Only a real idiot would think they could engineer their dreams. My attempt to dream of a rare Chateau d’Yquem and Tunisian Orange Cake had a most unexpected result. For the first time in a long time, I failed to dream of food. Instead, I dreamt of the thing that dominated my dreams and thoughts for eight years: horse racing. It was extremely lucid. I had travelled alone to some remote racecourse and backed a horse in an amateur riders’ race (unlikely). Needless to say, the muppet swinging on the bridle on my horse clouted the last flight, surrendering the lead. Managing to galvanise his charge the hopeless fool got him back in front, before mistaking the winning post, then realising and having to pick up the bit once more before finally getting his nose in front just on the line. It was an exhausting way to win a couple of imaginary grand. And just as I was heading out of the racecourse, presumably to splash some of my winnings on that elusive d’Yquem, the bloody cockerel went and woke me up. Anyone who thinks they know what that dream means, please do enlighten me. I can only assume that today’s dishes were not sufficient to whet my dormant appetite. I certainly wasn't drooling over Chilaquiles Rojos and Curly Kale
I decided to sneakily swap my Brown Bread Duty for another attempt at the real bread from Tuesday. I really, seriously, want to learn about bread. I make my dough a little wetter today. It rises more, and quicker. I make the same plaited loaf and a few rolls just as I did before. The plait doesn’t hold its shape as well and so is a little flat. Also, to cook the wetter dough through, the longer cooking time means a heavier crust forms. It seems to take more kneading too, since there are a few lines on the outside of the bread that would indicate it needed more attention, and I had given it plenty. That said, it still looks and tastes good, just not as good as Tuesday. The key is learning the consistencies and textures, and understanding how the climate and humidity affect your dough. From now on, whenever I can, I am going to bake bread and learn.
When I actually read the recipe for my Chilaquiles I notice there are a few time consuming stages that I hadn’t fully appreciated. Chilaquiles is basically Mexican peasant food - a sort of lasagne using tortilla chips, shredded chicken and salsa. There are some lovely ripe tomatillas in the weigh up area, so I am going to make Chilaquiles Verdes and not Rojos. This means making my sauce in a wonderful thing called a Molacajete. It is an oversized mortar and pestle that is made from lava rock and has an incredibly rough texture. Whilst my tomatillas are gently poaching I use it to grind onion, garlic, chilli and coriander into a fine paste. There is only one way to gauge the amount of chilli required, and that is to know exactly how hot the chillies you are using are. And the only way to do that is to taste them. They are pretty hot.
In go the tomatillas, skins and all, and the grinding continues. I add some of the cooking liquid to thin the salsa out and put it to one side. Next I cut and fry tortillas for the base and top of the dish, then shred the leftover chicken. I assemble it in layers, pour over the salsa and top with grated mozzarella and cheddar. I stick it in a hot oven for ten minutes and plate it up neatly with two little bowls of extra cheese and sour cream. It looks all right - the top is crusted nicely and it has held its shape, and I know the salsa is good because I tasted and seasoned it properly. But the actual ensemble is pretty uninspiring. My teacher likes it. She thinks it could be a bit wetter - I protest that then it would just be a sloppy mess, and she tells me this is the idea. I am happy to be marked down for these kinds of errors. I begrudgingly try some. I am astonished. It is nice.
I also have to take care of my curly kale. Here is the recipe: ‘Bring a large saucepan of salted water to the boil. Add the curly kale and boil uncovered on a high heat until tender. Drain off the water, puree in a food processor, return to the saucepan. Season with salt, pepper and a little nutmeg if you fancy’. I do fancy, thank you. I taste and season. It is delicious. But wait. There is more. ‘Add a nice lump of butter…’ okay, I add a little butter. ‘…and some cream.’ Now why would I want to go and do a thing like that? I leave the cream out. My teacher and another in my kitchen taste it and think it is delicious. But the recipe says add cream. I don’t add cream. I won’t add cream. It doesn’t need cream. The recipe is wrong.
During the afternoon, there is further dissention in the ranks. On the demo today are green soups. They are made using chicken stock. Someone asks why they’re not made using vegetable stock. We are told it is because the chicken stock has a superior flavour. But surely, with all these organic vegetables, the vegetable stock should be of an extremely high quality. Tasting the veg on their own, they are alive with flavour. So should we not be making vast quantities of fantastic organic vegetable stock which we can reduce down until it is as flavoursome as we need it? And would any restaurant in the world sell a watercress soup that wasn't suitable for vegetarians?
On the subject of which, we dined this evening in a very highly regarded vegetarian restaurant in Cork called Café Paradiso. I think I mentioned before that when dishes cost a certain amount, I expect certain things. They don’t sell beer so I have to get mine from the pub next door. Didn’t expect that. The starters cost around €13 and the mains €25. Didn’t expect that either. (Although I know from the English market that organic vegetables cost more than meat anyway). Two of the starters take my fancy - the vegetable sushi and a terrine of carrot, almond and feta. The sushi comes first, though a good three or four minutes after everyone else’s starters. Other dishes, most notably a portobello mushroom stuffed with cashel blue and pecans, are excellent. Bravo. My terrine is good, and the service remains admirably consistent, since it too arrives significantly later than any other dish. While I’m waiting I pop next door for another drink. Hardly my idea of paradise.
A couple of people have ordered the sweet chilli glazed tofu with coconut and lemongrass broth and soba noodles, a snitch at only €23. It receives mixed reviews due to its spiciness. I take issue with its price. It cannot cost more than €3 to produce. Or can it? The waitress returns. “Do you make the tofu here?” I ask. “Yes we do,” she replies. “You actually press it yourselves?” asks someone else. “No, we buy it from the English market and cook it here.” They must be shitting money.
But guess what? The place is packed and everyone raves about it. The food is good, I’ll give it that. But getting away with charging big bucks for dishes like that says more about the competition, or lack of it, than the place itself. If it were my restaurant I’d charge less on principle. And I’d give the walls a lick of paint while I were at it, it looks like a fucking funeral parlour. And I’d bring sugar with the coffee. And not let my guests have to get up themselves and get it. And I wouldn’t charge €8 for the olives. But then I don’t put cream in my curly kale or use chicken stock in my vegetable soup, so what would I know.
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