Travel. Eat. Explore.

Going Native – Eating tapas like a Spaniard

noodles — Sun, 5 Jun 2016 14:30:00 GMT

Mid-afternoon, entonada on vermouth and sleepy from sunshine, it’s time to placate my growling belly and seek out some local fare. Marla leads the way back towards el Rastro to Cervecería Cruz – La Casa de las Navajas, a boisterous, harshly-lit tapas bar heaving with Sunday market-goers and garrulous Spaniards.

Squeezing past the bar, it’s hard not to slip on the paper napkin-strewn floor, nor to rub shoulders with sweaty patrons bellowing out orders over one another as they fight for prime real estate at the metal countertop. By a stroke of luck, we manage to nab a little table in the back corner, naturally without chairs, as eating on your feet, packed in like sardines, is the Spanish way.

A bedraggled waiter wipes his brow before brashly taking our order. He turns towards the bar and regurgitates at the top of his lungs a procession of plates: “Navajas a la plancha; pimientos de Padrón; gambas a la plancha; patatas bravas; berberechos a la plancha … y quarto vermuts!”

Getting a smile (smirk) out of our waiter

A little dish of briny green olives and pickled onions keeps our hunger pangs at bay, before a substantial dish of grilled razor clams doused in garlic and parsley butter arrives. Letting the fine white flesh slither down my throat, I’m surprised to discover how tender and succulent it is, quite the contrary to an industrial strength rubber band I had imagined.

Pimientos de Padrón (fried green peppers); green olives & pickled onions; & vermouth

Next arrive plates of fried green peppers; grilled juicy prawns; fried potatoes in a spicy sauce and some kind of bloody tasty grilled cockles that I don’t recognize. I dive in to devour the delectable morsels. With oil dripping down my chin and forearm, I too find myself partaking in the incessant finger wiping game, as I tear the first of many paper napkins from the metal dispenser. However, unlike my Spanish companions, I can’t quite bring myself to tossing it on the ground.

Tapas aftermath & the ubiquitous white paper napkins

As tapas is no static game, we slug back the last of our vermouth and march on to the next spot…

Lazy Sundays in the Sunshine

noodles — Sun, 5 Jun 2016 10:00:00 GMT

Roused from a deep sleep by the racket of a truck-mounted street sweeper, I’m immediately reminded of my surroundings: the bustling metropolis of Madrid and not the peaceful suburb of Auckland with its soothing sounds of birdsong.

As the street sweeper tackles the litter strewn pavement down below, erasing any vestige of a good night out, I slide out of bed, slip on my black silk singlet and shorts and make my way downstairs to the hotel lobby. Stepping outside, spotless wet sidewalks glisten under the morning sun that only hours before resembled the aftermath of a raucous fiesta.

I make my way to our usual meeting point on the corner of Calle del Dr Cortezo and Plaza Tirso de Molina and ponder what avant-garde ensemble Marla will don today… round black-rim shades, a '90s goth-lite tattoo choker necklace, black tank top, denim short dungarees, white sneakers and a burgundy leather rucksack? ¡Claro que sí! We exchange dos besos and head towards el Rastro, Madrid’s open air flea market that owes it name to “the trail” of blood left behind after transporting slaughtered cattle from the abattoir to the tanneries once located in the area.

Marla's avant-garde ensemble

Strolling through the narrow streets, the sleepy city of Madrid begins to yawn, wipe its heavy eyes and stretch its stiff limbs: birds flutter from rooftop tiles; inner-city residents fling back windows to vigorously beat the dust and debris out of their rugs; storekeepers raise roller shutters and start assembling their wears on the footpath; flower sellers and fruit vendors erect their stalls in the local plaza; and cafés infuse the streets with the lingering aroma of sweet coffee and buttery pastries.

Soon, el Rastro is swarming with sun-kissed locals; elderly couples lugging shopping trolleys; families with kids in tow and rowdy packs of tourists carrying selfie sticks. We weave our way through the crowds to the La China Mandarina, a chic café-bistro-workspace situated at the heart of the flea market and whose salubrious €16 “Sunday brunch” menu transports me straight back home.

Honeycomb tile flooring, exposed brick walls, contemporary lampshades, eclectic furniture and dainty vases of freshly picked flowers set the scene at Fran Echegoyen and Joana Ortega’s eatery. Leaning back into our chairs at a sun-drenched table straddling a floor-to-ceiling window that opens up to a graffitied alley, we peruse the menu.

Honeycomb tile flooring at the chic café-bistro-workspace La China Mandarina

Sunday brunch in the sunshine at La China Mandarina

Before long, our little table is laden with cups of oat milk coffee; glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice; muesli, yoghurt and fruit parfaits; baby spinach, watermelon, feta and basil pesto salad bowls; and pan con tomate y jamón (slabs of toasted sourdough rubbed with garlic and smothered in succulent tomatoes and rouge ribbons of Serrano ham) – the one and only nod to la cocina española. Indeed, a far cry from authentic Spanish fare, but interesting nonetheless to see this new concept of eating and style of food begin to thrive in a country so steeped in culinary tradition.

Freshly squeezed orange juice; muesli, yoghurt & fruit parfait; & pan con tomate y jamón (toasted sourdough rubbed with garlic & smothered in tomatoes & Serrano ham)

Pan con tomate y jamón - La China Mandarina's one & only nod to la cocina española

Serving up baby spinach, watermelon, feta & basil pesto salad bowls

Meandering past tent after tent of art, apparel and antiques, muffled music and the percussive sound of clapping hands draw me around the corner to a jazz band entertaining passers-by who in turn cause a mid-calle traffic jam. I flatten a piece of crumpled up paper and crouch down on the curb, face cupped in hands, lost in the music and jubilant organic dance moves of a Spanish niño. Abandoning my inhibitions, I haul Marla up off the ground and we freestyle dance alongside the boy, before tossing a few gold coins into the guitar case and skipping off bent double in a fit of giggles.

The midday sun beats down on my exposed shoulders, as we pass by terraces in full bloom with tables, chairs and umbrellas spilling out into the squares of the hedonistic and historic neighbourhood of La Latina. We make our way through the winding lanes to The Closest Club - Biblioteca de ropa, a collaborative consumer club where members borrow and return garments as if they were library books. This hipster clothing library is the brainchild of Xácome Froufe Vigara, a youthful quadragenarian with a full head of unruly hair, stubble, yellow linen shirt unbuttoned to reveal his tattooed chest and ripped jeans (a total Johnny Depp doppelgänger).

Una chica entre dos chicos - The Closet Club owner Xácome Froufe Vigara & Spanish model / DJ Javier de Miguel

As I walk in the door, he thrusts a chilled bottle of beer in my hand, but I opt for a glass of pungent vermouth instead. Lightened with a dash of soda and aromatized with orange peel, I sip on the refreshing beverage whilst browsing the racks and swaying once again, this time to the deep house beats of the striking Spanish model Javier de Miguel, DJing in store on a Sunday just for kicks.

Cocktails at The Cock

noodles — Sat, 4 Jun 2016 22:30:00 GMT

Slightly giddy but nowhere near as borrachos as Greg would have liked, we leave Angelita and stumble a few doors down to The Cock, engaging in silly banter and foolish antics on the way.

Dating back to 1921, this historic backstreet cocktail bar is the oldest and preferred drinking hole in Madrid. It positions itself halfway between an English Gentleman’s lounge and a New York club and is frequented by the older discerning crowd and young hipsters alike (as well as renowned artists, Hollywood stars and royalty!).

The lighting is dim and atmosphere intimate. Clusters of low wooden tables, red leather armchairs and olive leather couches surround two ornate timber pillars that frame a slender vase of billowing flowers sitting atop an adorned wooden fireplace mantel. Square lanterns hang from a stucco ceiling interspersed with wooden beams that, along with the diamond-grilled casement windows, are redolent of Tudor architecture.

As we squeeze by the high-end clientele to a small opening at the far end of the bar, I can’t help but admire its grandeur. Illuminated glass shelves fixed to a mirror wall bear hundreds of multi-coloured liquor bottles that shine like sunlit stained-glass windows.

I quickly claim the last olive leather bar stool, lean my forearms against the gold railing and watch in awe as José María Contreras, Cock Bar’s mixologist, masters the unique art of “flairing.” Greeting me with a cheeky smile, he flings and flips liquor bottles and cocktail shakers in the air like a circus juggler whilst meditatively mixing me cocktail after cocktail.

José María Contreras - Cock Bar’s mixologist

Watching in awe as José masters the unique art of “flairing”

Finally, he slides me a much-needed bottle of Solán de Cabras mineral water. Blown from indigo-tinted glass & embossed with its distinctive emblem, I ponder taking the exquisitely designed bottle back home with me. Dizzy and dazzled, I leave José with three words – Tom Cruise. Cocktail – and slip out the door, glass water bottle in hand.

Outside Miguel awaits us. I slide into the back seat of his black Mercedes and we speed off into the night deftly darting in and out of traffic as we navigate our way back to the hotel.

Although my evening may be coming to an end, that of the Madrilenian merrymakers is just getting started! I feel the urge to join them in a night of revelling, but as I rest my head on the window and look out at the blurred city lights, a bout of sleepiness suddenly hits me. Bed it is.

A Foodie in a World of Wine

noodles — Sat, 4 Jun 2016 20:30:00 GMT

At Calle de la Reina 4, a metal placard fixed to an austere concrete wall bears the name Angelita. Its backlighting & angel wing engraving cast a haloesque aura on David Villalón – a young man with a receding hairline and small features that hide behind his neatly groomed beard. He’s the sommelier and one of the brothers behind this classy wine bar 100 metres from the crowded Gran Via in the centre of Madrid.

Interviewing David Villalón outside his wine bar Angelita

I trail behind David in my black suede wedges as we sweep through his dual-levelled establishment on a fleeting tour that naturally concludes at the bar, where I happily perch myself on a high stool next to my drinking companions. As I glance beyond the marble countertop, I begin to feel overwhelmed by a library of 500+ wines neatly lined up on glass shelves housed inside a floor-to-ceiling hefty wooden unit.

Angelita's library of 500+ wines

My wine ignorance is soon mitigated by my aptitude for Italian language, as I exchange a few parole with the Italian barmaid who makes my decision-making easy and slides me my first glass of wine for the evening. More interested in the food, I reach for a dainty ceramic china spoon whose deep flat bowl cups a nondescript brunoise of octopus meat, bell peppers and onion.

I listlessly throw it back, eagerly hoping that the next pecking dish will assuage my taste buds. Peering over my shoulder, I catch sight of David bent over busying himself behind an ornate cheese cart, seamlessly nestled in the far corner of the room.

I abandon my posse and swiftly head his way. Focused on the task at hand, he delicately slices slithers of pungent goat’s, cow’s & sheep’s milk cheeses, one riddled with blue veins, from Madrid, Mahon, Basque Country & Asturias, respectively. Carefully, he arranges them in petite piles on wee rectangular wooden boards along with arbitrarily placed earthy walnuts, juicy sultanas, dried apricots and golden nuggets of quince paste.

Returning to the bar, a cheese board of my very own awaits me along with a basket of artisan crusty sourdough and a large glass of red wine. Impatiently reaching for a slither of cheese, Marla stops me in my tracks, reminding me of the importance in simultaneously pairing the former with my wine, as here at Angelita, it is the wine that dictates the food and not the contrary.

All eyes (and a camera lens) riveted on me, a timely recollection of my dad – wine connoisseur – at one of his wine club evenings comes to mind and I self-consciously attempt a somewhat atrocious imitation.

To begin, I lightly twirl the thin stem of my glass, creating a rouge vortex that nearly decorates my silk snakeskin pants, before admiring the so-called “legs.” Next, I plunge my inapt button nose inside the deep vessel, sniffing the fruity bouquet before taking a sip and letting the velvety liquid linger in my mouth. To finish, I unconvincingly aspirate the wine, gargling it like mouthwash, before letting it slide down my throat.

Overhearing the others talk of strong tannins, I nod my head in concurrence like Leonardo DiCaprio from a scene of Catch Me If You Can, desperately trying to mask my ignorance that later, with more alcohol swimming in my veins, I whole-heartedly embrace.

Still savouring the marvellously gooey goat’s cheese in my mouth (that admittedly pairs beautifully with the full-bodied red), a scorching terracotta dish arrives. Brimming with chargrilled calçots (Catalonian spring onions) from the family farm sprinkled with flaky sea salt and accompanied by a little glass bowl of salsa romesco, my taste buds are newly tantalized. I peel back the charred layer and dunk the tender strand into the rich vermillion sauce of roasted red bell peppers and toasted almonds, which immediately droops under the sauce’s weight, before lowering it down my throat like a consummate fire-eater.

Chargrilled calçots (Catalonian spring onions) sprinkled with sea salt & accompanied by salsa romesco

To follow, a double-cooked caramelized octopus whose tough and chewy texture is too much for my stomach to handle. Staring at its beady black eyes, bulbous head, saclike body and sucker-baring arms sinking into a bed of cauliflower purée, reminiscent of a beached slimy sea beast, I politely pass.

The drinks keep on flowing as we make our way downstairs to the dim-lit semi-clandestine American cocktail basement bar. As we slump into the comfortable armchairs in an atmospheric corner, I undo a button or two in preparation for the next round. Served a sickly sweet cocktail that scorches my throat, I discretely slide it along to Greg, and instead dig into the succulent butterfish tataki marinated in Japanese citrus lying atop a mound of truffle infused pearl barley risotto with vivid green Pollockesque splatters of coriander emulsion.

To conclude the procession of cocktails, a precious little chocolate box spilling decadent gemlike morsels. I sink my teeth into a white chocolate almond brittle number and polish off an abandoned dense dark chocolate truffle as we make our way out the door and head down the street to The Cock.

Photos: Spain - Madrid

noodles — Thu, 2 Jun 2016 13:25:00 GMT

Photos: Passport & Plate - Tagliatelle al ragù bolognese

noodles — Fri, 6 Mar 2015 11:44:00 GMT

Ingredients
Serves 6-8

Ingredients

For the sauce:

Olive oil
1 onion, finely chopped
4 garlic cloves, 2 finely chopped, 2 crushed
1 celery stalk, finely chopped
1 carrot, peeled & finely grated
100g pancetta, roughly chopped
150g sweet Italian sausage, removed from casing
Bouquet garni (2 rosemary and 2 sage sprigs tied together with 2 bay leaves)
750g minced beef
Salt and pepper
½ bottle dry red wine
2 tbsp. tomato paste
700ml tomato passata

To serve:

500g fresh or dried egg tagliatelle
25g salt
Freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
Extra virgin olive oil

How to prepare this recipe
Remove the meat from the fridge an hour or so before cooking to allow it to come to room temperature, so that it will sear, rather than ooze protein and liquid, when it goes into the pan.

Heat a glug of oil in a wide-bottomed saucepan, add the “battuto,” i.e., the finely chopped vegetables, along with the pancetta, sausage and bouquet garni. Sweat over a medium-high heat for about 15 minutes until softened, stirring constantly to prevent it from burning and then transfer into a bowl.

Add another little glug of oil to the pan and turn up the heat. Flatten the mince on a chopping board into a disk that will cover the base of the pan, season with salt and pepper just before cooking (to retain the moisture and juices), invert into the pan and season the topside.

Leave for about 5 minutes so that the meat seals underneath, heats through completely and develops a golden brown crust. Flip the meat and repeat the same process before breaking the mince up into little pieces with a wooden spoon.

Add the “battuto” to the pan and stir for another 5 minutes or so until the mince starts to stick to the base of the pan and is ready to take the wine.

Add the wine and let it reduce right down before stirring in the tomato paste and then the tomato passata along with about 300ml of water (used to rinse out the jar).

Bring to the boil and then simmer for about 1 hour, adding a little extra water if necessary, until the meat is tender and the sauce has reduced.

When you are ready to serve the ragù, bring 5L of water to the boil in a large pot, add the salt as soon as the water starts to boil and drop in the tagliatelle, giving them a stir when they first hit the water (to prevent them from sticking). Cook until al dente and drain, reserving some of the cooking water.

Stir the tagliatelle through the ragù, adding some of the cooking water, if necessary, to loosen the sauce.

Serve topped with freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano and a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil.

The story behind this recipe
Growing up in New Zealand as the daughter of a culinary Pom and a Kiwi food enthusiast, "spag bol” featured regularly on the weekly menu. I have fond memories of smothering my pasta in freshly grated parmesan, twirling the spaghetti around my fork and attempting to engulf the loosely tangled nest whilst ungracefully hoovering up any wayward strands. Little did I know back then that “spag bol” was as much Italian as Yorkshire pudding…

It wasn't until I reached the tender age of seventeen and embarked on a cultural exchange to Italy, that this country’s alimentary patchwork and culinary customs were unveiled to me, and what a revelation that was! Who would have thought that “spag bol” defies the very regulations of Italian pasta culture?! Italians may be notorious for disobeying national laws, but when it comes to those concerning food, they may as well be written in stone, or carved in Carrara marble!

Six years later, with an Italian degree and several sojourns in Italy under my belt, I delved deeper into my Italian food exploration. The destination? Bologna “la grassa” – the very birthplace of that comfort food from my childhood. There, at the heart of Italian cuisine, not only did I study Italian gastronomy at the oldest university in the world, but I tried every “ragù alla bolognese” I could get my hands on, spent my every last dime on golden nuggets of “stravecchio” Parmigiano-Reggiano and even woke up before dawn to watch the local cheesemaker create this “king of cheeses.” Every Tuesday I would make fresh egg pasta by hand at the “Vecchia Scuola Bolognese” and in the summer I ventured south to Campania to process the sweet, sun-drenched cherry tomatoes into tomato passata.

Returning home to Aotearoa, complete with a year’s supply of artisanal bronze cut “Alfeltra” pasta, I no longer prepared “spag bol,” but rather, “tagliatelle al ragù bolognese,” however, never without that “sacrilegious” kiwi touch my parents passed down to me. Shush! “Acqua in bocca!”