Extreme Cooking 1: The Monster Egg

Although Christmas is officially over I am still eating far too much. The fridge abounds with left-over brussel sprouts, mince pies, Christmas pudding and fine cheeses. There’s still a decanter of port to be polished off and for some reason or other our cupboards abound with chocolate things and cheese nibbles.

Even so our eating habits don’t seem as extreme as those of our forebears. I have been browsing an ancient copy of Kettner’s Book of the Table which was published in the 1870s and feel that the time is right to recreate the Monster Egg:

Break a dozen or two of eggs, separating the whites and the yolks. Tie up the yolks in a pig’s bladder, boil them hard, and take them out again. In a still larger bladder place the whites; into the midst of this put the yolk; tie up the bladder tight; and boil the whole until the white hardens. Uncover the Monster Egg, and serve it on a bed of spinach...

In case one’s guests get over-curious you might suggest that it is a very small egg laid by a Madagascan aepyornis. This ostrich-like bird (now extinct) measured three metres in height and weighed in at half a ton. A single aepyornis egg would have been equivalent to more than twelve dozen hens’ eggs.

Ships of the Desert

Trust us to be jocked off our flight to Dubai last Thursday evening . Virgin Atlantic had decided to downsize their plane at the last minute and there were no other direct flights available with spare seats. Our quick weekend break to see the grandchildren and sort out some Christmas gifts looked as if it would be shortened by at least 24 hours.

After an abortive attempt to force our way on to an already overbooked Oman Air flight to Muscat, we found ourselves at 3.00am UK time waiting and waiting at Cairo airport for an Egypt Air connecting flight to Dubai. When at last the flight was called there was no 'boarding by seat numbers'. Instead someone blew on a referee's whistle and a stampede ensued - somewhat to the dismay of the various wheelchair passengers who had been left close to the departure doors.

Eventually (and only seven or so hours late) we made it to sun-soaked Dubai and witnessed Santa Claus riding on a camel. Indeed the Rumbling Nappa had to watch his footwork to avoid treading in some camel poo.

The poor camel population is having trouble in the Dubai desert. The problem is that too much litter is being left all over the place and there is nothing that a camel enjoys more than snuffling about in rubbish bins. Sadly something like 50 per cent of camel fatalities are now directly caused by garbage, particularly plastic carrier bags (which cause suffocation). Old tyres, tin cans and bottles also cause digestive problems for the poor creatures. Fortunately our hotel comes complete with a Gordon Ramsay restaurant so we shouldn't suffer too much.

Dog Soup

I am a bit mystified by Belgium and the Belgian people. It’s not that I’m totally dismissive of them (like Jeremy Clarkson), I simply cannot get my mind round them.

Why, for instance, do they have to speak in about six languages?

The man in the petrol station at Knokke-Heist last Friday morning greeted me with a torrent of Flemish, or it might have been Walloon, or Dutch even. I guessed that he was saying

“Brrr! Bloody chilly for the time of year, isn’t it? It’ll probably snow later. Is that pump number 4 you are paying for? That’ll be fifty euros. And can I interest you in our special offer on Belgian truffles?”

I replied confidently with a torrent of English.

“Yup, bloody cold. I hope you take Mastercard and, by the way, you can stuff the truffles”

Rather to my surprise the man was happy with this response and continued to address me at length in whatever language he was speaking.

Stopping later at a motorway service area I spotted Dag Soep chalked on a menu board. Visions of Bull Terrier Bisque (Korean-style) came instantly to mind and I decided not to risk it. Later I learned that this translates from whatever language as ‘Soup of the Day’, but I suspect that it would probably still consist of some form of canine consommé.

Another Belgian slogan on which I had to seek guidance was written large on hundreds of roadside posters. “I Love Bob” it reads and I reckon that the language is English. I later discovered that the “I Love Bob” campaign is a national drink-drive awareness thing – Bob being the person who sips tea and coffee while his mates get sloshed, and then drives everyone home. The Belgians also have a volunteer group whereby a bar can summon a man on a bike who will come round to the bar, take the car keys from the person who is too inebriated to drive, and chauffeur him home in his own car (free of charge). The choice of the English language for the Belgian national campaign was so that all the Belgians (the French speakers, Walloon speakers, Flemish speakers, etc.) could understand it.

Oh well, English may be the second language of Belgium, but I wish that the words “Thank You” didn’t translate into Flemish as “Dank U”. As is the case with the French word “Merci” it is generally understood to mean “Thank You, but No” as I discovered to my displeasure when a waitress offered to refill my wine glass. “Thank You” I replied smiling expectantly. But the waitress just walked away.

Anyhow the man at the petrol station was correct and it snowed and snowed that night. Saturday morning was spent shovelling the stuff off my car. It was cold enough to make me reconsider my concern about dog soup.

Money Trouble

Silly me. For years on end I have no cash problems at all, and then three times in a single day! The main problem was my not being fully appreciative of the fantastic four, Elizabeth Fry, Charles Darwin, Adam Smith and Sir John Houblon. In my shopkeeping days I knew the fantastic four by heart, but then they were the George Stephenson, Charles Dickens, Michael Faraday and Sir Christopher Wren.

First off was a dirty look from the checkout girl at Morrisons. “This five pound note doesn’t look right” she said looking suspiciously at the picture of the George Stephenson. But she relented and tucked the offending fiver (withdrawn from circulation in November 2003) into her till.

Minutes later the wife and I were in the supermarket car park. She kindly went off to return the trolley and retrieve my pound coin. “This one’s dodgy” she said, examining the edge of the coin and taking a bite at the metal. “Definitely a forgery” she continued.

Back at home I retreated to the local cafe with the Daily Telegraph for a remedial cup of tea and a sandwich. “Can’t take that!” announced the lady at the till (rather loudly) as she examined the ten pound note I had proffered. “It’s an Elgar”. Regretfully I remembered that the ten pound note featuring Sir Edward Elgar was withdrawn in June of this year and only Adam Smith counts for real. Ouch!

Anyway I am now a wiser man. I’ve even learned to identify Sir John Houblon (above), the first governor of the Bank of England. Not that I ever get to see fifty pound notes (on which his portrait appears) in real life.

All noise but no fragrance

This week my political canvassing activities have stepped up a gear and, having experienced a mass-canvas in Waterlooville (where a dozen or more clipboard people assemble at a given point and doorstep an entire neighbourhood), I am now allowed to go flying solo. Me and my clipboard are given designated streets to canvas without the backup of the more experienced old timers.

As I go from door to door I seem to be gathering a whole gallery full of English peculiars. The worrying sign outside one house that reads 'Forget about the dog, BEWARE OF THE OWNER'; la dame en deshabille; the howling of assorted birds and animals when the doorbell is rung; a curious old lady who, when I asked how she was likely to vote, told me that she would vote for the party with the highest morals and which was closest to Jesus: "You know who I mean!" she said, fixing me with an ice-cold stare. I nodded sagely and marked her as "Undecided".

The odd thing about canvassing is how affable people are when you go knocking on their doors on dark, rainy evenings. Certainly there are some who simply refuse to answer. You know that they are there, you can see the glow of a television, the car still warm in the driveway, but no-one answers my call. But most households do respond and, even if they have different political views, they listen politely to my rumblings and appear to pay polite attention. I'm sure that, as an angry old door-slammer, I have something to learn from this. Next time someone knocks at my house I'll pay a lot of attention and even give the canvasser marks for style, content and artistic impression.

All this aside, I noted in today's newspaper the story about the prisoner in a Swedish jail who uses flatulence as a means of protesting about his prison sentence. When reprimanded about his unsavoury habit, he replied that it was "all noise but no fragrance". A bit like politics I suppose.

Doorstepping

'A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.' - Oscar Wilde

My family are troubled by my latest eccentricity. With a general election nearly on us I went out canvassing in the pouring rain on Saturday. I have decided that for once in my life it would be interesting (if not fun) to see Britain's political process at close hand, and to meet the great British electorate face-to-face.

Pity then the inhabitants of Horndean, once a staging post on the London to Portsmouth road and for many years home of Gales Brewery (now owned by Fullers). The peace of many residents' Saturday morning was rudely interrupted by the arrival of a dripping wet, huffing and puffing, and distinctly rumbling Nappa on their doorstep. In the space of three hours I bored and annoyed builders and schoolteachers, a policeman, many rather fragile old ladies, a huge alsatian dog (who successfully resisted my attemps to put a "Sorry to have missed you..." card through his letterbox), a lady trying to redecorate her house, people trying to go out shopping, gentlefolk in their pyjamas and dressing gowns, some very talkative people and some rather cross people - "I'm voting Green and that's that..." they opined, shutting the door rather firmly. I was even asked if I was a Jehovah's Witness.

Mysteriously, although I have been adopted as a canvasser by one of the major parties, I steadfastly refuse to pay a subscription and become a member of their party. I'm there to win the election, not to bake cakes and sell raffle tickets.

I'm out again next Saturday. But then I'll take waterproof clothing, galoshes, an umbrella, shin pads and (possibly) a cricketer's box.

Umami

As everyone knows 'umami' is a pleasant taste imparted by glutamate, a type of amino acid, and ribonucleotides which is sometimes referred to as the fifth taste. To be a bit less specific the first four basic tastes are bitterness, saltiness, sourness and sweetness. The fifth can more generally be described as savouriness and savouriness is definitely what Rumbling Nappas like (in much the same way as Tiggers like Hunny).

Thus the the announcement of 'Taste No 5 Umami' - a new wonder food which comes in a toothpaste tube at £2.95 from Waitrose - caused me not inconsiderable interest. I wasn't alone. With a clever build-up in the national newspapers prior to the product launch the Waitrose shelves were emptied the moment stocks arrived and for several weeks I hankered after this exotic and scientifically proven substance.

The paste describes itself as a 'flavour bomb'. You simply rub or spread the stuff on raw meat, poultry, fish, roasts or vegetables to season before cooking. Chuck it into stir-fries, risottos, pasta, soups, stews, burgers, panini etc., etc., etc. I'm not sure if it wouldn't work equally well as a shampoo or hair gel the way the marketing verbage goes on and on.

Anyway eventually we tracked down a couple of tubes and the main ingredients sound right up my street: anchovies, porcini mushrooms, parmesan cheese, olives, garlic and so on. Mmmm, great. The first tube however disappeared into Mrs Rumbling Nappa's stir fry, alongside a pint of soy sauce, some chilli, black bean sauce and a couple of dozen other ingredients. The result was delicious, certainly, but it didn't have a viagra-like effect on my senses. Indeed, if truth be told, the stir fry was much like others without the magic ingredient.

The second tube has been used more sparingly. I've rubbed the stuff into steaks and it is just about identifiable. I can't help thinking though that I've been caught by a bit of a marketing scam. Maybe if I mixed a big pot of the ingredients together and sold it as 'The Rumbling Nappa's Magic Paste' I could make a few pounds from the enterprise. Maybe I'll do just that.

A New Story

We weren't the only people to go to Cheltenham last Tuesday. Some 200,000 racegoers attend the Festival each year and most of them seemed to be there to see 'Binocular', ridden by A P McCoy, win the Champion Hurdle. And most of the racegoers (Rumbling Nappa excepted) seem to have had money on 'Binocular' - an excellent excuse for another round of Guinness, or Black Velvet, or Winter Pimms ( the Number 3 version which is brandy-based and which is best served with warmed apple juice).

The Irish are fervent supporters of Cheltenham. Indeed you could be forgiven for thinking that you are Punchestown Races in County Kildare rather than enjoying a sunny but breezy afternoon in the Gloucestershire countryside. Jovial, red-faced Paddy's and Seamus's throng the Guinness enclosure smartly turned out in green tweed suits with Elgin checks. They wear stylish trilby hats and (notably) very smart shoes, winklepickers even. An Irish band plays to the crowd and, from above, you can spot behind the main bar an enormous pantechnicon lorry from which barrels of the black stuff are being more or less continuously unloaded.

Official figures suggest that over £500 million is wagered over the four days of the festival and, judging by the exuberant Irish, a good proportion of that must be in euros. There is a competitiveness surrounding the number of Irish winners (against English horses), and huge cheers greet every winner from across the Irish Sea. The cheer was slightly muted however when in the Glenfarclas Handicap Chase Michael Hourigan's 'A New Story' from Lisaleen Co. Limerick won at 25-1. This cross country race had been dominated in recent years by trainer Enda Bolger who was saddling five horses for this year's event including the hot favourite 'Garde Champetre', winner of the race for the previous two years. Irish money was very much with Mr Bolger's horses, and very few had bet on 'A New Story'. However in a remarkable turn of fortune the Rumbling Nappa had managed to identify that the "hoss" had a chance and was rewarded by a generous payout on the Tote.

John McCrae

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
in Flanders' fields.

We found John McCrae's grave eventually (see 'Clever Marketing' 8th Nov. 2009) shortly before Christmas. Yes, he is buried in Wimereux Communal Cemetery but there are now more cemeteries in Wimereux and you need to follow signs for the Cimetière Sud. Here, past the funerary monuments to local worthies, are buried some 2,800 soldiers of the First World War including some 170 Germans.

The McCrae Monument (inscribed with the lines above) is easy to find, his actual grave not so. Some unhelpful person has removed the second volume of the register (L - Z), and the reference I had found on the Internet was either completely wrong or totally misleading. Eventually we tracked down his gravestone by the logic of searching by approximate date of burial (January 1918). The poor man obviously does not receive many visitors and I wish I had brought along a poppy cross to add to the rather dishevelled maple leaf flag and other offerings on view.

The gravestones here lie flat on the ground unlike the customary upright stones usually seen in Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemeteries. The reason is that the stones are likely to topple over here because the sandy ground provides insufficient support. Having recently marvelled at the incredibly tall Burj Khalifa built on desert sand in Dubai (at 828 metres by far the world's tallest building), I'm a little bit confused.