup), whereas the dinner menu is more about choosing a variety of meat, veg or fish dishes and some sort of carbohydrate to go alongside. The marinated pork is very good, as is the stir-fried squid. At lunchtime, I love the chicken yakisoba noodles, or the ramen soups. The eponymous edamame beans are also a must - order them to nibble on while your food arrives, popping them out of their green pods. It's not a place to linger over dinner, as you can often see a queue of hungry diners out of the window waiting for you to vacate your table, but for a taste sensation it's excellent. The sushi on Thursday nights is also exquisite, and great value for money, and they usually offer a range of specials written on the walls.

Feel free to comment if you have any more recommendations, or disagree with me...

Orange and ricotta pancakes with poached rhubarb


I believe January rhubarb is nature's way of cheering us up. Christmas is over; consequently, we're all in debt, and far too fat. The skies are grey, the nights draw in early, and it's cold. I believe the best form of medication for such a state is admitted via the mouth, and nature seems to agree with me. She has provided us with this delightful ingredient (technically a vegetable, but treated like a fruit), guaranteed to awaken you both orally and visually from your January torpor. Those almost neon-pink stems can't help but cheer one up.

Even more so when paired with another lively ingredient: the orange. These pancakes combine the two in a marriage that is both comforting and invigorating. The pancakes are seared and smooth on the outside, but fluffy and almost creamy in the middle, lifted with the addition of grated orange zest. The batter is made by combining ricotta cheese, sugar, egg yolks, flour, and the zest. The whites of the eggs are beaten to stiff peaks and folded into the mixture in order to raise the pancakes. Some of the pancakes cook through in the frying pan; others, accidentally left on for not enough time, are still creamy in the middle - delicious. The recipe is an adaptation of a Nigel Slater favourite of mine: click here and scroll down.



For the poached rhubarb, just slice some rhubarb stems, sprinkle over the juice of an orange, some sugar, and some ground ginger, and bake at 170C for about 20 minutes, depending on how thin the stems are. The beauty of early forced (or 'champagne') rhubarb is that it is much sweeter than the tough, green specimens you'll find later in the year; I used a mixture of both because I had some in the freezer.


Just cook the pancake mixture in dollops in a frying pan containing a little melted butter. They're quite soft and fragile, so flip them recklessly - if you faff about, they'll probably break up and splatter all over the pan. It doesn't matter if they're not particularly evenly shaped, anyway. You can have the oven on a low heat to keep the pancakes warm while you make them all.



Drizzle the piled pancakes with some of the rhubarb's cooking juices, place a little pile of poached rhubarb alongside, and devour greedily.