Mason & Taylor is a craft beer and real ale bar from the team behind The Duke Of Wellington in Dalston. We are located at 51-55 Bethnal Green Road, at the junction of Redchurch Street and Brick Lane, a 3-minute walk from Shoreditch High Street station. We are based over 2 floors with a ground floor and basement bar.Monday 31 October 2011
Mason & Taylor i
Mason & Taylor is a craft beer and real ale bar from the team behind The Duke Of Wellington in Dalston. We are located at 51-55 Bethnal Green Road, at the junction of Redchurch Street and Brick Lane, a 3-minute walk from Shoreditch High Street station. We are based over 2 floors with a ground floor and basement bar.
paris tailors
Parisian tailors tend to be located on the first floor of big mansion blocks. Savile Row tailors are more likely to be on the ground floor of a terraced house, with workrooms underneath. Though certainly a generalisation, this is not an empty comparison. It means the French have more space.
Cifonelli, on Rue Marbeuf, has a small ready-to-wear shop on the ground floor. But upstairs is an expansive atrium, three large walls of cloth bolts, fitting cubicles and no fewer than seven different tailoring rooms. It is a maze of intense, bright spaces, filled with tailors – both young and old – surrounded by fittings and paper patterns. The last two are reached via the kitchen. Two tailors and an old cutter have just been taken on and the cutting rooms, across the hall, are being remodelled to fit in an extra board. Accommodating new staff, particularly those that have worked in their own small space for several years, is never easy. But everyone seems to find their place in this dense little warren.
Cifonelli is certainly the biggest of the Parisian tailors, but it is not unusual. Camps de Luca, Smalto and Stark are similarly housed, their names hung proudly right across the outside of their blocks. This space and size can give a tailor greater identity. But there is one more thing about Cifonelli that gives it a unique sense of purpose: all the tailors are employees. Most English tailors, and some French, pay their staff per item. While they have to prioritise their hosts’ work, they are strictly speaking freelance.
Having employees doesn’t make tailors any easier to manage. It just means you have to worry about slacking rather than quality. But for Cifonelli, it seems to have enabled them to innovate while retaining a definite identity.
Cousins Lorenzo and Massimo Cifonelli took over the running of the business from their uncle/father in 1999. Although founded in Rome in 1880, Cifonelli expanded to Paris in 1926 and quickly found a local following. By 1990, there was only one cutter left in Rome who quickly retired, so it was closed down. Paris, however, has expanded rapidly.
Which has been one route to innovation. As tailors and cutters joined the firm, they brought their own ideas of construction, organisation and style. They weren’t allowed to change anything unilaterally, but Lorenzo in particular was – still is – irrepressibly keen to learn and reform. He is a restless creative hub.
One of the early changes was in the way orders are managed. Lorenzo instituted a system whereby every basted suit is double checked before it goes for a fitting. All the parts are measured and then checked against the measurements that were taken when the order was made. Even those measurements themselves are unusual – few tailors measure a customer afresh when he comes in for a new suit.
Lorenzo also makes sure paper patterns are fastidiously altered with each new garment. Many tailors, despite their claims, do not do this. More than one of the great Savile Row names gets my basted fitting wrong in the same way every time. The right sleeve is always that half an inch too long, the shoulders a little too square. It’s a waste of a fitting.
Other innovations vary in size. Some are small: measuring the sleeve length with a pin in the shoulder, which slots onto the hole at the end of the tape measure. Much more accurate. Others are large: tweaking the Cifonelli style as the cousins gradually exert their tastes and personality. The Cifonelli shape was always distinct, with a small chest and lightly padded shoulders, but a large and often roped sleevehead. Lorenzo’s grandfather, who studied in London, called it a blend of the best Italian, French and English techniques. It certainly creates a very flattering, bold silhouette.
But Lorenzo has taken this and sprinted with it. The roping on the shoulder, for instance, varies considerably by cloth and customer. A conservative business suit gains personality with just a touch of wadding at the top of the sleeve. A dandyish overcoat, on the other hand, can have exaggerated shoulders, a tiny waist and a sweeping skirt, creating a garment suited to those that favour dramatic entrances (and stormy exits).
Then there are the little details. In recent years Lorenzo’s experiments seemed to have centred around touches of leather or suede – on the underside of the collar, the interior of flared cuffs, the top of pockets or as a fastening on the breast pocket. But they have also taken in subtler details, like the deliberate overlap of the pleat down the back of a belted Norfolk jacket. Or the diagonal hip pockets finished with beautifully hand-sewn triangles at either end. Frog fastenings, bellows pockets, elbow patches: as the models here illustrate, Lorenzo has unique takes on them all. And that’s without getting to the untreated wool he’s pedalling for winter (see cream-coloured jacket opposite).
But none of this is to ignore the skills of pure, plain tailoring. Indeed, a description of my first bespoke order from Cifonelli probably serves to illustrate all of the qualities listed so far.
It was in a green Harris tweed, which Lorenzo was wearing as a suit when I first met him. Not being quite as adventurous, I limited it to a jacket. While some of his designs aren’t to my taste, a survey unearthed at least four things I did like: a five-button front that fastens to the chin, suede undercollar and undercuff, those diagonal pockets, and suede fastening on the outbreast pocket.
Because I was only in Paris for the day, Lorenzo dug up a few lengths of flannel and created a basted fitting within the hour. With just this to go on, he sent me the finished jacket a month later. When we met up for this interview, I brought the jacket along so he could judge the fit: it was perfect. In part due to his rigorous measuring and monitoring, we didn’t have to change a thing.
Last of all, the tailoring. I have yet to meet a tailor who isn’t awed by the attention to detail on this jacket. The buttonholes on the lapel and cuffs are beautifully finished on both sides, as either could be shown outwards – even on the suede cuff, which requires a special, sharpened needle. The hand stitching around the lining is incredibly fine, and is even used to join the panels of the lining. In fact, that join is finished with a signature C for Cifonelli in the small of the back.
Such workmanship, creativity and character inevitably warms the blood. So I hope you will forgive such obviously partial praise. Just take a wander around the first floor of 31 Rue Marbeuf next time you are in Paris – round the seven rooms, past the sink and through the sound of thirty tailors talking – and see it for yourself.
Cifonelli, on Rue Marbeuf, has a small ready-to-wear shop on the ground floor. But upstairs is an expansive atrium, three large walls of cloth bolts, fitting cubicles and no fewer than seven different tailoring rooms. It is a maze of intense, bright spaces, filled with tailors – both young and old – surrounded by fittings and paper patterns. The last two are reached via the kitchen. Two tailors and an old cutter have just been taken on and the cutting rooms, across the hall, are being remodelled to fit in an extra board. Accommodating new staff, particularly those that have worked in their own small space for several years, is never easy. But everyone seems to find their place in this dense little warren.
Cifonelli is certainly the biggest of the Parisian tailors, but it is not unusual. Camps de Luca, Smalto and Stark are similarly housed, their names hung proudly right across the outside of their blocks. This space and size can give a tailor greater identity. But there is one more thing about Cifonelli that gives it a unique sense of purpose: all the tailors are employees. Most English tailors, and some French, pay their staff per item. While they have to prioritise their hosts’ work, they are strictly speaking freelance.
Having employees doesn’t make tailors any easier to manage. It just means you have to worry about slacking rather than quality. But for Cifonelli, it seems to have enabled them to innovate while retaining a definite identity.
Which has been one route to innovation. As tailors and cutters joined the firm, they brought their own ideas of construction, organisation and style. They weren’t allowed to change anything unilaterally, but Lorenzo in particular was – still is – irrepressibly keen to learn and reform. He is a restless creative hub.
One of the early changes was in the way orders are managed. Lorenzo instituted a system whereby every basted suit is double checked before it goes for a fitting. All the parts are measured and then checked against the measurements that were taken when the order was made. Even those measurements themselves are unusual – few tailors measure a customer afresh when he comes in for a new suit.
Lorenzo also makes sure paper patterns are fastidiously altered with each new garment. Many tailors, despite their claims, do not do this. More than one of the great Savile Row names gets my basted fitting wrong in the same way every time. The right sleeve is always that half an inch too long, the shoulders a little too square. It’s a waste of a fitting.
Other innovations vary in size. Some are small: measuring the sleeve length with a pin in the shoulder, which slots onto the hole at the end of the tape measure. Much more accurate. Others are large: tweaking the Cifonelli style as the cousins gradually exert their tastes and personality. The Cifonelli shape was always distinct, with a small chest and lightly padded shoulders, but a large and often roped sleevehead. Lorenzo’s grandfather, who studied in London, called it a blend of the best Italian, French and English techniques. It certainly creates a very flattering, bold silhouette.
But Lorenzo has taken this and sprinted with it. The roping on the shoulder, for instance, varies considerably by cloth and customer. A conservative business suit gains personality with just a touch of wadding at the top of the sleeve. A dandyish overcoat, on the other hand, can have exaggerated shoulders, a tiny waist and a sweeping skirt, creating a garment suited to those that favour dramatic entrances (and stormy exits).
Then there are the little details. In recent years Lorenzo’s experiments seemed to have centred around touches of leather or suede – on the underside of the collar, the interior of flared cuffs, the top of pockets or as a fastening on the breast pocket. But they have also taken in subtler details, like the deliberate overlap of the pleat down the back of a belted Norfolk jacket. Or the diagonal hip pockets finished with beautifully hand-sewn triangles at either end. Frog fastenings, bellows pockets, elbow patches: as the models here illustrate, Lorenzo has unique takes on them all. And that’s without getting to the untreated wool he’s pedalling for winter (see cream-coloured jacket opposite).
But none of this is to ignore the skills of pure, plain tailoring. Indeed, a description of my first bespoke order from Cifonelli probably serves to illustrate all of the qualities listed so far.
It was in a green Harris tweed, which Lorenzo was wearing as a suit when I first met him. Not being quite as adventurous, I limited it to a jacket. While some of his designs aren’t to my taste, a survey unearthed at least four things I did like: a five-button front that fastens to the chin, suede undercollar and undercuff, those diagonal pockets, and suede fastening on the outbreast pocket.
Because I was only in Paris for the day, Lorenzo dug up a few lengths of flannel and created a basted fitting within the hour. With just this to go on, he sent me the finished jacket a month later. When we met up for this interview, I brought the jacket along so he could judge the fit: it was perfect. In part due to his rigorous measuring and monitoring, we didn’t have to change a thing.
Last of all, the tailoring. I have yet to meet a tailor who isn’t awed by the attention to detail on this jacket. The buttonholes on the lapel and cuffs are beautifully finished on both sides, as either could be shown outwards – even on the suede cuff, which requires a special, sharpened needle. The hand stitching around the lining is incredibly fine, and is even used to join the panels of the lining. In fact, that join is finished with a signature C for Cifonelli in the small of the back.
Such workmanship, creativity and character inevitably warms the blood. So I hope you will forgive such obviously partial praise. Just take a wander around the first floor of 31 Rue Marbeuf next time you are in Paris – round the seven rooms, past the sink and through the sound of thirty tailors talking – and see it for yourself.
VEAL CUTLETS STEWED (Scaloppine alla Genovese)
VEAL CUTLETS STEWED
(Scaloppine alla Genovese)
Cut some lean veal meat into slices and, supposing it be a pound or a little more, without
bones, chop one fourth of a middle-sized onion and put it in a saucepan with oil and a little piece of butter. Put over the cutlets, one layer over the other, season with salt and butter and put on the fire. When the meat which is below is browned put in a teaspoonful of flour and after a while a hash of parsley with half a clove of garlic. Then detach the cutlets the one from the other, mix them, let them drink in the sauce, then pour hot water and a little tomato sauce. Make it boil slowly and not much to complete the cooking and serve with abundant sauce and with little diamonds of toast.
bones, chop one fourth of a middle-sized onion and put it in a saucepan with oil and a little piece of butter. Put over the cutlets, one layer over the other, season with salt and butter and put on the fire. When the meat which is below is browned put in a teaspoonful of flour and after a while a hash of parsley with half a clove of garlic. Then detach the cutlets the one from the other, mix them, let them drink in the sauce, then pour hot water and a little tomato sauce. Make it boil slowly and not much to complete the cooking and serve with abundant sauce and with little diamonds of toast.
Torta Mantovana
MANTUA TART
(Torta Mantovana)
Flour, six ounces.
Sugar, six ounces.
Butter, five ounces.
Sweet almonds and pine-seeds, two ounces.
One whole egg.
Four egg-yolks.
A taste of lemon peel.
First work well with a ladle the eggs with the sugar, then pour the flour little by little, still stirring, and finally the butter, previously melted in a double steamer (bain-marie). Put the mixture in a pie-dish greased with butter and sprinkled with flour or bread crumbs ground. On top put the almonds and the pine-seeds. Cut the latter in half and cut the almonds, previously skinned in warm water, each in eight or ten pieces. This tart must not be thicker than one inch, so that it can dry well in the oven, which must not be too hot.
Sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve cold.them for refusing to cook if they dislike cooking, and can find other work as light and as well paid; but, things being as they are, I would suggest that we set to work somehow to make ourselves independent of cooks."
"That 'somehow' is the crux, my dear Livia," said Mrs. Sinclair. "I have a plan of my own, but I dare not breathe it, for I'm sure Mrs. Gradinger would call it 'anti-social,' whatever that may mean."
"I should imagine that it is a term which might be applied to any scheme which robs society of the ministrations of its cooks," said Sir John.
"I have heard mathematicians declare that what is true of the whole is true of its parts," said the Marchesa. "I daresay it is, but I never stopped to inquire. I will amplify on my own account, and lay down that what is true of the parts must be true of the whole. I'm sure that sounds quite right. Now I, as a unit of society, am independent of cooks because I can cook myself, and if all the other units were independent, society itself would be independent—ecco!"
"To speak in this tone of a serious science like Euclid seems rather frivolous," said Mrs. Gradinger. "I may observe—" but here mercifully the observation was checked by the entry of Mrs. St. Aubyn Fothergill.
She was a handsome woman, always dominated by an air of serious preoccupation, sumptuously, but not tastefully dressed. In the social struggle upwards, wealth was the only weapon she possessed, and wealth without dexterity has been known to fail before this. She made efforts, indeed, to imitate Mrs. Sinclair in the elegancies of menage, and to pose as a woman of mind after the pattern of Mrs. Gradinger; but the task first named required too much tact, and the other powers of endurance which she did not possess.
"You'll have some tea, Mrs. Fothergill?" said the Marchesa. "It's so good of you to have come."
"No, really, I can't take any tea; in fact, I couldn't take any lunch out of vexation at having to put you off, my dear Marchesa."
"Oh, these accidents will occur. We were just discussing the best way of getting round them," said the Marchesa. "Now, dear,"—speaking to Mrs. Sinclair—"let's have your plan. Mrs. Gradinger has fastened like a leech on the Canon and Mrs. Wilding, and won't hear a word of what you have to say."
"Well, my scheme is just an amplification of your mathematical illustrations, that we should all learn to cook for ourselves. I regard it no longer as impossible, or even difficult, since you have informed us that you are a mistress of the art. We'll start a new school of cookery, and you shall teach us all you know."
"Ah, my dear Laura, you are like certain English women in the hunting field. You are inclined to rush your fences," said the Marchesa with a deprecatory gesture. "And just look at the people gathered here in this room. Wouldn't they—to continue the horsey metaphor—be rather an awkward team to drive?"
"Not at all, if you had them in suitable surroundings. Now, supposing some beneficent millionaire were to lend us for a month or so a nice country house, we might install you there as Mistress of the stewpans, and sit at your feet as disciples," said Mrs. Sinclair.
"The idea seems first-rate," said Van der Roet; "and I suppose, if we are good little boys and girls, and learn our lessons properly, we may be allowed to taste some of our own dishes."
"Might not that lead to a confusion between rewards and punishments?" said Sir John.
"If ever it comes to that," said Miss Macdonnell with a mischievous glance out of a pair of dark, flashing Celtic eyes, "I hope that our mistress will inspect carefully all pupils' work before we are asked to eat it. I don't want to sit down to another of Mr. Van der Roet's Japanese salads made of periwinkles and wallflowers."
"And we must first catch our millionaire," said the Colonel.
During these remarks Mrs. Fothergill had been standing "with parted lips and straining eyes," the eyes of one who is seeking to "cut in." Now came her chance. "What a delightful idea dear Mrs. Sinclair's is. We have been dreadfully extravagant this year over buying pictures, and have doubled our charitable subscriptions, but I believe I can still promise to act in a humble way the part of Mrs. Sinclair's millionaire. We have just finished doing up the 'Laurestinas,' a little place we bought last year, and it is quite at your service, Marchesa, as soon as you liketo occupy it."
This unlooked-for proposition almost took away the Marchesa's breath. "Ah, Mrs. Fothergill," she said, "it was Mrs. Sinclair's plan, not mine. She kindly wishes to turn me into a cook for I know not how long, just at the hottest season of the year, a fate I should hardly have chosen for myself."
"My dear, it would be a new sensation, and one you would enjoy beyond everything. I am sure it is a scheme every one here will hail with acclamation," said Mrs. Sinclair. All other conversation had now ceased, and the eyes of the rest of the company were fixed on the speaker. "Ladies and gentlemen," she went on, "you have heard my suggestion, and you have heard Mrs. Fothergill's most kind and opportune offer of her country house as the seat of our school of cookery. Such an opportunity is one in ten thousand. Surely all of us—-even the Marchesa—must see that it is one not to be neglected."
"I approve thoroughly," said Mrs. Gradinger; "the acquisition of knowledge, even in so material a field as that of cookery, is always a clear gain."
"It will give Gradinger a chance to put in a couple of days at Ascot," whispered Van der Roet.
"Where Mrs. Gradinger leads, all must follow," said Miss Macdonnell. "Take the sense of the meeting, Mrs. Sinclair, before the Marchesa has time to enter a protest."
"And is the proposed instructress to have no voice in the matter?" said the Marchesa, laughing.
"None at all, except to consent," said Mrs. Sinclair; "you are going to be absolute mistress over us for the next fortnight, so you surely might obey just this once."
"You have been denouncing one of our cherished institutions, Marchesa," said Lady Considine, "so I consider you are bound to help us to replace the British cook by something better."
"If Mrs. Sinclair has set her heart on this interesting experiment. You may as well consent at once, Marchesa," said the Colonel, "and teach us how to cook, and—what may be a harder task—to teach us to eat what other aspirants may have cooked."
"If this scheme really comes off," said Sir John, "I would suggest that the Marchesa should always be provided with a plate of her own up her sleeve—if I may use such an expression—so that any void in the menu, caused by failure on the part of the under-skilled or over-ambitious amateur, may be filled by what will certainly be a chef-d'oeuvre."
"I shall back up Mrs. Sinclair's proposition with all my power," said Mrs. Wilding. "The Canon will be in residence at Martlebridge for the next month, and I would much rather be learning cookery under the Marchesa than staying with my brother-in-law at Ealing."
"You'll have to do it, Marchesa," said Van der Roet; "when a new idea catches on like this, there's no resisting it."
"Well, I consent on one condition—that my rule shall be absolute," said the Marchesa, "and I begin my career as an autocrat by giving Mrs. Fothergill a list of the educational machinery I shall want, and commanding her to have them all ready by Tuesday morning, the day on which I declare the school open."
A chorus of applause went up as soon as the Marchesa ceased speaking.
"Everything shall be ready," said Mrs. Fothergill, radiant with delight that her offer had been accepted, "and I will put in a full staff of servants selected from our three other establishments."
"Would it not be as well to send the cook home for a holiday?" said the Colonel. "It might be safer, and lead to less broth being spoilt."
"It seems," said Sir John, "that we shall be ten in number, and I would therefore propose that, after an illustrious precedent, we limit our operations to ten days. Then if we each produce one culinary poem a day we shall, at the end of our time, have provided the world with a hundred new reasons for enjoying life, supposing, of course, that we have no failures. I propose, therefore, that our society be called the 'New Decameron.'"
"Most appropriate," said Miss Macdonnell, "especially as it owes its origin to an outbreak of plague—the plague in the kitchen."
The First Day
On the Tuesday morning the Marchesa travelled down to the "Laurestinas," where she found that Mrs. Fothergill had been as good as her word. Everything was in perfect order. The Marchesa had notified to her pupils that they must report themselves that same evening at dinner, and she took down with her her maid, one of those marvellous Italian servants who combine fidelity with efficiency in a degree strange to the denizens of more progressive lands. Now, with Angelina's assistance, she proposed to set before the company their first dinner all'Italiana, and the last they would taste without having participated in the preparation. The real work was to begin the following morning.
The dinner was both a revelation and a surprise to the majority of the company. All were well travelled, and all had eaten of the mongrel French dishes given at the "Grand" hotels of the principal Italian cities, and some of them, in search of adventures, had dined at London restaurants with Italian names over the doors, where—with certain honourable exceptions—the cookery was French, and not of the best, certain Italian plates being included in the carte for a regular clientele, dishes which would always be passed over by the English investigator, because he now read, or tried to read, their names for the first time. Few of the Marchesa's pupils had ever wandered away from the arid table d'hote in Milan, or Florence, or Rome, in search of the ristorante at which the better class of townsfolk were wont to take their colazione. Indeed, whenever an Englishman does break fresh ground in this direction, he rarely finds sufficient presence of mind to controvert the suggestions of the smiling minister who, having spotted his Inglese, at once marks down an omelette aux fines herbes and a biftek aux pommes as the only food such a creature can consume. Thus the culinary experiences of Englishmen in Italy have led to the perpetuation of the legend that the traveller can indeed find decent food in the large towns, "because the cooking there is all French, you know," but that, if he should deviate from the beaten track, unutterable horrors, swimming in oil and reeking with garlic, would be his portion. Oil and garlic are in popular English belief the inseparable accidents of Italian cookery, which is supposed to gather its solitary claim to individuality from the never-failing presence of these admirable, but easily abused, gifts of Nature.
"You have given us a delicious dinner, Marchesa," said Mrs. Wilding as the coffee appeared. "You mustn't think me captious in my remarks—indeed it would be most ungracious to look a gift-dinner in the—What are you laughing at, Sir John? I suppose I've done something awful with my metaphors—mixed them up somehow."
"Everything Mrs. Wilding mixes will be mixed admirably, as admirably, say, as that sauce which was served with the Manzo alla Certosina," Sir John replied.
"That is said in your best style, Sir John," replied Mrs. Wilding; "but what I was going to remark was, that I, as a poor parson's wife, shall ask for some instruction in inexpensive cooking before we separate. The dinner we have just eaten is surely only within the reach of rich people."
"I wish some of the rich people I dine with could manage now and then to reach a dinner as good," said the Colonel.
"I believe it is a generally received maxim, that if you want a truth to be accepted you must repeat the same in season and out, whenever you have the opportunity," said the Marchesa. "The particular truth I have now in mind is the fact that Italian cookery is the cookery of a poor nation, of people who have scant means wherewith to purchase the very inferior materials they must needs work with; and that they produce palatable food at all is, I maintain, a proof that they bring high intelligence to the task. Italian culinary methods have been developed in the struggle when the cook, working with an allowance upon which an English cook would resign at once, has succeeded by careful manipulation and the study of flavouring in turning out excellent dishes made of fish and meat confessedly inferior. Now, if we loosen the purse-strings a little, and use the best English materials, I affirm that we shall achieve a result excellent enough to prove that Italian cookery is worthy to take its stand beside its great French rival. I am glad Mrs. Wilding has given me an opportunity to impress upon you all that its main characteristics are simplicity and cheapness, and I can assure her that, even if she should reproduce the most costly dishes of our course, she will not find any serious increase in her weekly bills. When I use the word simplicity, I allude, of course, to everyday cooking. Dishes of luxury in any school require elaboration, care, and watchfulness."
Menu—Dinner {*}
Zuppa d'uova alla Toscana. Tuscan egg-soup.
Sogliole alla Livornese. Sole alla Livornese.
Manzo alla Certosina. Fillet of beef, Certosina sauce.
Minuta alla Milanese. Chickens' livers alla Milanese.
Cavoli fiodi ripieni. Cauliflower with forcemeat.
Cappone arrosto con insalata. Roast capon with salad.
Zabajone. Spiced custard.
Uova al pomidoro. Eggs and tomatoes.
* The recipes for the dishes contained in all these menus
will be found in the second part of the book. The limits of
the seasons have necessarily been ignored.
The Second Day
Wednesday's luncheon was anticipated with some curiosity, or even searchings of heart, as in it would appear the first-fruits of the hand of the amateur. The Marchesa wisely restricted it to two dishes, for the compounding of which she requisitioned the services of Lady Considine, Mrs. Sinclair, and the Colonel. The others she sent to watch Angelina and her circle while they were preparing the vegetables and the dinner entrees. After the luncheon dishes had been discussed, they were both proclaimed admirable. It was a true bit of Italian finesse on the part of the Marchesa to lay a share of the responsibility of the first meal upon the Colonel, who was notoriously the most captious and the hardest to please of all the company; and she did even more than make him jointly responsible, for she authorised him to see to the production of a special curry of his own invention, the recipe for which he always carried in his pocket-book, thus letting India share with Italy in the honours of the first luncheon.
"My congratulations to you on your curry, Colonel Trestrail," said Miss Macdonnell. "You haven't followed the English fashion of flavouring a curry by emptying the pepper-pot into the dish?"
"Pepper properly used is the most admirable of condiments," the Colonel said.
"Why this association of the Colonel and pepper?" said Van der Roet. "In this society we ought to be as nice in our phraseology as in our flavourings, and be careful to eschew the incongruous. You are coughing, Mrs. Wilding. Let me give you some water."
"I think it must have been one of those rare grains of the Colonel's pepper, for you must have a little pepper in a curry, mustn't you, Colonel? Though, as Miss Macdonnell says, English cooks generally overdo it."
"Vander is in one of his pleasant witty moods," said the Colonel, "but I fancy I know as much about the use of pepper as he does about the use of oil colours; and now we have, got upon art criticism, I may remark, my dear Vander, I have been reminded that you have been poaching on my ground. I saw a landscape of yours the other day, which looked as if some of my curry powder had got into the sunset. I mean the one poor blind old Wilkins bought at your last show."
"Ah, but that sunset was an inspiration, Colonel, and consequently beyond your comprehension."
"It is easy to talk of inspiration," said Sir John, "and, perhaps, now that we are debating a matter of real importance, we might spend our time more profitably than in discussing what is and what is not a good picture. Some inspiration has been brought into our symposium, I venture to affirm that the brain which devised and the hand which executed the Tenerumi di Vitello we have just tasted, were both of them inspired. In the construction of this dish there is to be recognised a breath of the same afflatus which gave us the Florentine campanile, and the Medici tombs, and the portrait of Monna Lisa. When we stand before any one of these masterpieces, we realise at a glance how keen must have been the primal insight, and how strenuous the effort necessary for the evolution of so consummate an achievement; and, with the savour of the Tenerumi di Vitello still fresh, I feel that it deserves to be added to the list of Italian capo lavori. Now, as I was not fortunate enough to be included in the pupils' class this morning, I must beg the next time the dish is presented to us—and I imagine all present will hail its renaissance with joy—that I may be allowed to lend a hand, or even a finger, in its preparation."
"Veal, with the possible exception of Lombard beef, is the best meat we get in Italy," said the Marchesa, "so an Italian cook, when he wants to produce a meat dish of the highest excellence, generally turns to veal as a basis. I must say that the breast of veal, which is the part we had for lunch today, is a somewhat insipid dish when cooked English fashion. That we have been able to put it before you in more palatable form, and to win for it the approval of such a connoisseur as Sir John Oglethorpe, is largely owing to the judicious use of that Italian terror—more dire to many English than paper-money or brigands—garlic."
"The quantity used was infinitesimal," said Mrs. Sinclair, "but it seems to have been enough to subdue what I once heard Sir John describe as the pallid solidity of the innocent calf."
"I fear the vein of incongruity in our discourse, lately noted by Van der Roet, is not quite exhausted," said Sir John. "The Colonel was up in arms on account of a too intimate association of his name with pepper, and now Mrs. Sinclair has bracketed me with the calf, a most useful animal, I grant, but scarcely one I should have chosen as a yokefellow; but this is a digression. To return to our veal. I had a notion that garlic had something to do with the triumph of the Tenerumi, and, this being the case, I think it would be well if the Marchesa were to give us a dissertation on the use of this invaluable product."
"As Mrs. Sinclair says, the admixture of garlic in the dish in question was a very small one, and English people somehow never seem to realise that garlic must always be used sparingly. The chief positive idea they have of its characteristics is that which they gather from the odour of a French or Italian crowd of peasants at a railway station. The effect of garlic, eaten in lumps as an accompaniment to bread and cheese, is naturally awful, but garlic used as it should be used is the soul, the divine essence, of cookery. The palate delights in it without being able to identify it, and the surest proof of its charm is manifested by the flatness and insipidity which will infallibly characterise any dish usually flavoured with it, if by chance this dish should be prepared without it. The cook who can employ it successfully will be found to possess the delicacy of perception, the accuracy of judgment, and the dexterity of hand, which go to the formation of a great artist. It is a primary maxim, and one which cannot be repeated too often, that garlic must never be cut up and used as part of the material of any dish. One small incision should be made in the clove, which should be put into the dish during the process of cooking, and allowed to remain there until the cook's palate gives warning that flavour enough has been extracted. Then it must be taken out at once. This rule does not apply in equal degree to the use of the onion, the large mild varieties of which may be cooked and eaten in many excellent bourgeois dishes; but in all fine cooking, where the onion flavour is wanted, the same treatment which I have prescribed for garlic must be followed."
The Marchesa gave the Colonel and Lady Considine a holiday that afternoon, and requested Mrs. Gradinger and Van der Roet to attend in the kitchen to help with the dinner. In the first few days of the session the main portion of the work naturally fell upon the Marchesa and Angelina, and in spite of the inroads made upon their time by the necessary directions to the neophytes, and of the occasional eccentricities of the neophytes' energies, the dinners and luncheons were all that could be desired. The Colonel was not quite satisfied with the flavour of one particular soup, and Mrs. Gradinger was of opinion that one of the entrees, which she wanted to superintend herself, but which the Marchesa handed over to Mrs. Sinclair, had a great deal too much butter in its composition. Her conscience revolted at the action of consuming in one dish enough butter to solace the breakfast-table of an honest working man for two or three days; but the faintness of these criticisms seemed to prove that every one was well satisfied with the rendering of the menu of the day.
Menu—Lunch
Tenerumi di Vitello. Breast of veal.
Piccione alla minute. Pigeons, braized with liver, &c.
Curry
Menu—Dinner
Zuppa alla nazionale. Soup alla nazionale.
Salmone alla Genovese. Salmon alla Genovese.
Costolette alla Costanza. Mutton cutlets alla Costanza.
Fritto misto alla Villeroy. Lamb's fry alla Villeroy.
Lattughe al sugo. Stuffed Lettuce.
Dindo arrosto alla Milanese. Roast turkey alla Milanese.
Crema montata alle fragole. Strawberry cream.
Tartufi alla Dino. Truffles alla Dino.
SHOULDER OF LAMB (Spalla d'agnello)
SHOULDER OF LAMB
(Spalla d'agnello)
Cut the meat of a shoulder of lamb in small pieces, or squares. Chop two small onions, brown them with a piece of butter and when they are browned put the meat and season with salt and pepper. Wait until the meat begins to brown
and then add another piece of butter dipped in flour. Mix the whole and complete the cooking with soup stock or water with bouillon cubes poured in little by little.
LES GIRLS INSALAD PUSSY NICOISE
Canned tuna in oil)
Small red potatoes
black olives
fresh green beans
Capers
olive oil and the oil of the cana spoonful of Dijon mustard
I boil the potatoes first, drain, then let them cool to room temp. After those are done, boil or steam the green beans (don't overcook!), then let those cool. In a large bowl or shallow dish, mix in all ingredients with dressing & mustard - and serve! I like eating this salad room temp and nude, not The little French Slag friend of mine exibelle loves this after sex so she eats tons of the shit. She comes six times a day she said.... phew!!!!!!hot, and not cold. It's so easy & always tastes good.
You can get much fancier with this dish but dont be like the Americans who fuck up nearly everything with their sparks of mindboggling fucking genius - especially if serving for a party please dont let guests arrange everything separately and mix it all together - or don't sear some sushi tuna if you want to get really fancy -it sucks , stick to the facts for a nice light meal, especially
in warm weather - this is a great go-to.
Sunday 30 October 2011
Slaidburn Street
"She had turned out of Edith Grove into Cremorne Road, intending to refresh herself with a smell of the Reach and then return by Lots Road, when chancing to glance to her right she saw, motionless in the mouth of Stadium Street, considering alternately the sky and a sheet of paper, a man. Murphy"steal yer phone
Among his various legacies, Steve Jobs, whose memorial continues with the arrival of the iPhone 4S, left us with a tangible and resonant symbol of our economic frictions: an easily brandished, easily taken device that in its sleek design and intuitive simplicity flaunts the relative effortlessness of affluent, knowledge-class living. The have-nots, particularly teenagers, covet and seek what, by now, the haves assume as birthright and dependency.
For the past few years, The Brooklyn Paper, a free weekly, has meticulously chronicled iPhone thefts in the 35 neighborhoods it covers. Each week the paper’s police blotter is filled with descriptions of thieves running off with iPhones grabbed from complacent citizens who are often in the midst of using them. This happens at all hours — as people emerge from subways, or walk their dogs, or stand on street corners. A database of criminal activity on the paper’s Web site lists “iPhone” as its own category, between “Drunk driving” and “Menacing.”
The New York Police Department does not keep citywide, item-specific data on the robberies and larcenies it records, but the department’s Transit Bureau has attributed the recent rise in subway crime — up 17 percent compared with the same time last year — to the theft of electronic gadgetry. Over 1,000 subway riders have been the victims of larceny this year, though it is unclear how many of them were the targets of iPhone thieves. The phone’s popularity is indisputable: During a single month last spring, five of the seven mobile phones stolen from subway riders inManhattan’s First Precinct were Apple-made. Beyond trains and platforms, about half of the robberies recorded in late summer in Brooklyn’s 88th Precinct (which encompasses Fort Greene) involved iPhones, the police said.
Stolen phones are typically deactivated by their owners right away, but the fact that phones require new operating systems to be useful hasn’t proved a deterrent. Now, though, a thief faces the prospect that the victim might have a tracking system or application in place.
Brian Chattoo, 23, was charged this month in connection with the theft of an iPhone from the coat pocket of a woman on Liberty Avenue in Queens. She had installed the IGotYa application, which photographs anyone who enters the wrong pass code when trying to use an iPhone with a front-facing camera. It then sends the photo, along with a map of the phone’s location, to an e-mail address. Within 25 minutes of the theft of her phone, the victim, Erum Malik, received a photo that the police say showed Mr. Chattoo, along with his location, 113th Street in Queens.
In the annals of New York City crime, the circumstances surrounding iPhone thefts feel comparatively tame. We imagine them to be at the center of a crime wave — “The teenager who has stalked iPhone users in Park Slope for two years continued his reign of terror last week,” The Brooklyn Paper wrote melodramatically in February. But this kind of thinking is preposterous when you consider that in 1969, as Jeffrey Kroessler, a librarian at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, told me, there were 78,000 auto thefts in New York City, which amounts to 215 a day.
The iPhone, though, is the latest in a succession of status objects that have fostered urban crime. In the 1980s, the craze for Cazal eyeglass frames, West German artifacts with gold insets, which sold for $85 to $200 in stores and commanded $35 to $50 on the street, resulted in the fatal stabbing of a 17-year-old Bronx boy at Broadway and 204th Street one winter afternoon, when five teenagers accosted him and grabbed the pair he was wearing.
In the late ’80s and early ’90s, cities across the country were forced to deal with the fact that young people were killing one another for Air Jordans. During the same era, the fad for leather bomber jackets became so intense that the Newark Police Department formed a special task force to deal with the shootings and muggings related to it.
As it happens, communications technology was fueling felonious activity in the city as far back as 85 years ago. In 1926, a man named Paul Hilton roamed Queens, breaking into homes to steal radios. Having shot and killed a patrolman while fleeing a robbery, he was captured at a baseball game and executed at Sing Sing in 1927. By the spring of that year, Hilton had inspired a copycat burglar who stole a $165 radio from a home in Jamaica, Queens, prompting the neighborhood’s police precinct to declare that officers would shoot to kill in similar crimes.
The current spate of iPhone thefts feels, if anything, more poignant than disruptive. Apple products have always read as cooler than their rivals’ because their design suggests a gleaming world of innovation and opportunity, of capitalism behaving well — a world that seems ever diminishing, ever less accessible to the struggling and young.
Unlike the sneakers and glasses that caused such a fury in the ’80s and ’90s, iPhones didn’t originate in the celebrity system. They come with a democratic ethos (if not the analogous price tag); BlackBerrys are for suits, but even a child can work an iPhone. Wasn’t everyone supposed to have a shot?
Thursday 27 October 2011
the addams ... sorry bossi family
Quanto ci costa il dito medio di Bossi
per Byoblu.com: Valerio Valentini
La cosa più squallida è che il Parlamento sia scambiato di frequente per un’osteria di quart’ordine: una di quelle bettole in cui i conti si regolano a suon di cazzotti e di insulti. E ancor più squallido è vedere miseri deputati pronti a lanciarsi in una rissa senza senso per segnalarsi all’attenzione dei propri capirione: “Hai visto capo, gliene ho suonate. L’ho fatto soltanto per te!”. Un pugno è per sempre. È un segno di fedeltà . E le elezioni sono vicine.
L’ultima rissa da mercato del pesce è quella di ieri tra Barbaro del Fli e Ranieri della Lega. I quali, se non fosse per queste straordinarie performance degne di nota, sarebbero dei perfetti carneadi. Persone che, come diceva Gaber, quando li incontri ti dicono “Lei non sa chi sono io!”. Ed è vero: nessuno li conosce, ma tutti contribuiscono al loro ragguardevole stipendio. Le motivazioni della lite sono note. Fini denuncia lo scandalo della moglie di Bossi che prende la pensione da quando ha 39 anni. La Gelmini s’infuria. Il giorno dopo Reguzzoni invoca le dimissioni di Fini. Gli ultras del presidente della Camera s’infuriano e scoppia la rissa.
Il partito che sbraita contro gli sprechi, le mafie e il fancazzismo dei "terroni" dovrebbe quantomeno scegliersi un leader che sia l’emblema dell’efficienza, della trasparenza e della produttività . Ma ognuno ha il leader che si merita e alla Lega tocca accontentarsi di Bossi. Uno che nel ’75 si sposa con una commessa di Gallarate, la quale lo "scarica" dopo 7 anni (ah, la crisi del settimo anno!) perché scopre che il suo Umberto esce tutte le mattine con la valigetta da dottore, dicendole “Ciao amore, vado in ospedale!”, ma dottore non lo è. Gli mancano ancora sei esami all’università , nonostante abbia organizzato ben tre feste di laurea, negli anni. Allora l’arguto Umberto ripiega su una "terrona", Manuela Marrone. Lei, vedendo che suo marito di voglia di lavorare ne ha pochina, decide di aiutarlo nella fondazione della Lega, finanziando il partito di tasca propria. Quando il marito comincia a entrare nei palazzi che contano, pensa bene che per lei è arrivato il momento di godersi il meritato riposo. E nel 1992, a soli 39 anni, lascia l’insegnamento e va in pensione. Ma intanto ha già regalato, a Umberto e all’umanità tutta, un monumento all’intelligenza: Renzo, in arte "Il trota". Il quale, per non deludere le aspettative che i suoi genitori, grandi amanti del lavoro e della meritocrazia, ripongono in lui, si fa bocciare 3 volte alla maturità .
Ma non c'è problema per chi nasce in camicia, specialmente se la camicia è verde. Infatti il pupo nel gennaio 2009 viene nominato, a 12 mila euro al mese, membro dell'"Osservatorio sulla trasparenza e l'efficacia del sistema fieristico lombardo" (organismo istituito su iniziativa della Lega). Poi entra nel Consiglio Regionale della Lombardia e porta orgogliosamente a casa i suoi sudatissimi 11 mila euro mensili. E poi c’è suo zio, il fratello del padre, a chiudere il quadretto familiar-padano. Si chiama Franco Bossi, ha studiato solo fino alla terza media ma dal 2004 al 2009 s’è puppato 12.750 euro al mese, facendo il portaborse all’europarlamentare leghista Matteo Salvini.
Quella dei Bossi è davvero una famiglia invidiabile, di cui i cittadini si fanno carica da anni in segno di solidarietà e misericordia per aiutarli a sbarcare il lunario. Almeno un grazie, i Bossi, ce lo dovrebbero. E invece, se ci va bene, dobbiamo accontentarci di un dito medio
Thursday 20 October 2011
shepherds pie
Instructions
1
Preheat the oven to 190ºC, gas mark 5. Heat the olive oil in a large pan, add the onion and cook for 3-4 minutes until softened. Stir in the carrots and parsnips, and cook for a further 2-3 minutes, stirring occasionally.2
Pour in the red wine, add the rosemary and simmer for 2-3 minutes until reduced by half. Stir in the passata and beans. Cover and cook for 15-20 minutes, or until the vegetables are tender. Transfer to a 2-litre shallow ovenproof dish.3
Meanwhile, cook the sweet potatoes in boiling water for about 10 minutes until tender. Drain and mash with half of the cheese. Season to taste, then spoon it over the vegetable mixture. Scatter over the remaining cheese and place in the oven. Cook for 20 minutes until golden and bubbling. Serve with broccoli or shredded cabbage.
Ingredients
- 700g Passata
- 420g Mixed Bean Salad, drained and rinsed
- 2 Carrots, peeled and chopped into chunks
- 75g Cheddar Mature
- 1 Red Onions, chopped
- 2 tbsp Rosemary, chopped
- 2 Parsnips, peeled and chopped into chunks
- 900g Sweet Potatoes, peeled and chopped into chunks
- 1 tbsp Mild & Light Olive Oil
- 200ml Vegetarian Red Wine
Serves 6
Pan-seared cod with leek and potato sauce
Pan-seared cod with leek and potato sauce
''These specially selected, skinless and boneless cod fillets are line-caught in Iceland in a well-managed and sustainable way. Cod is a delicious, robust fish, but be careful not to overcook it. It is also really important to use both the white and the green parts of the leeks and to chop them very finely so they cook as quickly as possible without losing their colour or flavour.'' Heston
- Serves:
- 2
Ingredients
- 1 small potato, peeled and finely sliced (about 50g)
- 10g unsalted butter
- ½ onion, peeled and finely sliced
- 160g leeks, washed and very finely sliced
- 200ml Cooks’ Ingredients Fish Stock, warmed
- Cooks’ Ingredients Bouquet Garni For Vegetables
- 1 tbsp whipping cream
- 1 tbsp whole milk
- Salt and freshly ground black pepper
- 1 tbsp groundnut oil
- 2 Waitrose Line Caught Prime Icelandic Cod Fillets (about 150g each)
- Chives, finely chopped
- 20g Waitrose Pea Tops, to garnish
Method
Rinse the sliced potato under cold water for 30 seconds thendrain well.
Melt the butter in a saucepan over a medium heat and cook the onion and potato for 10 minutes, stirring regularly. Add the leeks and cook for a further 5 minutes.
Pour in the warm fish stock with the bouquet garni and bring to a simmer for 5 minutes or until the potatoes are tender. Add the cream and milk and continue to heat for a further 10 minutes.
To finish the sauce, remove the bouquet garni, then liquidiseand strain the sauce through a sieve into a clean pan. Seasonwith salt and freshly ground black pepper and keep warmwhile you sear the cod.
Heat the groundnut oil in a non-stick frying pan over a high heat. Season the fish fillets on both sides with a little salt and place in the pan. After approximately 1–2 minutes (depending on the thickness of the fish), flip the fillets and cook for another 1–2 minutes.
Place the fillets on warm plates then, using a hand blender, froth the sauce and ladle it around the fish. Sprinkle with the chopped chives and garnish with the pea tops.
Heston’s serving suggestions:
Serve the fish on a bed of diced waxy potatoes, steamed orboiled, dressed with a simple vinaigrette while still warm. Forthe vinaigrette, mix 2 tbsp of Heston From Waitrose Mustardand Shallot Dressing with ½ tsp of the potato cooking water. Also delicious with buttered leeks and green beans.
Wednesday 19 October 2011
its the usual mindblowingly boring assortment at asda but theres these two things mybe
Friday 14 October 2011
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