In the seventies Sile and I rented a cottage in the middle of a farm just outside Kilkenny city. The farm had the wonderfully romantic title of Bishops Demesne, (with that spelling), definitely our most romantic address.
I used to do a little round of various catering jobs to make ends meet, some teaching in the tech, some dinner parties and some quiches and pates etc. for the food shops in the town.
On one Friday night I had a large order (for me) of 3 quiches for a local delicatessen. This was most of an evenings work to get ready.
Before I went to bed I had the quiches ready and cooling gently in the sitting room (the coolest room in the cottage)
I was woken by a noise downstairs in the middle of the night.
I jumped out of the bed and, naked and without my glasses (and therefore nearly blind) I headed down stairs to investigate.
There, to my horror, I found one of my quiches had been attacked by, what I immediately realised, could only be the farm cat.
Adding insult to injury was the realisation that it was mostly my fault. In my stupidity, and to cool down the quiches I had left the window in the sitting room open.
I then carefully closed the window and blindly and nakedly stumbled back to bed, fully aware that I was going to have to get up a few hours earlier to make an extra quiche.
I was no sooner back in the bed than I heard another noise from the living room.
This time I was downstairs, blind and naked in double quick time.
There I found that a second quiche had now been savaged.
Peering around the room for the culprit I at last made out a large cat, rigid in the corner obviously hoping that this mad blind person would miss seeing her again.
With a savage roar I bounded at the cat and grabbed the nearest weapon I could find.
I was going to kill it.
The weapon was the little axe we used to chop kindling for the fire.
With a large yowl the cat realised instantly my intentions and leapt past me out of the room and up the stairs.
With an equally loud yowl I ran after her.

Sile, who was always a good sleeper, had been sleeping peacefully through the earlier shenanigans.

She woke as a large yowling cat ran across the bed and up the curtains, there clinging on to the pelmet for dear life.
This was followed very quickly by her husband, naked and nearly blind and armed with an axe, shouting curses following the cat to the curtain and there making futile efforts to kill the animal who remained just out of his reach.

She eventually managed to save both me and the cat.
I can no longer remember how.
I do remember that I had to get up before dawn to make fresh quiches.
And I never left the window open again.

In a glowing review of a very simple restaurant in this mornings Irish Times Tom Doorley quotes the motto they have, proudly, written on their blackboard.
“99% ingredients, 1% skill”
What a marvellous motto for this age in restaurants, this is what we in Euro-Toques and the Slow Food movement have been preaching.
The cheffing skills in Ireland have improved immeasurably over the last years, but let us not lose sight of the real heart of our food :the ingredients.

The restaurant is called Michael’s on Deerpark Road in Mount Merrion.
It sounds like it would be worth a detour

When we got the garden done last year I at last got what I have always wanted ; a herb bed.
Being aware of the creaking of the joints we also got it raised up with old railway sleepers (an appropiate place to put a bed methinks.)
By the time it was completed last year we were too late to put in most herbs so I just stuck a pot bound Bay tree in one corner and buried some mint in buckets.(I had been warned about this herb’s propensity to wander and colonise)
I also managed to stick in some of my much loved Sorrel, the only herb which had thrived in our last garden in Kilmacleague.
(Thrived that is until my father-in-law came to stay, we came home from town one day to find it all razed to the ground.
“I got rid of that old dock” he told us triumphantly.)

Despite my burying the mint roots it was rapidly taking over the entire bed this spring so it has now been removed to an area where it can propigate on regardless.

When I finished up with the restaurant my friend Barbara Halley (who had provided me with superb and copious quantities of herbs for the restaurant’s life) had promised me herb plants for my garden any time I wanted.
Last Saturday, as she reckoned the frosts were now passed, we called to her marvellous garden in Tramore and collected a bounty.

The bed of herbs is at last fulfilling its destiny.

I now have, from back left hand corner;
Bronze Fennel, Green Fennel, My precious Sorrel, three Thymes, Chives, some Rosemary and some Lovage in the corner.
On the front row;
Three different sorts of Sage,some flat Parsley and some Curley(there were some more little parsley plants next but the slugs-the scum- have eaten them)some Lavender, and some French Tarragon in the corner, the Bay Tree just behind that,having remained dormant in a pot on our roof in Mary Street for about fifteen years, is this year showing new growth.

Thank you Barbara.

As a (semi) retired and garrulous media friendly chef I get asked to do a lot of surprising things.
I have helped launch “Happy Heart” eat out campaigns, spoken at culinary award ceremonies, been asked for sound bites by media people on stuff like GMOs and Salmon fishing and even advised our local festival on events surrounding food.
One of the most interesting has been to sit on an advisory board in the local Institute of Technology to help them design a proposed degree course in culinary arts.

One of my reactions to this is; why has it taken so long to recognise that cooking is an art?
In my humble and totally biased opinion it certainly ranks up there with music and the visual arts.
A good meal, or better still an excellent meal can nurture the soul in much the same way as piece by Mozart or a painting by Cézanne. That it is nurturing the body at the same time adds to its merit rather than reducing it to a humble craft.
Music and the visual Arts have long been taught with reference to the great masters of the past. It would be peculiar to learn to play the violin only by endlessly repeating scales, or to paint by just learning the mechanical and chemical skills involved in putting paint on canvas.
How peculiar then that our other great art has always been taught as a process of mechanical “tricks”, the ability to slice an onion in neat dice being deemed more important than trying to reproduce the masterpieces of cookery of which there is a long tradition.
The teachers of cookery should be bringing their students on constant pilgrimages to good restaurants to learn the finer points of their art from true masters.
The very fact that the culinary arts are still only taught in Institutes of Technology rather than in University speaks volumes.

In Sweden they now have Universities of Culinary Art where a student goes through a three year course without ever setting foot inside a kitchen or putting on an apron.
The only attempt at an intellectual discussion on the Art of Food that has been produced in these Islands, to my knowledge, was the late, and great Alan Davidson’s periodical Petites Propos Culinaires.

I am fervently hoping that the Degree in Culinary Art does come to pass in Waterford, and also that similar courses may in time become available in our Universities.
Without reference to the history and previous excellence of food and meal production we cannot hope to improve the standards of modern Irish cooking .

There is surely no better way to assess a nations obsessions than by marking what the most popular word search on Google might be.
All is revealed in this mornings (English) Independent.

Can you answer these questions.
In which country is
(a) Colonic Irrigation number 2 ?
(b) Bananas number 1 ?
(c) Winnie the Pooh number 5 ?
(d) Sid Vicious number 4 ?

(Answers (a) Ireland,(b) Australia (c)Philippines (d) Argentina)

Which sad nation has at number three position Chicken Tika Masala and Crisps at number 4 ?
You have guessed it. The UK.

The ladies score highly with Kate Moss getting a number 4 here, Pamela Anderson comes in at number 1 in Peru, and Princess Di scores a nostalgic number 2 in South Africa, (not as depressing though as the UK’s number 1, the pneumatic but vacuous Chantelle)

For men it seems the choices are for leaders, with Hitler scoring in Norway’s top five, and Osama bin Laden , not surprisingly, getting into the USA number 4 position (but after Cheeseburgers, Sex toys and SUVs)

To match our own obsession for the nether regions Australia votes Haemorrhoids at number 4, Pakistan give Penis Enlargement a resounding 5 (don’t they open their Spam there?)but best of all is the New Zealander’s prurience revealed with their choice of Underpants at number 5 (closely at the heels of Sausages, their number 4)

Some of the choices are more obvious, no cigars for guessing who had Tinnies on their list or who Pele(Australia and Brazil), or that Pakistan had Cricket as their number 1.

On reflection perhaps the most surprising results of the survey, and one that confounds those who see us all inevitably moving towards a bland international uniformity, is that of the five choices made by the 15 nations surveyed there is not one duplication.

My well thumbed, tatty, but very precious 1973 version of Leaves.

I have just heard that this wonderful book of recipes for cooking vegetables , which is in my top ten of cookbooks of all time, is about to be republished.
It was written, three generations apart, by Janet Ross and Michael Waterfield.
Let me first of all make clear my own interest.

Sile and I worked in “The Wife of Bath” in Wye in Kent in the 1970s.
There Michael Waterfield was chef, proprietor and friend to us both.
For Christmas 1975 he gave us a copy of this book (writing, to my great pride, on the flyleaf ; To Martin and Sile in thanks for leaving your native shores and coming to help and cheer us…)

So it has a certain personal resonance with me but, on any judgment, it is a marvellous and important cookbook. The fact that it has been constantly reprinted since it’s first edition in 1899 indicates its treasured place on any serious cooks bookshelf.

Michael Waterfield’s great great great Aunt, Janet Ross lived in Settignano, close to Florence, at the turn of the nineteenth century. Her villa, Poggio Gherardo, was a grand and historic villa, in which Boccaccio had set part of the Decameron.

No mean lady of letters herself, she was friend and grand dame of the artistic and ex-patriot set in Florence at that time.
Well used to literary friends and relations,(she is reputed to have refused to tie Tennyson’s shoe lace as a child) she herself presided over a literary salon in the villa, entertaining people like E M Forster, D H Lawrence and Sir Harry Luke.

There is a fascinating description of her and her villa in Kinta Beevor’s memoir , A Tuscan Childhood.

Ironically Janet Ross may well not have invented any of the vegetable recipes in this little book.
She freely admits that they were written under the direction of Giuseppe Volpi, the chef in Poggio Gherardo, and gives him pride of place with his portrait, by Hallam Murray, reproduced at the front of the book.

Giuseppe Volpi

The book is a recipe book for vegetables, simply but deliciously cooked, vegetables which would , without shame, be produced as a course on their own. (And when was the last time, even in France, that one has seen that happen?)

It could not be reprinted at a more opportune time.
We are suffering from a superabundance of proteins in our restaurants at the moment. The starring role is inevitably meat or fish with the poor veg relegated to the very minor role of garnish. Nowadays it is not strange to be given a single small turned potato and a teaspoon of beautifully cooked but scarce spinach as the vegetable section of a meal.

As a grumpy and now retired restaurateur the criticism most often levelled to me about modern restaurants is that they no longer serve dishes of vegetables with a meal.
The best effort seems to be the ghastly demi-lune saucer with four separate vegetables cooked, as the French would scathingly put it, A La Anglais, that is boiled in water.

Just let me finish by quoting a recipe for Cabbage from this book.
I tried this first in the seventies and it was an eye-opener then.
My previous experience of Cabbage would have been the green slick which, with its foul odours of sulphur, would have been sloshed next to the bacon in a watery mound for lunch.
(There is a story that people at mass on a Sunday would tell one another that they “put down” the Cabbage before they left to have it well cooked for “the dinner”)

Imagine then my surprise when I met and cooked cabbage this way;

Cavolo alla Panna

Cut one large Cabbage in four and remove the stalks.
Shred the leaves across, not too finely.
Wash in cold water.
Put in a pan of boiling salted water for ten minutes.
Drain well.
Return to the pan and add;
½ pint thin cream, salt pepper nutmeg, and 1 dessert spoon of grated horseradish.
Cover the pan with a lid and finish cooking gently.
When nearly cooked remove the lid and boil fiercely to reduce.

The result is ambrosial.

As I said at the beginning the book is just about to be republished and they are already accepting orders for it .
Be first in the queue.

The 2006 edition, brought up to date by Michael Waterfield.
(I’m going to buy this copy too)
Available from Grub Street

Still Life with Baskets, Bottle and Frying Pan
Nicholas Volley

Nicholas Volley was an English painter, of much the same age as myself, who died last week.
The Independent printed this picture as part of his obituary.
I had never heard of him before but have fallen for the picture.
I love the coppery greens and the rusty frying pan in this composition.
( I do apologise for the quality of my scanned in print)
I am at the moment trying to find out more about him.

Gerard Durrell’s book; “My Family and Other Animals”, has long been a great favourite read and re-read of mine.
I think it qualifies as the funniest book I know.
I am not at all a wildlife fan but Durrell’s interest and affection for the subject makes it fascinating.
He also makes his family come to remarkable life on the page.
The book describes a time, when Durrell was a boy, spent in the island of Corfu.
With Durrell are his scatty but extremely tolerant Mother, his elder brother Larry, a writer who lives in a world of his own, his gun mad brother Leslie and his sister Margot, who comes over as not being the brightest.

Durrell’s adventures with various small animals, insects and birds , (which he often attempts to raise in the family home) are described with great hilarity.
The book still makes me still laugh out loud.
One of the telling portraits in the book though is the one of his brother Larry.
This is , of course, the author Lawrence Durrell.
To say that he is portrayed unsympathically would be an understatement.
Even though the tenor of the book is gently satirical, Larry seems to come across as a selfish young man, unappreciative of his Mother’s efforts on his behalf and utterly indifferent to Gerard’s fauna collection.
As a result of this I tended to shy away from the older Durrell’s books, imagining that they would be a bit abstract and intellectual, reflecting the picture painted by his younger brother.
About nine of ten years ago I came upon a second hand copy of Lawrence’s book, Bitter Lemons,for sale, for small change, in a shop.
It reflects the image given me by his brother that, having bought it, this remained unread on my shelf until last week when I thought I should, at last, try and read it.
I have been glued to it since.
Far from being an philosophical treatise it is a moving and fascinating picture of Larry’s time spent in Cyprus before and during the war for independence in the fifties.
He has a marvellous gift for character and obviously a great affection and respect for the Cypriot people.
He spends his time there rebuilding his house and teaching in the secondary school in Nicosia.
While he is there two things happen, one is that the people start to revolt against the British rule of the Island and , at the same time, his brother Gerard comes to stay and gather wildlife together for a film.
The interesting moment happens one evening when the two brothers are abroad enjoying a moonlight stroll in the balmy Cypriot air when all hell breaks loose, bombs and gunfire are heard as the revolution starts.
This is the moment when Lawrence gets his revenge on brother Gerry.
The younger sibling seems to have no care whatsoever for civilian injuries in this outburst of violence.
He leaves the spot quickly to guard his precious animals and just as quickly quits the island muttering darkly about how the fighting has spoiled his movie making.
Lawrence, on the other hand gets down to the police station, in the middle of the action and spends the rest of his time on the island trying to mediate between the Cypriots and the British.

The trouble is that now I fear I will never feel quite the same about Gerry.

A lucky penny from 1942 (it lives on my keyring)

I drove to Dublin for a meeting today and, as is my recent habit, parked at the Red Cow and got the Luas into town.
I no longer get any satisfaction from the ducking and diving of Dublin traffic and avoid it when at all possible.

I don’t know if I am alone in this but, as usual, my automatic car locking thingy refused to work in the Red Cow car park, so I had to lock my car manually.
This doesn’t happen anywhere else, is there some weird magnetic field surrounding the Red Cow?

On to the Luas and its lovely colourfully named stations; Red Cow, Black Horse, Blue Bell, Golden Bridge, all set to cheer one on a sunny day in Dublin.
But my feeling of dread is mounting as we approach Suir Road.
The recorded announcement which tells one where one is, and what the next station is, had destroyed every journey for me by saying ;“Sewer Road” instead of the correct Waterford pronunciation of Shure Road when we got to that stop on the line..
(As we own the river surely we should be allowed to control it’s pronunciation.)

But small miracles happen every so often to lighten a grumpy old man’s life.
Somebody (the Waterford Minister of Transport?) had got to Miss Announcer and she now say Suir with the correct south eastern intonation.

There is a god.