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.

Keep digging

This is one of my favourite English warning signs. I call it Sisyphus de Londres and it lifts my spirits every time I see it. The pile of muck never gets smaller, but the lilting lift of the digger’s right foot remains ever merry. A model for us all.

I’m also a big fan of the sign that is posted on doors which says ‘Warning: Deep Drop,’ thus conjuring the possibility of a great and exciting leap into a far more exciting realm on the other side. Unfortunately I was unable to photograph a deep drop sign as I spied them only in train stations, either within view of stern looking transport police or as I was being swept along in a serpentine crowd of commuters.

Not keeping a particularly low profile

I know some people have been wondering whether this whole leaving the country and staying out of sight and seeing the world has been a glamorous cover for some kind of large scale cosmetic surgery. I haven’t had a nosejob and I don’t need to invoke a deity to prove it.

Et voilà: That which has been referred to as the Pike nose, in the shadowy and pungent surrounds of the British Film Institute at Southbank, London.

Northern Lights

I betook myself to the North of England to see the Andy Goldsworthy retrospective showing at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. There are many reasons why this is a journey that should be made by anybody stuck on the narrow Isle of Blight in the next six months. Let me enumerate just a few reasons why - apart from the obvious: that it’s a park full of sculpture.

A Ripping Excursion
A visit to the park from London provides the occasion for a jolly trip through ye olde English countryside. Look! Charming towers poking out of the centre of bosky villages! And over there, ‘tis a man wearing gumboots! I caught a train to Wakefield (see The Vicar of ⎯., Goldsmith, Oliver), wandered around the cathedral precinct and then jumped on a bus to West Bretton before tramping my way down back-lanes and over stiles to the park. Of course the busstop was located on Sycamore Lane! Of course we passed through Crigglestone and Kettlethorpe! Of course I’ve edited out the skagbot teens marauding through the town! Of course I turned inwards as the bus drove through stock footage of industrial parkland!

Meeting Northerners
I do like friendly locals and the locals oop country are particularly friendly. All day, I delivered my inner monologue in a northern accent. I became especially enamoured of a bus-driver who heartily welcomed me to the civilised lands of the north, congratulating me on getting away from the sink of ignorance that is London. Said gent was a collector of militaria and had a question about the word ‘Melbourne’ mysteriously engraved on the back of a badge in his collection. We got along like a house on fire; before he dropped me off, he showed me photos of his spare room which was full of dummies dressed up in old military uniforms. Ace.

Authentic Countryside
The YSP lies in the grounds of an ancestral pile – Bretton House – which is still being used for farming. This means mud and animals and fences and stiles and dung. The well-informed art-lovers sensibly negotiated the terrain in gumboots. Myself, wearing Birkenstocks, I got oozily close to the earth of my birthplace. Not only do flocks of amiable sheep and cows graze on hillsides and rub up against plinths, wild ducks, geese, squirrels, and, I’d wager, porcupines, dwell in the nature reserve which cuts through it all. I will never again think of Henry Moore without hearing a gentle bleating in the background.

Aaaart
And, of course, an enormous and quite fabulous indoor-outdoor exhibition of the work of Andy Goldsworthy. Sculpture, archival drawings, photographs. Here are Striding Arches, en route to Cairnhead Forest, Dumfriesshire.

Extremely superficial law and order manoeuvre

Photographs of the Tate Modern and the Millenium Bridge, they’re a dime a dozen.


Photographs which acknowledge that the bridge is painted with anti-climb paint are rarer.
Anti-climb paint! Have the forces of magick been harnessed in service of public order? I’m not sure how anti-climb paint works. My first instinct on seeing the sign was to climb the bridge but, for some reason that I cannot pinpoint, I didn’t. This all gets murkier – anti-climb paint which works by mind control?

Mind the Gap

I have suddenly, alarmingly, turned into a social butterfly and through London I have been a-flitting, neglecting to update this blog. I assure you all, not only have I eaten at least three meals a day, there is a backlog of trenchant and insightful rumination to be posted soon enough. Was J. G. Ballard right in denouncing the Tate Modern as the architecture of fascism? Why has my allegiance to my former favourite museum in London taken a u-turn? How to deal with news media overload in London? What do you wear when the dress code calls for attire 'appropriate to a smart occasion'? Is gambling really the vice that will destroy me? How much Mahler can fit onto my hard drive? Is my intolerance of school groups touring London a sign of aging? Is London, as one London-dwelling friend vigorously asserted, the capital of the world?

In the meantime, breaking news. Today I met a caramel-coloured, honey-tempered bulldog named Hugo.
We seriously connected.

I've also been documenting selected street and warning signs of London. What further proof do you need that this is truly (a) funkytown?


Finally, the delightful Mitzi G. Burger has brought it to my attention that Sunday, being the 22/7, is pie day. I will most certainly be celebrating this auspicious occasion.

Heady times. Watch this space.

Minor literary landmarks

a) Westminster Bridge

An London summer morning for the Wordsworthians, and for English 1005 students and tutors. Note the incontrovertible evidence of encroaching (post)modernity. A sonnet to soothe a jaded Romantic sensibility?

b) Wakefield Cathedral

I went to Wakefield. Did I find a vicar? No, I did not. Instead, I found this cathedral.

Crab racing

Eating crab at the Cinnamon Club made my adjustment from life in South East Asia to life in London a little bit easier. The familiarity of crabmeat, beloved ingredient, soothed my residual jetlag.

That said, this crab risotto topped with a spiced, seared king prawn and doused with truffle cappuccino was like no crab I’d eaten before.
It was a charmed encounter, might I add.

Great sights of London #467

The roof of the British Museum.
If you have misplaced your inner Victorian scholar and lost your respect for Western Civilisation (sub-category Plunder), the British Museum is the place to find yourself once more. One glimpse at the Rosetta Stone and the job is done. Shock AND awe.

Quick conversion

I’ve been droning on about the execrable standard of eating in England for years. Over-priced, terrifyingly priced and/or mediocre food has been typical of my gastro-experiences in London. Sure, there have been a few noteworthy exceptions but for the most part, I have clung closely to the opinion that the best way to dine in London is to jump on the Eurostar and go to Paris. Bad food in London has also contributed to the promulgation of a very satisfying parochialism of the gullet. London may have the Rosetta Stone but you can get a decent cup of coffee in Sydney.

Finally, however, I think I’m going to eat with gusto, pleasure and satisfaction in London. Responsible types have kindly taken my culinary welfare in hand; suggestions have been made, directions have been provided, orders have been placed. All of a sudden, I find that I am actually prepared to change radically my position on the state of eating in the United Kingdom today on the basis of one trip to the Borough Markets. I’m caught between describing my response to this place as that of a bull in a china shop, a kid in a lolly shop or a sniffer dog at a warehouse party. I am pretty easily pleased when it comes to food. Here, I was ecstatic. Minor jetlag and consequent disorientation made the whole experience even more deliriously exciting. Baskets full of goose fat! Burnt caramel ice-cream! Pickled garlic! Chorizo!
Smoked fish and crab claws! Horseradish! Piles of fresh vegetables! A hot vat of cassoulet out of which a monsieur ladled bowlfuls of thick, ducky, beany, garlicky goodness à la Carcassone. Interminable delights.

Without one skerrick of a doubt, I can state that I will return. Tomorrow. It’s a Thursday to Saturday market, you see. The weekend crowds will crush me. The Borough Market strikes me as a wholesome place – local food, slow food, organic food, artisanal food, regional food, preservative-free food, soul food, culturally authentic food, patriotic British food – and I have no doubt that my character will benefit from a repeat visit. It barely needs to be said that I did not quit my début empty-handed. After months of rice and noodles, I thought it necessary to reacquaint myself with some of the basics. And besides, I am a houseguest, it would be discourteous in the extreme were I to renege on my self-imposed duty to stock the larder.

a) Beurre de la France

Salty, sweet French butter. Is there anything better in the world? The man who sold this butter also sold salt, huge bowlfuls of pink and grey fleur de sel from Normandy. Lawyers, seachangers, career vacillators, take note. Here is a noble profession: vendor of butter and salt (with a sideline in fine yoghurt). Oh yes, and on the countertop, sadly out of sight, perch fresh pots of crème caramel. If one’s abdominal girth is to be expanded, if one’s cholesterol is to be raised, this is definitely a good way to do so.

b) British Cheese

Is this cheese made from cow’s milk? Yes. Is it a blue cheese? Yes. Is it a British cheese? Yes. This happy flowchart leads straight to Stilton, bought from a lovely how’s-yer-farver Cockney fromageophile here. Some weird Protestant restraint made me leave this large stinky refrigerated cheesemonger without any caerphily or Brie de Meaux or wonderful cheddar, all of which I submitted to sample. As I promised the cheesemonger, je reviens. There are raw milk cheeses to be rocked.

c) Jamon (jamon) español
Jamon serrano, to be precise. The charcuterie counter will ever keep me from making a whole-hearted commitment to a meat-free diet. I will be flexitarian till the end. I love jamon serrano with a passion that words will only defile. The boqueria which sold this also offered boquerones, the small pickled anchovies which are so very dear to my heart, manchego, and a dazzling array of chorizos, garbanzos, aceitunas, pimiento and other miraglos del España.