Tomato Fest, France

I'll soon be off to catch the end of the French tomato season. However much you pay, wherever you shop, whatever you grow, it is literally not possible to have a true tomato experience in the UK. Toms in Britain are more acidic and the textures are all broken up into skin, seeds, liquid, and solid flesh. In France, in season, they are juicy, fruity, smooth and soft. Not pappy, mind, just with synergistic textures that are tender but satisfying.

Tomato jelly with goats' cheese, France

Anyway, there are some growing in my garden in France, so I am very excited about making the most of them while I'm there. They are the montfavet variety, and I am also looking forward to buying some luscious marmande ones from the village market - they come in all shapes, sizes and colours, and the stall owners ask what you are going to use them for, before selecting suitable specimens from the pile.

Here's what I did with homegrown French tomatoes one year, when I had a glut (see photo above). Now, though, they will be a novelty again, so will probably all end up as tomato salads, which are a completely different and a stupendously delicious dish, if made with the French tomatoes. Hmmm and atop pizzas, and maybe a few gazpachos, and in more imaginative salads. Yeah, well I might play a bit, but no jelly - I'll need all my time to eat tomatoes, and won't have any left to fiddle around with them.

Snail Feast

June spent in France was wonderful; catching up with old friends, enjoying the novelty of the amazing produce, re-acquainting myself with my kitchen and garden, and proper hot summer weather.

When I first arrived, my herbs were being munched by a plague of snails. So I decided to resolve the problem by munching them. Previously, I had been put off by unsuccessful snail-cooking attempts, and there were never that many of them to cook. This time there were dozens and dozens, and I was determined to make them delicious. I had three weeks to purge them (fed only on bread followed by days of nothing at all), before serving them up to friends as a goodbye meal at the end of my stay.

Three weeks of culinary adventures and good times went by. The day of the feast arrived hot and sunny, and I drove my blue banger to the village to get some still-warm baguettes, wine, salad, a massive bunch of parsley and butter. Then, back to my little beauties...

I boiled a huge jam pan of water, rinsed off the snails, shook them to make them retreat into their shells, and winced as I chucked the lot into the boiling water. Job done, the worst bit over. After a few minutes, the snails were draining and cooling and definitely dead. I extracted each one from its shell and removed its twirly gut end, before boiling the meats with herbs and stock veg for 3 hours. The shells were rinsed, boiled in fresh water, and left in the sun to dry.

Meanwhile, I chopped the mountains of garlic and parsley, stirred them into soft butter, and seasoned the mixture with plenty of salt.

Then came a few hours of stuffing each snail back into a shell, each squadged in with a load of the persilade (garlic and parsley butter).

Preparing snails

Next, I dressed the table, mixed the salad, opened the wine, and set out nibbles. Once my guests had arrived, and were having aperitifs, I put the snails in a hot oven for 20 minutes. Out they came, sizzling and smelling fantastic. I dished them up at the table and finally found out that my snail adventure had been a success - they were absolutely delicious, and this was confirmed by my guests, who were Dutch, English and French. The Frenchman commented that he hadn't had snails in ages, and it was funny that this time they had been cooked by an English person. The Dutchman had never eaten snails, and was delighted by them. The Englishman had tasted my previous attempts and was relieved that these were not only edible but extremely palatable and moreish. Hmmm even more salt with the butter next time, though, I think.

Tasty snails

I was thrilled that I had been able to make these slimy creatures tasty at last, and that I had put my snail glut to such extremely good use. All the effort and man hours had been worthwhile. I will definitely be making this a regular pest-control exercise/snail party.

Indonesian Beef Rendang Daging

The lovely Julia invited me and a friend over to try some of her expert Indonesian cooking. She had learned the cuisine from a street food seller, having committed to getting up at 4am everyday of her stay in Indonesia, to spend time cooking with the bemused lady.

Last night we had this scrumptious, rich rendang daging; beef cooked slowly in coconut milk, with herbs, spices and chillies, and served with caramelized shallots sprinkled over the top.

Authentic beef rendang daging


We also drank Clarette de Die infused with apricots as an aperitif, then had a superb starter of Mexican prawn ceviche. After the rendang daging came a cheese selection and salad, and everything was washed down with litres of rosé.

Yey! Back to France!

...Well, only for 3 weeks (8th - 30th June), which will rush by, but I'm soooo looking forward to being back in my kitchen! Just the prospect of returning is making me all freshly inspired and enthused about cooking, concocting and just generally eating; homemade perfect pizzas cooked in my wood-fired oven, ridiculously rich homemade ice-creams, salads of lush home-grown or market produce and garden herbs, cool summer soups, scrambled village eggs, barbecued meat and fish and cephalopods and fruit and veg and breads, picnics and booze on the beach, croissants and pain au chocolat with coffee, steak tartare, fruits de mer, oozing little goat cheeses... and so on, and on... Ooh, and I'll make a strawberry tart with the wonderously juicy and fragrant local varieties that are in season! Actually, how the hell am I going to fit all of my French food fun into 3 weeks?

My kitchen in France

First Experience of Freetown - 21st August 2007

Breakfast at Hotel Barmoi could involve eggs, sausage et cetera, but the whole time I stayed there I went for their toasty Sierra Leonean coffee (sadly, the only place I found local coffee!) and fruit, which was either papaya with lime and sugar, mangoes, bananas, or a combination of two.

After breakfast, I was plunged into the incredible hustle and bustle of Freetown, and had my first experience of the torrential downpours of rainy season. We dodged rivers of rainwater and beeping traffic, and slipped into the quiet calm of the Crown Bakery for lunch. The Bakery feels like an unassuming London café but is relatively expensive, and has a Sierra Leonean and international menu. I chose deep fried fish in a bun, which turned out to be cod, and was yum. Pa had fajitas which were good n’ tasty.



In the evening we went to Alex’s, a mainly open-air seafront restaurant. This is a pretty major place to eat in Freetown, where loads of ex-pats eat (the prices being too high for most locals), and all nationalities drink in the sports bar next door, but it would be difficult to find without someone in the know; it’s tucked away behind shacks and stalls. I had bonita fish in a coconut sauce, with draft Star, chips and salad. The start of things to come…

Leaving Lakka - 26th August 2007

I slept deeply again - that sea air? Pure food? Exhaustion from bumpy roads? After a breakfast of toasted baguette and Nescafé with powdered milk, I sat on an old wooden beach lounger and talked to some local boys, while I waited for my lift. They took me on a tour of lovely Lakka village. It is nestled in the forest, where mudbrick and corrugated iron-roofed houses and huts are scattered in glades between palm tress and the sweet-smelling flowers of creepers. It wasn’t the best time to visit, apparently, because most of the villagers were at one or other of the various churches – it was Sunday. My guides weren’t at church, because they were Muslim, apart from Augustine, who had decided to take the day off because it was his birthday.





My dad arrived and took me away from Lakka, which had begun to feel like home, even though I had only seen it for the first time two days earlier. I felt sad to leave.

Nevermind, we were back off to Sussex for lunch. I still didn’t see the beach, but the groupa carpaccio was fantastic, and I had a glass of chilled Chardonnay – the first wine I’d had in soooo long. I felt the nectar trickle down my throat and got that warm feeling as it spread out in my stomach. Wine is of course especially wonderful when you’ve been deprived for a while. The main course was barbequed angelfish with chips and salad.





After the tiring journey back to Freetown, we decided to eat our evening meal at the hotel. Their rooftop restaurant has good views over the sea and nearby buildings, and the wall is made of windows, which we opened up to hear the sea and feel the breeze. After being such greedy pigs all weekend, we both ordered a small mixed salad, which was nothing special, but nice all the same. Also, to settle our full stomachs, we enjoyed G&Ts.

Countryside & Roadside Snacks - 27th August 2007

Monday morning, and we were off to the hydroelectric dam project that my father is working on, in Bumbuna. First we had to get through Freetown’s traffic mayhem, which meant sitting in stationary traffic for quite a long time, watching people selling, delivering, shouting, greeting, carrying and hanging out. Then there was a terrific downpour, and umbrellas of all colours burst into flower, whilst stalls were quickly covered in plastic.

Eventually, we left Freetown behind, and I spent the four hour drive upcountry enjoying the sights of palm plantations and my first African thatched houses, as well as returning the many greetings from villagers and fellow road-users (on foot, in cars, in buses, on motorbikes and in lethal-looking lorries). I was taking in scenes so typically African that I felt like I was in a fibre-glass-based safari park.



Lunch on the road was sweet green bananas, and char-grilled corn on the cob (tasty but could have done with some salt and butter), bought from street sellers. We also purchased some strange fruit that we were told were plums, but looked nothing like them and were inedible raw.

As we got further into the countryside, children outside mud and straw houses would go berserk waving, laughing and screaming “O Poto, O Poto, O Poto!” (Meaning ‘European’/ ‘white man’) at us as we went past. We’d get to what looked like major places on the map, but the settlements themselves were no bigger than a small village. The mud, thatch and tin cottages and huts, with chickens and goats milling about them, looked restful and solid after the slums of Freetown.



The Range Rover climbed up ochre dirt tracks, further into the jungle. We eventually arrived at the dam project worker’s camp by early evening, just in time for some pre-dinner drinks with freshly roasted peanuts - which tasted exactly like peanut butter. Without a doubt the nicest peanuts I’ve tasted, I vowed to try and find raw peanuts in Europe when I got back, so I could re-create the home-roasted flavour.

I asked the barman for the best places to drink in Bumbuna village, and he told us about Mabinti Johnny’s bar, where you can also get good food. We’d have to search it out the next day…



Being an Italian-run project, the camp’s cafeteria serves Italian-style food. ‘Camp’ makes it all sound very basic, but actually it’s a collection of bungalows and communal buildings. It was a nice change to have red wine and a meal of meatballs, potato, cheeses, charcuterie, and salads. ‘Specially the wine. ☺

Fishing Villages; Friction in Freetown - 1st September 2007

Fishing Villages

It was the first day of my last weekend in Sierra Leone, and we headed off down the coast again, but this time taking the much longer route on a new road. We were aiming for Kent beach, with the idea of perhaps getting a canoe over to the Banana Islands.

We stopped off at Mama Beach, and experienced the typical African fishing village in full swing. Everyone was on the beach, hauling huge baskets of wonderful-looking sardines out of the boats, through the surf to wash them, and up onto the beach to sell. Further along the beach, a team of people were pulling in nets with a varied catch of fish and crustaceans. Mama Beach has the softest, finest sand I have ever felt between my toes.



We wanted to buy some sardines for lunch, and I was up for building a fire to cook them - we still had Mabinti’s limes in the car. But in the end we decided to keep going to Kent, and see if we could find a restaurant selling sardines and Star.

Both the restaurants at Kent were closed, due to it being low season, but a deal was made with some local lads - all fishermen – and they went off to get the necessaries to provide us with a meal. Sardines were not available. An hour (and a Star) later, we were given our plates of ultra-fresh white fish (Groupa? Forgot to ask because I was so keen to tuck in), which had been barbecued near us on the beach, and was served with tomatoey rice and a kind of freshly cooked onion and tomato chutney sauce. We drank cold Stars and sat on the rocks to eat our scrumptious lunch.



The sea was looking a bit rough for a boat trip, so we postponed the idea of the Banana Islands until the next day.



We couldn't continue round on the new road, because we got to the end of the road. Literally. So we turned back and went the long, smooth way back to Freetown.



Friction in Freetown

On the way back, we got caught up in some election aggravation in the centre of Freetown. The streets were chokka, and suddenly everyone started walking in the same direction. Stuck in the traffic, we wound up our windows, and locked the doors, while soldiers and police (men and women) started to dash up the street wielding guns and shouting. Trucks of riot police arrived. You just can’t tell what will happen in that kind of situation, and I felt nervous seeing guns waved around. It got slightly scary when we finally got out of the gridlock, because my dad got lost, ending up in a different part of town than he expected. After ducking down alleys and roads in a labyrinth of one-way streets, we finally found ourselves on the road to Lumley and safety.

Back at the hotel, we went to the poolside bar again. The laughing barman wasn’t there, but his colleague was a nice bloke anyway, and I got another offer of a Sierra Leone mix CD. We had a quiet supper at the hotel, of bonita fish, chips, salad and Star.

Czech Republic

In August, I went to the Czech Republic, for a friend's wedding. I was expecting cheap beer and - from what people had told me - pretty poor, stodgy, greasy food. Well, the cheap beer is there, but you have to search out the properly cheap stuff. For cheap beer, stay away from Prague town centre, basically.

The food was great, though! Prague had loads of choice, everything seemed lush and fresh, there's a great food market, and the traditional dishes were completely delish. I really don't get why people are so down on the cuisine. The prejudice must be based on a) way back in the past, in the countryside, with paupers, in winter with no veg, or b) peep's own bad choices of restaurants. Probably that, eh?

The best dish was a slow-roasted pig's knee. They are surprisingly enormous, by the way. Mine came on a big oval platter, with horseradish, mustard, pickles, salad, pickled chillies and roast potatoes. But the meat itself... woah... the skin was gooey in places, crackling in others, salty and just so damn tasty. I ate all the skin. I also managed some of the sticky, unctuous, moist, flavoursome, falling-apart meat.

I was quite distraught at not being able to finish the dish, but the waiter assured me that no-one ever does, even on feast days, even he who was "quite fatty" could never manage a whole one. What a waste! I should've got a doggy bag, but was going out on the town, and sack of pig wasn't a good look, really.

If you go to the Czech Rep., look out for stuffed duck breast, delightful bread with aniseed, pastries, local waxy cheeses, smoked meats, charcuterie and paprika peppers. The dumplings were a disappointment, though; more like white sliced than actual suet dumplings that Brits might expect.