Pod Hotel, Camps Bay, Cape Town

Because of the turns of the wind, in summer the water at the South African haven of Camps Bay is colder than mid winter

We discover this after we’ve flown to South Africa in search of summer.

Growing up, we spent every summer in a holiday apartment in Shoal Bay on the east coast of Australia. The flats carried a smell of sunscreen in the carpet and the obligatory set of Trivial Pursuit was dimpled from where cards had been clutched by damp hands. The sand was white, water warm and every afternoon at 3.15pm the ice cream van would roll past playing ‘Greensleeves’. My sister and I would streak down the stairs in search of a chocolate dipped soft serve. We’d eat them hopping from one foot to another- a race to see whether the ice cream would first collapse with heat exhaustion all over your hand, or the bitumen would burn the bottom of your feet.

My criteria for a superior beach side destination hails from this. This is what I require to put a smile on my freckled face;

White sand beach.  Warm water. To be able to walk to and from a good local spot for dinner. A route by the coast to run or walk along.  Somewhere to source ice cream. 

After three days at Pod- one of the shiniest new accommodation options in Cape Town’s playground of Camps Bay, I’ve been seduced.  Chief Brody may have needed a bigger boat to get what he was after.  I’m searching ultimate indulgence. And from now,  I’m now going to need a longer list.

Pod is compact, with 15 rooms and it categorises itself as ‘barefoot luxury’.  Since it opened it has swiftly found itself on plenty of international ‘hot’ lists. My husband and I arrive early from an overnight flight from Heathrow.  Despite the hour we’re shown to our room. It’s a study in rustic elegance; marrying wood, stone, glass and leather. Bedside tables are made from smoothed logs, and the bed base thoughtfully curved to prevent midnight injury to shins. The wifi is lightning fast and there are dvd players so you can borrow from the hotel’s library of favoured films.


Beyond the Charlotte Rhys amenities on the bathroom bench, in the cupboard we find fluffy robes and branded flip flops. At the merest mention of a trip to a beach a basket is packed for us with fresh towels, cold water and staff are dispatched to set up chairs and an umbrella on the sand.


The big red bus tour of Cape Town (which conveniently stops only 200 metres from the front door) tells us in an Afrikaans monotone that Camps Bay is a hot spot for the glamorous. Most mornings of our stay parked beside the infinity edged pool  is a fellow guest; a lithe, tanned German in a South American bikini. She’s doing half hearted sit ups while flipping through one of the fashion magazines left around the bar for guests to peruse.  On our second day we find a photo shoot underway in the hotel bar. Pod may be a place built for beautiful people-  yet the staff are just as kind to us.

Two days into our stay we are upgraded to one of the superior rooms- we’ve traded in our shower and balcony plunge pool for a corner room the size of our London apartment. It boasts a bath large enough for a buffalo; two rainwater shower heads and a spectacular view from the second floor balcony.

A great hotel stands and falls not on the rooms, but on the service. Here, Pod shines. Every morning guests are greeted by name and asked how they slept, what their plans are and if they need any assistance. When the weather turns sour a day is quickly designed for us; we’ll take advantage of the parking available downstairs. A rental car is sourced and a route designed that will take us south, past the Chapman’s Bay scenic drive, onto Cape Point where the Atlantic kisses the Indian Ocean, then  back past Boulders Beach to see the penguin colony.

On the other days we can’t tear ourselves away from the bay.  They begin with a gentle jog north, past the four beaches of Clifton. Then there’s a coffee collected at Caffe e Vida- you’ll know it by the flock of lycra clad cyclists out the front sipping cappuccinos  (cyclists often prove useful trackers of  decent coffee).  From there we make our way to breakfast at the hotel strawberry juice, a continental buffet and the option of hot dishes cooked to order; including the ‘Pod special’ of scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, avocado and crème fraiche. Any country that endorses the inclusion of avocado in breakfast is a friend of mine.

The day lolls past, itching for the arrival of the golden hour. At Camps Bay the strip of restaurants and bars fronting the beach are purpose built for a tradition of ‘sundowners’. A local Union beer and passionfruit daiquiri at the Mussel Bar is a grand way to start an evening. As for food-   it can be argued that South African style pork ribs give the American South a run for their money, and the racks at both the Bayside Cafe and Kove are worth checking out. But the real pick for dinner one block back from the beachfront, at The Codfather.  There you’ll find sushi as soft as infant thighs, oysters and tiger prawns the size of bbq tongs.

For me the best beach side desserts come in a cone. Here they are collected at Sinnfull ice cream parlour and eaten while you walk north along the sand. The first night we do this, I take note of a sign on the shore. It’s there to remind swimmers of who else has been known to enjoy this corner of the world.

Each morning on our run the ‘Be Shark Smart’ message smiles at me. The fact that the ocean is too cold for a dip now seems less of a concern. 

The happiest moments at Pod come at sunset in the plunge pool on our balcony. From here I can still see the sand, smell the salt and hear the rustle of the waves as they kick up against the shore across the road. The water around my chest is a darn sight warmer than the 13 C of the Atlantic. And better yet, in this body of water I can safely nurse a Campari on ice.

If there’s a better spot for a sundowner in the world, I don’t know it.

All of this might help to explain why a plunge pool has found its way onto my criteria for a superior beach side break.  And why Pod has vaulted straight to the top of my personal ‘what’s
hot’ list for 2012.

First published on The Arbuturian

Pod Hotel
3 Argyle Street  Cape Town 8005
021 438 8550
www.pod.co.za/

Best things I ate in Sydney- Sopra CBD shaved cabbage salad

It was always going to be a great night. Take The Hungry One and myself. Add two hilarious beings from our wedding party; one of my brideslaves, conveniently married to one of his groomsmen.

Then put us in one of our collective favourite restaurants (albeit in a new location).

Sopra has been the answer to so many questions. 'Where should I go for a great early lunch?' (Sopra Waterloo, which was conveniently a five minute walk from our old pad in Sydney). 'Where should we celebrate our birthdays?' ( On their  private balcony where the four course $60  family style Italian feast would both stuff and delight, every year without fail).

And where should we run to when the going gets a little rough?

I will never, ever forget the kindness of Sopra's Nicole when during some dark days she matched our faces to a piece in the newspaper. As soon as we walked into the crowded Waterloo site she shuttled us into the private room. 'You don't need people around' she said. 'You need some wine.  And zucchini flowers. And banoffee'

She was right.

It's that kind of place.

Sopra, and the Italian providore 'Fratelli Fresh' it's attached to has expanded across Sydney; from Waterloo, to Potts Point to Walsh Bay- and now there's an outpost smack bang in the middle of the city on Bridge Street.

It's just as good as the others. It plays host to the the old favourites; the black board menu, the carafes of wine, Campari over ice,  antipasti platters, rustic tumble of pastas

There are also new things to like  mozzarella bar and wood fired pizzas. And the thing to have alongside is their shaved baby cabbage salad (AUD$18)

It's tall and proud, like a pistachio green Marge Simpson bouffant. The baby cabbage is cut  wafer thin with a mandoline, punched up with crumbles of parmesan and slicked with aged balsamic.

It's is the true demonstration of a whole being more than the parts.

But the parts; shoddy cheap supermarket balsamic won't cut it. Neither will insipid cheese or rubbery fat chunks of cabbage;  lazy cole slaw style.

It's a twirl and a dip of bitterness and acidity. It's the perfect supporting act for rich pastas and sweet mozzarella glossed pizza.

It might be normally ordered as a side player, but it's a star in its own right.

The four of us fought with our forks to get the last thing. Luckily we're old enough friends to share nicely.

Just one more thing to miss about Sydney, I guess.

(and happy Australia Day to you too)


Cafe Sopra Bridge Street
Ph.82982701
Monday - Friday 12pm - 3pm and 6pm - 10pm
http://www.fratellifresh.com.au/contact_us.asp

La Folie Douce

There are sentences which should never be said aloud.

'That's the problem with eating foie piste side ' is one of them.

And yes, while the frigid air does cause the terrine to seize up like a laminated shelf,  there's nothing about those sentiments that allow it to be uttered without morphing into the worst version of yourself.

To those that heard it, I apologise.

Greetings from Val d'Isere- and more specifically, from La Folie Douce.

Some people gad about in the snow for the adrenalin. Others to learn how to do tricks.

I do it because it's very pretty up there and I get excited about possibly finding a decent place to eat after exerting myself just enough to justify hot carbs and oozing cheese (she says remembering some special meals at Chez Vrony in Zermatt).

It's those memories that get me up in the Alps wearing eight layers of technical clothing and balancing down hills on sticks.

I should say upfront; there are some crud places to eat up the top of Espace Killy in France.

I'm talking about cold quarters of roast chicken and limpid chips seeped in fawn gravy and burgers that collapse from the exertion of  merely being picked up. The interior of some of the self service food stations on the mountain is gloomily dark and crammed with sticky pine furniture; the kind you find in holiday rental flats first decorated in 1966.

Which is why La Folie Douce, as ridiculous as some of it is; proves a grand destination.

You'll probably hear it before you see it. From 3pm the music ratchets up.

The complex sits at the top of the Daille chair lift. Above it the tail end of some charming blue and green runs. It's a broad white and dark wood building that's divided into two. On the left is La Fruiterie- the upscale restaurant. To the right is the self service restaurant- and the bar. 

The self service

The self service feels like a Euorpean finishing school's canteen.

If you trudge along with a tray clinking with sturdy cutlery you can pick up cheeses and bread, very pretty puddings (the tira misu and chocolate ganache cake are particularly tempting) and fat glasses of wine. One glass helps me ski a little better. Two does not.

The other side of the self service station holds the hot food. Pastry is a good option and a slice of ham and cheese pie appears hot and thick with cured pork, oozing cheese. Another  option is the roasts of the day; winners include roast chicken with offal spiked stuffing and a choice of sides that are presented in small cast iron pots. Avoid the chips; they're cold and dry. But trust me when I say if there's anywhere in the world to eat roast chicken with a side of macaroni and cheese; 2600  metres above sea level is it.

The best aspect of the self service are the salads;  we soon become fond of a glass canister holding of slightly busted cherry tomatoes, kissing up to bocconcini and dressed with basil puree.

La Fruiterie

Next door to the self service is La Fruiterie. While it shares the altitude and some of the kitchen with La Folie Douce, the experience (and the price) is a little loftier.

If the sun is shining, you'll still want to sit outside, but back from the fence and the blustery wind. If the chill gets a little much, there are all in one khaki quilted doona suits to put on over your ski gear. I'd love to say The Hungry One resisted the temptation to don a onesie at at nice restaurant. But that would be a lie.

It's the kind of place where the wine comes chilling in buckets of snow.

It's also the kind of place that includes foie terrine on the menu.

And as delightful as the spiced peach  relish on the side of  the plate of fattened liver is,  there's no doona suit for the foie;  which in the cold remains as difficult to spread as my post skiing calves are to stretch.

Main courses at La Fruiterie provide some bumpy terrain. We're assured by others who visited  after us that the black pudding is stellar. Next time, I'll be ordering that. For us veal shank ( €26) arrives as compressed bricks of crumbed flesh, threaded onto a metal stick. A bacon emulsion and pot of du puy lentils bring liquid relief.

A beef steak is written on the menu as XXL and arrives on a wooden platter with pots of mis en place cuddling next to it; fried onions, soft green herbs and a borderlaise sauce.

The meat is threaded with sinew, but provides a good excuse to order a bottle of Bordeaux.

Lastly, a bouillbaisse comes in a tiffin pot seperating out two layers of thinly spiced soup and some grilled pieces of mullet and scallop.

It's a DIY disappointment , with small croutons, wafts of hard cheese and a splodge of saffron mayonnaise on the side. It's a dish where sadly the end result does not bring more than its parts.


Highlights arrive in the form of desserts.

Chocolate profiteroles are exactly what you expect; choux buns, bursting with chocolate creme patisserie  and glossed with ganache and cream. It's black run sort of food.

Lemon tart is much more restrained; a trim rectangle of biscuit base, topped with curd and a cylinder of burnished meringue.

Coffees are one way to end a meal. This is another

Complimentary shots of toffee vodka always seem like a good idea at the time.


The bar

By 3pm next door starts to kick off.  There's a DJ and a live trumpeter. Like a battle call over the mountain hoards start to descend, planting their skis upright in the snow.

Soon it might seem like a a good idea to pay your bill and slink next door to join them.

Soon you may see your 24 year old chalet host dancing on a table in gold hotpants and ski boots. You'll be drinking beer next to people standing on benches, pounding the air and twirling despite the plastic manacles that are attached to their feet.  You may have your hair sprayed with champagne.You may take some very very silly photos.

It's mad stuff. And the maddest thing of all is thinking you could ski down the hill  at the end of it all.

There are some sentences that should never be uttered out loud.

And whether or not I joined the throng who skied down the hill after a Wednesday afternoon at La Folie Douce is one of them.


La Folie Douce
Le télécabine de la Daille
73150 Val d'Isère, France

www.lafoliedouce.com/

(Hints and tips- you can catch the cable car up from the La Daille section of town, direct to La Folie Douce. You can also catch it down rather than risk life and limb by skiing down. There are buses that run from La Daille into the centre of town.

Other things I wish I'd known- Wednesday afternoons are the largest, as that's when the seasonaires have their day off. And unless you get a little blue marble from the cash register or your waiter, you'll have to pay for the privilege of using the bathroom)

Snow play

There's a lot about skiing that is ridiculous. I'm talking about the layers of clothing (today there were nine involved).  The manacles of torture that are plastic boots. The way that your lip balm is always in the last pocket that you look in.

And the fact that it's virtually impossible to say that you're off  to Val d'Isere without sounding like a pampered princess of the highest order. 

But there's a lot that is stupendous. And if you don't hate me too much already, here's a taste.

Exhibit a)

What's not to like about Provencal Rose, chilling in the snow?

Exhibit b)

Is there anywhere else in the world that a Kit Kat tastes as good?


Exhibit c)

The joy of a crepe at the end of a cold day should never be underestimated.

Exhibit d)

Nor should the pleasures of a lunch in the snow, with sunshine with three beautiful men.

And this, this is where the danger starts.

Before you know it you'll be dancing in ski boots and making snow angels in fresh piste.

Suffice to say, life is currently being very kind.

Getting evangelical about pulses- Red kidney bean salad

This is the first in a series of posts, which apart from being useful, will also act as something of an apology.

Full confession;

It all started with cocktails. Then wine. Too much wine. It was then that I climbed onto my high horse.

I think anyone who's more than a passing visitor to this space will recognise that I appreciate a drink or two. But I don't often consume to excess. And here's why. 

I have a tendency to go on a bit.

One morning not too long ago I woke up feeling a touch dusty.

I called a partner in crime from the night before. "How bad was I?" I muttered- washing down two asprin with some pineapple juice (before being whisked off here).

"Hilarious" was her response. "Let's just say .... you got a little evangelical about pulses".

And then it came flooding back. The table was filled with women- some old friends and some new.  Over main courses at this hen's night- where safe conversation topics might involve relationships, celebrities, marriage, makeovers and frocks- and any combination of the above- I monopolised the table for a good ten minutes (oh god, perhaps more).

It seems I  was banging on about beans. More specifically, the frumpy cans and bags that hide at the back of the pantry. I'm talking about  white beans, black beans, red and green lentils.  Chickpeas. Kidney beans.  I didn't even get onto fangled grains like quinoa or chia seeds. I was mainly raving about what these little nubbins can do for us, and our responsibility to sex them up with spices and  crunch. All of this is in aid of  escaping the dinner time crutch of white carbs.

You see, for me comfort food  finds its form in a mushroom quesadillas, pizza bianca, platters of pane con tomate and gluttonous bowls of pasta. And don't even get me started on what I'll do for a plate of gnocchi (brown butter, sage and parmesan, or baked with meatballs, tomato and mozzarella. Let's just say I'm an equal opportunity lover).

It's taken me some years to realise it; but I now know. As much as I love them- white carbohydrates do not love me.

Or, perhaps they do love me; they just really, really love my chin- enough to want to reproduce with it.

So, in order to not be a slave to the cross trainer and to wear the frocks I want,  I've had to get chummy with pulses.  And while I apologise for banging on about it (both in person and here)- I'm hoping these recipes will be good enough to act as a bit of an apology- and they'll make some new friends with those of you here.

First up; Red Kidney Beans

I'm going to start with one of the hardest to sell.  Red kidney beans.

They don't have a strong pull for many of us. My strongest memory of them is in the sludge and slurry of refried beans, or the dark bits that I tend to leave at the bottom of a four bean mix.

Done badly red kidney beans manage to be both papery and bloated; with a pappy waterlogged texture that reminds me of new potatoes that have been abandoned for hours in a tepid pot.

What they do offer is lots of fibre, protein and an ability to suck up spices- particularly if you head south.

Rather than running from the Tex Mex taintof this bean, this recipe squeezes it close-  but brings to the party the kind of acidity and texture the slop is crying for. There's cumin and coriander. There's a smidge of dark chocolate and mandarin zest for additional interest. Playing along are tomatoes, avocado - and for textural punch there are chilli toasted nuts and little pops of citrus.

This mix has one life as a warm salad with chicken threaded through it. In this form it's a complete, one bowl meal best eaten with a fork on the couch. But if you wanted to gussy it up even further just omit the chicken and use the bean salad as a base for grilled piece of  fish,  chicken or pork  and drizzle over some citrus slaked yogurt.

To me, this is a very sexy bowl of beans.  And maybe, just maybe-  it's a dinner that's worth getting a little evangelical about.



Mexican chicken and bean warm salad

Serves 1 very hungry person, or 2 more moderate appetites.


Equipment
1 microplane. 1 fry pan. 1 strainer.


Shopping/foraging

1 teaspoon of cumin
1teaspoon of coriander
1 tablespoon of olive oil
1/2 cup of shredded cooked chicken (poached, left over roast, or shop bought)
1 400 gram tin of red kidney beans
1 handful of coriander/cilantro
1 small mandarin/clementine
1 handful of cherry tomatoes, cut into halves or thirds - depending on their size
1 square of dark chocolate (minimum 70% cocoa solids)
1 small avocado (or half a large one)
1 handful of spiced pepitas and sesame seeds (toast them in a teaspoon of chilli powder)
1 tablespoon of natural yogurt
Salt to taste


Here's how we roll

1. Heat the olive oil in a pan and toast the cumin and coriander until they smell nutty.

2. Add the shredded chicken and 3/4 of the tomatoes. Cook until the chicken is warmed through and the tomatoes have softened.

3. Add the drained and rinsed kidney beans, zest of the mandarin and the square of chocolate. Cook until the chocolate has melted.

4. Assemble the salad by combining the bean/chicken/tomato mixture with the chopped avocado, coriander leaves, remainder of the chopped tomato and about half of the mandarin segments, cut into thirds.

5. Season with salt, top with the spiced seeds and drizzle with a little natural yogurt just before serving.

Best things I ate in Sydney - Porch and Parlour smashed eggs and avocado

These are the eggs that brought me back from the brink. One very dusty morning in Sydney I prised open an eye to find The Hungry One chortling at me. 'You were very funny last night'.

I have a history with hen's nights. And not a great one.

I get caught up in the excitement. It's nothing to do with paraphernalia that resembles male appendages or organised activities. I generally detest organised activities. Make me participate in a nude drawing class or  Paint Ball and I'll run and hide in a dress up box. No,  I'm talking about the  glee that comes with a getting a  group of great women together. Glee, and far, far too much pink wine.

So, suffice to say, after the hen's that preceded this most fabulous wedding left me a little worse for wear. Which is when The Hungry One shunted me off to Porch and Parlour.

It's a sweet cafe and boutique at the north end of Bondi Beach, over looking the RSL. For those who've known the suburb for a while, it's where the original Brown Sugar was. 

There are seats outside (I'm guessing that's the porch) and then cosy communlal seating inside, with the sort of furniture you'd find in a share house of people in their 20's, who have inherited pieces from distant aunts (the parlour).

The coffee is Sacred Grounds. There are fresh juices, housing all of the life affirming must haves of the moment; ginger spirulina and chia seeds all turn up for roll call. You order at the counter from calculatedly casual staff.  There are frittatas, full breakfasts and a dense bircher muesli with dates, apple, yogurt and poached pear ($9.50) that could steel you for days.

And then, there are the smashed eggs ($AUD12).

If anything can bring me back from the brink, it's the steadying combination of eggs and avocado. My husband knows this. A nutritionist might be able to explain it better, but for me the appeal lies in the marriage of gentle saltiness and pliable protein.

Here I'm talking about toasted sourdough, an appropriate sized wedge of avocado and two shelled soft boiled eggs, ready rolled in fresh herbs and flakes of salt.

Occasionally the eggs are cold. I'll be honest and say it's much better when they're warm. You then spread the avocado over the toast and then smash the eggs with your fork, so the yolk dribbles across its face, and not yours.

What makes it special is the gentle dusting of green herbs and salt. If I was going to replicate it at home, I might add some lemon zest, or give it whirl with smoked paprika (a little like these eggs back here).

At it's heart, it's a great rendering of a holy Australian trinity; sourdough, eggs and avocado at breakfast.

All that you need to add is a walk on the beach and a second coffee.  It's the stuff that will not only bring you back to life, but make it one that's damn worth living.


Porch and Parlour
02 9300 0111
Bondi / Bondi Beach
100 - 102 Brighton Blvd
North Bondi, NSW 2026, Australia
porchandparlour.com.au

Best things I ate in Sydney- Duke Bistro radishes in dashi butter

As refreshing as a crisp radish is- gently shaved in a salad, slathered with butter and salt and draped on on dark bread- a cooked one is a thing of beauty. Really. Trust me on this.  It's something about the way the flesh retains some bite, but relaxes in on itself. Meanwhile the bitterness fades to a murky whisper. But if you're not game to try it at home, then you need to get to Sydney and eat this.

I'm talking about a creche of baby radishes, cleaned and rosy, puddling about in an umami bolstered emulsion of butter and dashi.

Duke Bistro is upstairs from the slightly seamy Flinders Hotel, within spitting distance of Taylor's Square in Surry Hills. For all its efforts in service of the  'Dude Food/ Stoner Cuisine' bewitching Sydney at the moment it's this dish, rather than the chicken wings with coleslaw milk  that sticks in my memory now we're back in London.

Duke is a quirky room, with Nana style couches and forrest green walls. It heaves later on in the night with Australian hipster types sipping cold, hard cocktails But if you're made of softer stuff (like me) never fear; earlier in the evening  it's much easier to see what's on your plate (and hear what's being said across from you).

The radishes sit near the top of a menu which encourages sharing. It's the brainchild of chef's  Thomas Lim (ex-Tetsuya’s) and Mitch Orr (2010 Young Chef Of The Year).  It comes in two servings (large and small) with soft and warm rolls  on the side.

It's easy to negotiate. Smear a softened radish on some bread, or dunk the bread, or the radish (or a finger) in the pool of salty gold. Close your eyes. Repeat until done.

If I was going to try and repeat this at home I'd try and fashion an emulsion of Japanese dashi stock and butter and then gently poach some cleaned radishes in it.

I'd probably serve it as a side to a banquet of a large roasted whole white fish, maybe with a touch of ginger, and  shaved cabbage and raw radish salad on the side- with some grated nashi pear and a few macadamia nuts for crunch. 

But if I was in Sydney, I'd get my fix at Dukes. I'd be going both early- and often.


Duke Bistro
Level 1, 63-65 Flinders St, Darlinghurst, (02) 9332 3180,
www.dukebistro.com.au

The chicken pie I wish I had

Ah, plane food.

Such a constellation of delights. This is a story about one of them.

Granted, I wasn't in the greatest of moods when we started our 28 hour commute from Sydney to London. We travel lots, but I'm yet to master being charming all the time while being squeezed into a metal tube flinging through the sky.  That morning  I'd managed to pincer in  one last swim Bondi and a coffee at Allpress. But I'd also dispensed to my mum, dad and best friends final hugs for quite a stretch.

In case you haven't tweaked; I'm TERRIBLE at good byes.

I had my system for making it through the flight all worked out. Four pm flight, arriving in Abu Dhabi at some godforsaken hour, then onwards to London. I'll stay awake for the first half, watch a terrible film with The Hungry One (Real Steel- Hugh Jackman and boxing robots should give you some idea of the quality). Have a glass of red wine, change out of my jeans into my comfortable yoga pants, contemplate dinner and take a sleeping pill.

I don't normally eat much on planes. But just as I lose my taste in film up in the air (yes, I really did choose to watch What's my number over Drive )- when it came to dinner, I lost my way a bit.

It was the promise of a chicken pie that got me. There it was, written on flimsy piece of DL with our flight plan; 'Chicken pie with peas'.

Most people who know me know my love of a good chicken pie surpasses reason. The kind of reason that would lead a person on solid ground to interrogate how on earth they're going to secure crisp pastry under foil.

Let's keep it brief and say it proved a disappointment.

Fast forward 11 more hours.  Arriving into London at 6 am involves a variety of transitions. From plane to customs, night to day, the warmth of the southern hemisphere to the nip of the north. But the greatest change is from the noise of family and friends to the hush of an empty flat; with the front door buttressed shut with dropped mail.

It's disquieting.

So I slip into a familiar routine for settling in ; pop to the shop.  Buy a few bits and pieces to pad out the fridge. Make a cup of tea. Put the first load of washing on. Plug in the computer. Put the passports away. Have a shower. And then;  roast a chicken.

It's for the warmth and the smell as much as anything. I struggle to think of anything as comforting as the wafting aroma of a bronzing bird.

Except the prospect of using its flesh to make a pie- the kind of pie I really wanted.

Just one more reason why it's  nice to be back on solid ground.


Welcome home roast chicken and pea pie

I'd rather one good cap of flaky pastry than suffer the sadness of a soggy bottom- so I use a ramekin as a container. This is a doddle of a cheat's pie. The pastry is frozen and the sauce is just a muddling of liquids with a hint of interest from the mustard, while the peas (also frozen) add a lick of sweetness.

 Serves 1

 Equipment

1 ramekin. 1 bowl. 

Shopping/foraging

1/2 cup of cooked chicken (roasted, poached or bbq that's been bought from a shop) cut into chunks half size of a wine cork
1/2 cup frozen peas
1 tablespoon of creme fraiche or double cream
1/2 teaspoon of Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon of toasted nuts (I like almonds and pine nuts)
1 tablespoon of chopped flat leaf parsley
1/3 sheet of frozen puff pastry
Salad leaves to serve

Here's how we roll

1. Preheat the oven to 230 C

2. Combine together the chicken, frozen peas, parsley, creme fraiche, mustard, parsley and toasted nuts.

3. Transfer mixture to a ramekin and season with salt and pepper.

4. Cut out a circle of puff pastry that's 1 cm in diameter larger than your ramekin. Press the pastry over the top, make a novelty shape from the scraps and add two small slits to allow the steam to escape.

5. Brush the top of the pastry with a little milk or cream.

6. Bake the pie for 15 minutes, until the pastry is golden. Serve with a green leaf salad.

7. Stare out the window while you eat and contemplate being back in London.