Blumenthal Blues

Recently, my attention has been drawn to the release of Heston Blumenthal's high-tech range of 'Sage' kitchen appliances, in stock at John Lewis and Lakeland (peruse here at Lakeland). Clearly, as a student, I can only dream of any of these products ever belonging to a kitchen of mine, the least bank-bashing item being a 'Multi-cooker' at £99.99 and the most being a 'Barista Express' at £549.99. Imagining for a moment though, that I was oddly, a very a rich student; would I choose to spend countless hundreds on such culinary gadgetry? After repressing my egoistic visions of the Roux-standard patisserie suddenly within my grasp thanks to the magically transformative powers of Blumenthal's devices, I have decided perhaps not. Why?

 I'm all for an electric whisk, a spice-grinder and even a commercial standard onion-chopper (as owned by my curry-making father) to reduce the sweat and tears element of cooking but I think that the introduction of all this extra apparatus takes something of the enjoyment out of cooking. Is there not something to be said for the timeless immediacy of a pestle and mortar and the pleasure it gives (alongside the pain) when crushing woody herbs or pungent spices, releasing more aroma with each grind of the pestle and colouring it's stone surface so brightly? Or the love imbued with the effort of whisking eggs by hand for the cake of a friend or family member? Perhaps it is youth speaking, for with age I might weary and be contented to sit back and let a machine of six pre-set cooking functions turn out a perfect risotto before my eyes. Currently though, I take rather a lot of pleasure in stirring my own risotto affectionately over the stove. 

I also like to cook simply, and thus far have not acquired the knowledge or skill to do otherwise. This eliminates all need for fancy contraptions, and I fear I would not know what to do with them even if they were to be at my disposal. Take, for example, the microwave, which I rarely use and when I do, blindly push all of the buttons at once and hope that whatever went in comes out still intact. That one cannot see the cooking actually happening with this sort of technology unnerves me yet also bores me. What fascinates me about cooking is the process rather than the end product; I like to be able to watch and taste as a dish develops. I like to feel the satisfaction of having physically made something, rather than just constructed it like some kind of edible Ikea assembly kit. In fact, I would summarise my feelings by saying that although very clever, very stylish and extremely useful, the 'Sage' range is just far too professional for me. Particularly, the £399.99 'Scrape-mixer Pro' which is so efficient at cleaving cake mix from the sides of it's bowl that it would leave none for me afterwards.

For laid-back or luxury: two great restaurants

Boccon del Prete is a restaurant just around the corner from where I live. I was first introduced to it by a local from Sovicille who dines there frequently as her restaurant of choice for a relaxing, casual lunch with friends. It was autumn, and excitement was rising among those in the know about the arrival of the first freshly pressed olive oil. This precious green elixir was a world away from any olive oil I had ever known, smelling and tasting intensely of freshly cut grass as we were to discover at Boccon del Prete. There, they served what has to be one of the simplest of dishes ever, with pride, as an antipasto. It was called 'fett'unta' and consisted solely of grilled slices of bread rubbed with garlic, dripping with olive oil and seasoned generously with good salt. As my mother can confirm, it was delicious. This confidence in the quality of one ingredient to make a dish shine is a fundamental basis of Italian cooking and it became even more evident as our meal went on, as demonstrated by the carpaccio of beef with an understated dressing and salad that I had, which was beautifully succulent and flavoursome.

Olive trees in the Chianti hills

Having enjoyed my first experience of the osteria, I went there again with my father and stepmother this weekend for a low-key dinner on their first night in Siena. Both of them plumped immediately for the pork with balsamic vinegar, which was a great choice; bravely, the pork was served rare and was complimented by the unctuous balsamic perfectly. In the spirit of adventure, I chose something a little less traditional to Siena than pork, and had a cold selection of smoked swordfish and salmon. True to expectation, it was a light and well balanced combination. All was accompanied by a very respectable house wine which is always a good, inexpensive option in Italy as they take so much pride in their wine selection.

Chianti Classico being aged

As far as dessert menus go however, I am yet to be seriously impressed in Italy. The combination of Sienese cantucci (a type of biscuit) with a glass of the sweet Vin Santo is a wonderful classic but it gets rather tiresome when it features on every single restaurant's list. I'll admit that the nougat semifreddo with chocolate and caramel sauce I had at Boccon del Prete was a nice finish to my meal, but disappointingly my stepmother's pear cake with vanilla and vin santo infused cream was rather blander than it should have been. 

Personally I don't blame the individual restaurants for their uninspiring sweet selections, as it seems to be a universal phenomenon across Italy. This is probably due to a cultural preference for sweet creations at breakfast rather than in the evening, when your typical Italian would rather go for a stroll and a gelato than order any of the coronary-inducing concoctions we British dream up at a restaurant.

The next day, we booked a table at one of Siena's more luxurious restaurants for a celebratory dinner. An inconspicuous place from the outside, the Antica Osteria da Divo hides inside it an unusual labyrinth of underground Etruscan grottoes which, along with the subtle lighting and soft notes of jazz drifting from cavern to cavern, makes for an unforgettable experience. We were greeted with delicate parcels of rice and salmon whilst we pored over the creative and well-thought out menu, delivered by attentive yet discreet staff. Of the dishes we sampled, each one was breathtaking. My father had the steamed lobster with boiled potatoes and asparagus with a balsamic reduction, followed by the most elegant egg lasagna 'au gratin' with beef, fennel seeds and Tuscan sausage ragu I have ever seen. Kate then had the rolled pork filled with spinach, mushrooms and fresh pecorino, truffle sauce and potato puree and I a breast of guinea fowl with balsamic vinegar and spinach with pine nuts and raisins. Although already quite satisfied enough, we were unable to resist the temptation of a dessert to finish our evening and were pleased to find a rather more sophisticated selection than had been offered the previous night. Again this course was anticipated with a delicious Neapolitan rum baba each. Both my father and Kate singled out a sumptuous chocolate semifreddo served in a macaroon basket with crunchy almonds whilst I chose a sweet pastry stack with lemon scented cream and fresh berries which was taken to another level by a light garnish of mint leaves. The only grievance we found was the overrated selection of digestifs which would have suitably rounded off a glorious dinner, had the grappa we were after been of the quality my father was hoping for. Despite this small criticism, I am already inventing excuses to return and taste the rest of their seasonal spring menu, which I readily assume must be equally as exquisite.

Lasagna 'da Divo' style

A Spanish Escapade

On Saturday morning, I arrived alone in Bologna with my backpack and seven hours to kill before jetting off to Alicante in the evening. Fortunately for me, I  quickly stumbled upon one of Bologna's famous food markets, Mercato di Mezzo, in the old medieval town where I lingered gawping and ruing the lack of space in my luggage. Each shop, with laden trestle tables sprawling out into the narrow street, was a specialist in it's wares. From Pescheria to Pasticceria, Salumeria to Formaggeria, there was everything you could possibly dream of to the highest of Italian standards. Next time I go back, I'm taking a large empty suitcase. From my point of view, filling that suitcase with Bolognese edible goods will be a sensible investment for my larder as many of their best specialities keep well and even improve with age.

A short hop across the Mediterranean Sea later, and I was sitting in the flat of my old friend Miss Jones eating hot bruschetta topped with  tomato salsa, prosciutto, rocket leaves and goat's cheese. We spent  much of our time eating as becomes necessary when you have a lot to catch up on and it's raining. As a testimony to the wise words of the local Spanish students, we found that by far the best meals that we ate were those cooked at  home, like those by Miguel, who would knock up a paella at the drop of a hat. I  soon realised why this was when we went to Mercadona to buy for the dinner I was cooking. It is a sad result of the economic crisis, but you can buy such  varied and great ingredients for an absolute pittance, that it isn't surprising that  people are making their own rather than splashing out on restaurants. Needless to say, I made sure to squeeze some chorizo, vanilla pods and saffron into my backpack to bring back!

Nevertheless, we did sniff out a few gems on our wanders around the streets of Alicante. One particularly irresistible stop was at the Borgonesse Icecream Parlour on the Rambla where the elegantly sculpted mountains of 'helado' topped with jaunty cinnamon sticks and large chunks of nougat hooked us in despite the drizzle outside.

 Another sweet spot we found was a nearby Creperia called Yog&Bluffin where we sated our sugar cravings with first one crepe, and then a second. We gorged ourselves on strawberries submerged in Nutella, and then walnuts drenched in salty caramel; not quintessentially Spanish but extremely satisfying.

To round off the day, we headed into El Barrio, the old town which is the most picturesque part of Alicante, where the beauty of the traditional architecture remains unspoiled by the jumble of concrete flats that plague the rest of the city. Here, there were many small, boutique bars so we sat down for a couple of Mojitos in a casually retro place sporting battered old petrol station signs and a buffalo head mounted on the wall. The inhabitants of this bar were certainly interesting; we met a Parisian eye surgeon, a bearded old rocker who barely masked his affection for his friends with his rough-edged insults, and a half-Irish, half Pakistani Londoner who made his living in Spain playing poker.

The next day, we climbed up Santa Barbera, the castle that dominates the coastal skyline of Alicante, and refueled ourselves afterwards with a couple of small beers and a selection of traditional tapas in an unassuming bar along the road. For all it's shabby appearance, and it's even more questionable characters, the tapas we were brought out was very good. Making the most of being by the sea, I was delighted by the various morsels of whitebait, prawns, fried squid and crab meat. Megan was even tempted enough to eat some of whitebait, bones 'n' all...

I was very sad to leave, having absorbed a bit of the laid-back Spanish attitude to life and wanting to explore more of this new and intriguing country in which my friend was having such fun on the last stretch of her Erasmus year. However, the call of a hearty bolognese ragu with Cecily on my return to Bologna  and the promise of making my very own paella on arriving home in Siena sweetened the departure somewhat.