Raisons d’être

If the figure constantly digging is a good bleak metaphor for the human condition, and the lilt of the foot the sign that the dancer inside the digger cannot be repressed, that there is an irrational joy and satisfaction to be found as we shovel our way to the end of the tunnel, then we must surely do our utmost to encourage the dancer. My inner spangled flamenco superstar is greatly encouraged by the knowledge that the wonderful little pickled fishes known as boquerones exist. Boquerones make me want to sing. They make me think I can fly. I can’t remember when I first ate them but my love of them was sealed in San Sebastien, spiritual home of the boquerone, in the Basque country, some years ago. As once unctuous and pucker-inducing, boquerones are anchovy fillets which have bathed in vinegar, rinsed off, and doused with olive oil. If I had constant access to them, I would whistle as I worked. Whilst the approximations of boquerones produced in my kitchen in Sydney have been quite toothsome, most notably the garlicky pickled sardine fillets, they don’t approach the goodness of the boquerone. The tough truth is, Pacific sardines just ain’t Atlantic anchovies. (A related, and far more patriotic axiom: Sydney Rock Oysters are the best oysters in the world.)

Happily, I ate some of the best darn boqueronitos I’ve eaten in a long time at The Salt Yard, a charcuterie and tapas bar in London.

Look at them glistening there! This little smattering of delectability was but the appetiser, the first carriage in a truly extraordinary and really quite lengthy caravan of tapas. So engrossed was I by the food, I could not take photographs. Suffice it to say that the Monte Enebro goat’s cheese made my collaborator and I hallucinate with pleasure; rabbit, morcilla, and pancetta combine better than you could possibly imagine; I approve of feeding pigs acorns; excellent scallops can apparently be found in the United Kingdom; slow roasted peaches are all that… I returned home a happier, heavier - woman.