Hiking in the mountains in northern England, I’m overwhelmed by the pungent aroma of onion… Closer inspection reveals carpets of wild ramps in their fragrant bloom… (at The Lake District)
It was late morning and I was famished. My hunger driving me forward, I waded into a sea of humanity at London’s Borough Market, home to more than 100 food purveyors, stalls and shops. Wizened old ladies pulling wheelie baskets, beefy men talking sausage with butchers in bloody aprons, housemaids shopping for wealthy lords and ladies, and couples on holiday eager to take in the sights and free samples all jostled around me.
The market had its start in 1014, attracting traders selling grain, fish, vegetables and livestock. In 1755, the market was closed by Parliament, but residents raised £6,000 to buy a patch of land and reopened the market, where it continues to this day, commemorated with a plaque marking it as ‘London’s Oldest Fruit & Veg Market’.
Early summer seasonality from all of Great Britain and beyond is on full display; vivid red strawberries and delicate doughnut peaches competed for my attention. Peppers in a dizzying array of colors were packed next to royal purple eggplants and towers of basil, begging to be made into caponata.
Wild hares dangled from meat hooks, their fur coats still clinging. Small deer and whole pigs, eviscerated and hung in the open air, waited with the patience of the dead to be made into terrines and sausages. Enormous round trays of paella were mixed and served with huge wooden spoons the size of a small British schoolboy.
I bought mushroom pâté from a stockbroker-turned-food-entrepreneur, and honey packed with white truffle pieces from a snotty French couple. A hunky Sicilian tempted me with his spicy sausage but I opted instead for a large shot of emerald green wheatgrass, desperate to compensate for the prior evening’s feast of fiery Thai food washed down with copious amounts of cheap, overly-chilled Chablis. I sniffed from a glass jar containing whole black truffles and chatted up a hot, fourth generation cheese-maker from Bath about his family’s blue veined cheeses. The fishmonger made me giggle by stuffing crayfish, claws and all, into the large, ugly maw of a monkfish.
Indian ladies in bright saris hawked their piquant chutneys as baker’s by the dozen stood behind tables piled with cakes and cookies and breads, some no smaller than a soccer ball. Artisan ciders from the north of England were on offer alongside dozens of mustards and vinegars from southern France.
I roamed and ate and stuffed my little basket with delectables for a later picnic on the train; four hours to whisk me to England’s Lake District to hike away the pounds of cheese and charcouterie, so I may be able to feast again.
London is not so much a European city as an international one, made eminently clear to me walking through the hallowed walkways of Borough Market. Arabs and Indians and Chinese and Persians mingle seamlessly with Europeans and Japanese and Africans and South Americans, as well as this constantly hungry American, united by love for good food sold by those who gather it.
The crack of dawn found me in a cab speeding through London’s empty streets towards Billingsgate Fish Market. I had booked a spot at Billingsgate Seafood Training School for a full day of fish-mongering lessons: gutting, skinning, scaling, filleting and pin-boning.
Bleary-eyed, I feigned interest in the Indian cabbie’s babbling, while deeply regretting my wine indulgence the evening prior. Stepping out of the cab at first light, I was hit with the overwhelming aroma of fish. Steadying myself and cursing my love for old Barolo, I found the school’s headquarters and my assembled classmates on the second floor of the bustling market. We were given white lab coats and herded onto the market floor, slick with water and fish parts. Men called out orders, packed and iced fish, and traded bawdy jokes. I imagined that it hadn’t changed much in its 300 years history; in 1699, an Act of Parliament was passed making it “a free and open market for all sorts of fish whatsoever”. The Head of School, an accomplished woman who knew her fish, led the market tour. She had clearly earned the respect of the fishmongers and was greeted warmly by the burly men, many of whom had worked at the market all their lives and were very at home with the day’s catch.
We groped grouper and talked crustacean. Lessons in locals versus exotics and farmed versus fresh were shouted above the din as pallets full of fish whizzed by our feet. We inspected clams from Northern Europe, the gills of mackerel from Denmark, and an enormous iron chest of drawers housing hundreds of slithering, slimy eels.
Cold and wet, we trudged upstairs for a quick breakfast of smoked salmon and eggs before embarking on the day’s lessons. We were each given trays of fish and shown how to skin lemon sole and filet the dreadfully ugly gurnard. We scaled rainbow trout, gutted turbot, and pin-boned sea bream. We made fish stock laden with Pernod and baked fish fillets en papilotte with herbs. As we worked, the sound of knives being sharpened mingled with dissertations on sustainability. At day’s end, we sat together and feasted on our handiwork.
I was overwhelmed with information, still slightly nauseous, and my hands and clothes smelled of fish. I learned to always check the eyes of fish when buying and for doneness when cooking, and to never wash one’s hands with hot water after preparing fish, as the pores open and the scent remains.
I bought two lemons before returning to the hotel and scrubbed my hands and arms with the citrus. I tossed my stanky clothes deep into the back of the closet, poured myself an Amaro from the bottle on the dresser, and slept deeply, dreaming of the ocean and all of its edible inhabitants.
Big bowls of spicy, steaming mushroom pho to ward off London’s chilly drizzle… (at Pho)
Our mighty Golden Gate…
Clamming on a Weekday Morning
Pinky sunrise skid marks across a gray-blue morning sky heralded the day. I layered in sweaters and filled a mug with my daily concoction of Jasmine Pearl tea, its leaves unfurling with the goodness of an entire Meyer lemon plucked from our prolific tree, and a huge dollop of not-too-sweet sweet sunflower honey from a beekeeper in Washington State. The evening prior, I packed my old German tank with rakes and baskets and gloves, knowing there was half a joint in the ashtray and snacks in the glove box. Low tide was still a couple hours away, but as usual, my dear travel mate was running behind and I was getting anxious. As I’ve endlessly lectured, sunrise hunts, whether for antiques, pheasant, fish, or clams, need to begin on-time or one returns home empty-handed.
As we finally began our drive to the coast, the fingers of fog began pulling back their thick wet blanket, draped overnight onto the green Sonoma hills. A peaceful Tomales Bay eventually revealed itself, stippled with exposed mudflats and only the occasional flapping of a goose’s wings breaking the early morning silence.
Grabbing a rake, I shimmied down the embankment, which was covered in fat, succulent ice plants blooming neon pink. My old Danner hunting boots proved useful in navigating the rocky beach, although their camouflage design was lost on the bi-valves buried deep below my feet. The clams felt every one of my lumbering steps and most managed to dig themselves deeper and faster than my inadequate rake could give chase. I unearthed only four baby clams and had broken a sweat doing so. I even managed to pull a stomach muscle, as clearly they’ve become unused to having to forage for food further than the plate in front of them. Knowing Manila clams take three years to reach an adequate size, I carefully buried the four, tiny bi-valves back into the muck and scrambled up to the car to have a smoke and contemplate next moves.
I recalled Hog Island Oyster Company, a short drive up the coast, opened at 9am for those seeking a high protein breakfast or to fill a cooler with their briny trophies for later feasting. They also raise precious Manila clams from seed and it was there I scored two, beautiful pounds.
And they didn’t even ask to see my fishing license.
Late afternoon found the clams soaking in lightly salted water sprinkled with a bit of oatmeal, removing sand and grit. Their warm bath awaited, perfuming the house: flowering cilantro, fresh ginger, fish sauce, garlic, a whole cayenne, an oxidized bottle of Loire Sauvignon Blanc, and tender sorrel leaves. Crusty hunks of Della Fattoria ciabatta were grilled until just charred and rubbed with spicy green garlic bulbs. I pulled the cork on a 1999 Prager Chardonnay Weissenkirchen Smaragd from Austria; the edges rounded from age and its minerality mirroring that of the clams’.
We lit the candles and dunked the bread and refilled our glasses, saving the tiny clams for last, like children hoarding M&M’s.
Italian chicories are omnipresent in our garden. This Radicchio di Verona has burgundy-veined leaves and white ribs. Vibrant and slightly bitter, these greens are delicious raw; a salad with fat ribbons of shaved Parmigiano is a delightful midday meal. When wilted in pancetta drippings and topped with poached eggs, these extraordinary greens become positively meaty. I’ve read bitter greens are a tonic for the liver, which is why I always make an effort to start dinner with an old Barbera d'Alba and finish with a big bowl of chicories…
Lupine in bloom in between the Cabernet Sauvignon rows in Napa Valley.
It’s empty. And she’s sold out. Impossible to get jams from a master, small-production artisan. Who’s even heard of Nippon Mandarinquat? The name alone conjures up images of hot, illicit sex on a bed of unusual, overripe Asian citrus segments. The flavor? Just like it’s name, it leaves you wanting for more. And more.
Springtime in an Italian bowl.
View across The Thames rivals some of the artwork… (at Tate Modern Gardens)
Graffiti (at Brick Lane)
Small, briny winter oysters pulled from the beds of Pickleweed Point in Inverness, California.
Fresh bread crumb for my garlicky pork meatballs…
Mmmmmmmm.
Herve Mons Camembert (Whole Paycheck’s own very gently priced, very high quality label from France), cut in half when cold, slathered in the center with a black truffle pâté, re-jiggered together, wrapped tightly and kept at room temp for a day to integrate.
Like a reverse Oreo cookie for un-stoned adults.
With a bottle of 1990 Chianti Vigna Della Croce Riserva from Terrabianca.
Memorable.
A rainy, late morning buzz; a thick cappuccino and a raspberry thumbprint cookie at Cafe Trieste in SF’s North Beach.
The outrageous Sienese almond cookies from Market Hall in Oakland…
Waiting patiently for biscuits on a rainy Friday morning in NYC’s Soho.
Pancetta
Finally sliced into the beautiful log of pancetta made from the fat Berkshire I butchered in late winter. This will be an incredible accompaniment to … well, to everything…..