Cat on the Bench

The Soy Chai Latte

Lunch today with a man who is hard to categorise.  He had eggs. The Tummy still being not too keen on solid foods, I decided on the oft-scorned “Soy Chai Latte”.

“Soy” “Chai” “Latte”. Three words that even in themselves inspire contempt - the environmentally problematic processes involved in soy milk production, the shameless mimicking of India's national drink being a colonialist aberration up there with golliwogs, and don’t get me started on the Marxist take on milky coffees. Put the three together, you have pure liquid derision.

But glorious liquid derision at that. Sweet and creamy, yet slightly nutty, soy milk, tinged with a hint of ginger and cardamom, and topped with a little frothy hat to be spooned off and savoured dollop by dollop. I think breast milk must have tasted something like a Soy Chai Latte.

Not only that, there is something warm and fuzzy about the culinary concepts of soybeans (largely used in Japanese cooking), Chai (Hindi for ‘tea’) and the Italian “café latte” uniting in my mug this way. Its not offensive, it’s a tribute to multiculturalism, an emblem of tolerance to be held forth as a guiding light for Australian society.

Yes, I know it is made with syrup that is more likely constructed by a factory worker in Packenham than spices ground by Rajasthani farmgirls. Yes, I know that chai-wallahs don’t carry around milk frothers. And yes, I know its not “real chai”, as themfolks who frequent the Chai Tent at Confest and St Andrews Market will testify.

I know this because I’ve drunk “real chai” and it is nothing like my Soy Chai Latte. The equal quantities sugar and week-old tealeaves, the ass-end of a knob of ginger ground between rocks and thrown in a pot with milk that has been in the sun all day and a sprinkle of dirt to give the colour that the tealeaves won’t. “Real chai”, drunk from clay pots that you smash on the ground once you have finished, serves a time and place. That place is India and the time is after a five hour bus-ride with a family of twenty and their chickens, to give energy after a bout of dysentery or to calm nerves after another run-in with a Saddhu who wants to feel your aura (and is pretty sure it is located right under that there bra).

In Varanasi, they don’t use soymilk, they don’t use honey, and they sure don’t recycle the cups. That is “real chai”.

I’m not saying that “real chai”, a “Soy Chai Latte”, or “Cushions-and-dreadlocks chai” can’t be delicious. I’m simply saying that sometimes it can be futile to apply labels and make judgments, and it can be nice just to enjoy the unique beverage in front of you for what it is.

Mutiny from the dark depths within

My body has either taken inspiration from Mel’s pirates, or it’s the universe’s karmic punishment for being such a glutton. Either way, the insatiable tummy that inspired this blog is refusing all food. N’s offers of tea are now accompanied with “would you like a bucket with that?”, I don’t need an alarm because the rising bile awakes me just in time for the 6:28 tram, and my boss thinks I’m constipated because I keep running off to the loo mid-conversation.

It serves me right for spending my tax return on deliciousness instead of paying the water bill.

But it has been a week of culinary loveliness and I want to share it regardless.

Beautiful creations I have chucked this week:

- a mixed seafood grill and a bite of A’s flourless orange and lemon cake at my birthday dinner at the Kent Hotel on Rathdowne Street. I had been wanting to eat here for ages, as the barrister I used to work for always used to come back to the office with the remains of the glorious meals from the Kent on his tie, and tell me tales of wild salmon, beetroot mash and caramelised red onion gravies (not in the same dish!). But even though our house in Carlton was right near it, M and N said it was too middle class and brought shame to the neighbourhood, and that La Porchetta and the Dan were the only places worthy of our custom. on my birthday I got my way, and it was marvellous. They even let me squeeze in an extra guest at the last minute, leading to a very cuddly dinner, but they’re the best ones! Minor criticism: the pancetta pizza that D got was so doughy they should have called it a focaccia. They have a huge wood-fired oven but they obviously aren’t using it to make proper crispy pizzas. Maybe they have a cremating business on the side . . .

-  the oxymoronic Thai Kangaroo Salad that I made for our friend J who manages an electrical department and wangled us a cheap printer. 2 kangaroo steaks seared in my new frypan, a box of halved cherry tomatoes, a red capsicum cut into thin strips, handfuls of mint and coriander from the quasi-garden, a few roasted peanuts, half a red onion finely sliced, and a dressing made of light soy, fish sauce, a chopped and seeded big red chilli, some brown sugar and lime juice.

- a potato gratin adapted from Nigella’s recipe (which involved half a litre of cream). My version: eight small peeled potatoes cut into 1cm slices, enough milk to cover, the last bit of blue cheese (a chunk about the size of a mini-ipod), and some grated nutmeg simmered until the potatoes are tender but not collapsing, then seasoned and dotted with butter and chucked in a super hot oven until golden and crispy on top.

I think I’m allergic to constructive trusts. Either way, I’m going to stick to brown rice for a while until the pirates go back to sleep.

Chapter 23

I am now 23. But its not that bad because turning 23 coincided with . . .

Isn’t it lovely.

Red and French, my two favourite adjectives.

I had been watching it for yonks and obviously N had to.

In the last three days, I have grilled asparagus, bread, zucchini, halloumi and eggplant. N has grilled sausages, kangaroo and more sausages.

Vingt-trois ans, not so bad, not so bad.

Dial me up Scotty

Two months later, she’s got a landline and is back online. It’s not broadband but some prepaid dialup thing that N found at Brunswick Smokeland. But, hot damn, it feels good!

It surprised me how much I missed have an internet connection. There are lots of things our house doesn’t have: a television, a telephone, a microwave, a vacuum cleaner, a mop, an iron, a couch, enough cutlery to invite more than two people round without resorting to camping gear, any socks that match. But it’s the lack of internet that made me tetchy. My mum told me that when you declare yourself bankrupt and they come and take all your stuff away, they will leave your television because its considered a necessity.

If/when I’m declared bankrupt, I’m going to see if I can cut a deal where they get the TV and I get to keep the following:

1. internet capacity and the laptop
2.  Irish Breakfast teabags
3.  the cat
4.  chutney
5.  the piano
6.  condoms
7.  my red boots
8.  my new red frypan
9.  the corkscrew
10.  Nigella
11.  at least two types of cheese
12.  green apples (and peaches if I can time my bankruptcy with the stonefruit season)
13.  my grey trackies, my red bra from France, my “Your Playstation or Mine” t-shirt and my moccasins
14.  natural yoghurt (not low-fat)
15. pumpkin
16. marmalade
17. butter
    
18.  hair straightener (I may be bankrupt but I will NOT be curly)
19. frozen peas
20. raisin toast
    

In return, they can have

1.  the TV, the mop and the iron
   
2.  my Property and Equity casebooks. They are smugly sitting at the corner of the desk watching me type this, staring with their guilt-inducing Post-It eyes. If only they knew their destiny . . .
3.  all the furniture and broken electrics that N has salvaged from hard rubbish
4.  the pile of dried beans, odourless spices, popping corn and instant felafel mix that has permanent residency at the back of the cupboard
5.  “Vegan Cooking for One”, “100 Great Salad Dressings” and “The Bean Book”
6.  all the unmatching socks.

Lucky old bank.

The sprunging of Spring

A new work timetable (which involves starting work at the hour of death in order to free up afternoons for study) plus an injection of clemency from the weather gods meant there was really only one way to spend yesterday’s lunchtime: beer in the sun by the Yarra. It was probably not the most sensible idea given I was meeting my uni supervisor at 3 o’clock but I met N after work and we went to Transport, a bar I generally avoid in the evenings when it is swamped in trendiness. But yesterday, the stilettoed ones off doing what they do, it was simply lovely.

We ordered two pints of Hoegarden. It felt bizarre drinking it because in London this was our breakfast drink to be enjoyed at our local on a Sunday morning with a plate of egg and chips, a pile of newspapers and a headache. In retrospect, its fruity mildness is much better suited to whittled away spring afternoons than the dark dens of the East End.

N entrusted me to order some food (payday, yay!). I decided salads were in order, our kitchen not having seen much green for a while. I ordered a Caesar salad for N. The bartender informed me that it would be anchovy-free.  Apparently the trendies don’t like anchovies so the kitchen doesn’t even stock them.  Next thing you know, they’ll be putting chicken in it – an acceptable dish in its own right but nothing to do with old Caesar. Back in ancient Rome, they are rolling in their graves.

I had a rocket, pear and parmesan salad.  It’s the Buddhists who say that if you have no expectations you cannot be disappointed. Well that was my salad. The Caesar salad was an (albeit yummy) slap in the face to a sacred food culture, thus leading to our annoyance from an unfulfilled expectation. But my rocket salad, which had shaves of nutty parmesan throughout as well as grated within the dressing, came expectation-free and turned out to be the perfect pairing (pear-ing??) to a sunny Hoegarden-fuelled afternoon.

Twas only to be bettered by a balmy rosé-fuelled evening with A at the upstairs Lounge.

I do like Spring!

Library Munchies, part 2

Yet another post written from the grey wonderland that is the law library.

It is mid-afternoon and J and I are working on our Advanced Legal Research papers (big mothers of essays that were due in July but we have postponed until November on the condition they are twice the size - don't ask how mine is progressing).

Anyway, we are only giving the appearance of working because J is hungry and I am listening to her talk about how hungry she is. But I am not hungry. Why? Because I had the sandwich of the year for lunch. She may have had four very delicious slices of buttered sourdough from the Gertrude St organic bakery but as I tell her time and time again (and here goes again because I know you will read this), the key to postponing mid-afternoon munchies is in the SANDWICH CONTENT.

To elaborate, today's sandwich contained:
- a slab of ricotta (a dollar for a biggish chunk from the supermarket deli)
- a layer of my homemade apple chutney (of which I am increasingly tiring - making two litres of anything is always a bad idea)
- five slices of tomato
- a protective layer of spinach leaves to prevent tomato-bread-sog
- a few flaccid bits of parsley
- salt and pepper.

Methinks it is the ricotta.  That said, Monday's cheddar, onion, mustard and tomato affair did have similar tummy-longevity, alhtough my bag still smells funky (but not as bad as when I spilt yoghurt on J's property notes so they smelt positively vaginal. I sometimes wonder why she still studies with me).

Back to work . . .

Carrot policy

I have just been kicked out of the library for eating a carrot. Yes, I know that food isn’t allowed but everyone eats in the law library. You simply have too much twaddle to get through to justify packing everything up and going outside every time your tummy grumbles.  However most people eat whiffy yet silent sandwiches or concealable-in-your-hand crap from the vending machines. My crunchy carrot may make a few milli-decibels more noise but for policy reasons, surely there should be some leniency for students who choose to illicitly snack on food of identifiable source? If there is an epidemic of fat lawyers in ten years, you will know who to blame.

Big pieca fish

Partly triggered by the move and partly by cumulative irritation, N and I have made a deal: he is to cook a non-sausage dinner once per week and I am not to start conversations when he is in another room (I can think of a million worse habits of mine but apparently this annoys him the most so be it).

Anyhoo, last week I was greeted with . . .

“Big pieca fish with a pongy green sauce, mash and some green things”

I think it was roughly based on a recipe from Nigel Slater’s Appetite, a signed copy of which is now back in my possession, along with my birthday “How to be a domestic goddess” from English housemates, “The Paris Cookbook” bought from Shakespeare & Co in Paris by Nic for Christmas, and some mini-cookbooks from Books for Cooks in Notting Hill (my second favourite bookshop in the world, after S&C).  I could only bring 20 kilos back on the plane from London with me and in the packing frenzy somehow decided that work clothes were more important than cookbooks and fun shoes and have spent the past seven months in wistful longing. Yes, seven months, I daren’t think what customs were doing with it.

 

N’s version went something like this.

1. Fry fish in a big knob of butter (with a little oil to stop the butter burning) for a few minutes on each side then season and put in a hot oven to finish off. I'm not sure what type of fish it was - something white and chunky that he got from the fish shop in Barkly Square.
   
2. Put the leaves of a bunch of flat-leaf parsley, a tablespoon of capers, a bit of Dijon mustard, a clove of garlic, the juice from a lemon, four anchovies, whatever mint could be salvaged from our paltry garden and 2 tablespoons of olive oil in the blender and pulse. Add more oil if it isn’t “saucy” enough.
3. Peel potatoes, boil until soft, drain, put back in pot to dry off, then mash with some warm milk, more butter, salt and white pepper.
4. Steam a token amount of broccoli.
5. Put everything on the plate, spooning sauce over the broccoli, next to the fish and nowhere near the mash because you are too aware of your girlfriend’s idiosyncrasies about food touching.
6. Set table and announce to girlfriend in the other room that dinner is ready (because the rules don't mention anything about you doing it).

'Twas delicious.