A Moveable Feast

A long overdue photo post. Think of this as a quick tutorial in how every day can be turned into an event that uses food as its focal point.

To begin with, there is the casual sunday lunch, with a bit of ferocious car related debate and the customary Brawn/Ferrari/McLaren stand off.


Sometimes, Shelley makes us mussels. Pots and pots of steaming mussels in a deliciously hot, fragrant winey soupy base, begging for thick hunks of baguette to mop it up.

Which we enjoy with fine wine......

and dispose of our shells responsibly.

And then, sometimes we celebrate Christmas in November
And so begins the season for mince pies in cloches shone to a christmas bauble shine


with multiple servings of spiced pear bellinis, of course,


and scoring pig fat to create masses of crackling of crisped to perfection. Which goes nicely with



slow roast pork. Once again, courtesy of the dab hand of Shelley, culinary genius.


Sometimes (not often, but sometimes) we eschew linen and clean lines for fun tables, complete with board games, jenga and DIY decorate place mats.


And wipe the mess from smashing food into our faces with polka dot napkins.


Occasionally, I bake my body weight in Christmas Cookieswith these happy little cookie cutters

until I've made mountains of gingerbread trees


and spicy love hearts.


Reverting to type
we shrugged off the circus colours of Christmas in November and went for white tulips, linen and candles for Christmas Eve dinner.


We picked succulent roast marrow from the bone.

And made crockery and cutlery pirate flags.

In the aftermath of Christmas, when we were enraptured with playing with our presents, Shelley shared her white alba truffle with us
Which was heaven on a white plate.

And then, I retreated back up to the great white north, to The Hale
where Tamaryn's birthday dinner looked like this.


And this.

And this.

A heart two sizes too small

Whatever the New Year equivalent of the Grinch is, I fear that is who I find myself in the likeness of this new year. I must confess that the general joviality a fresh set of calendar pages has brought to most has passed me by and I feel tattered, weathered and downtrodden, as if still languishing in the last of the so called ‘Nasties.’ There seems to be a certain hubbub in the general population, the shedding of a decade’s worth of misery in lieu of embracing an air of impending prosperity. I read it put best today, in an article reporting the significant increase in like for like winter sales figures for London this year verse last year, saying that after nearly two years of recession Londoners were determined to enjoy themselves at the sales; they called it ‘frugality fatigue.’ It does seem that way, that the general populace has en masse decided the recession is over, that bankers shall stop jumping out of windows, bonuses shall return, champagne shall flow through the city streets, there will be riches, bespoke suits, Louboutins and cocaine for all! And it seems to be regardless of the fact that no one is shopping with wads of cash. No, it’s all on credit, the very thing that got us into this mess in the first place. Utter, depressing delusion. Just because we want something, does not mean it will simply BE. If that were the case, I would be typing this with a pair of Acne Atacoma wedges on my feet. And it does not stop there. How apt that this is the week the world’s tallest (and possibly most pointless) skyscraper opens? The Burj Dubai is a 206 floor hotel/apartment/office/parking/shopping space. Of that, 160 floors are habitable. It’s 828 metres high and its interior covers just over 3.5 MILLION square feet. Because that’s what Dubai needs. More empty spaces it can’t fill. It’s a state $100 000 000 000 in debt.That’s one hundred billion US dollars. BILLION. As of October 2009, 1 in 4 homes was vacant due to oversupply. Similar figures applied to offices. That’s before the Burj Dubia spat its 3.5 million square feet into the mix. Obviously I’m fully aware that the initial conception of the Burj happened long before this economic hiccup we are experiencing came to fruition. Back when the Burj began construction, Lehman’s had a gainfully employed workforce and people trusted Bernard Maddoff with their money. Remember all that time ago?

Needless to say (....don’t you wish it had been?) I am late to the party of New Year cheer. It’s going around like a bad head cold and I do hope I am not immune to it. Being a Grinch is boring and does not make for pleasant dinner conversation. And so, as to not be the bearer of altogether bad tidings, I can say that it has not been all doom and gloom these first few days of the year. Shelley received a beautiful white truffle from Paul for Christmas and I was lucky (/sneaky) enough to be with her the night it was eaten, shaved in gorgeous pungent slivers over silky pasta. Walking up Regent Street, I was pulled by the hand up onto a platform to pose for a photo with one of the Hamley’s pirates, as my 30 odd strands of pearls apparently made me look a bit like ‘a very stylish treasure chest’. That’s a direct quote from the main pirate, who took his personal camera out of his inside pocket, handed it over to Pirate #2 and demand I have my photo taken with him. Followed almost directly by a small kerfuffle when some Japanese tourists who had been witness to the scene then thought I was famous. I giggled all the way to Liberty, where Magpie and I drank several cups of tea, admired other customer’s expensive handbags and even more expensive plastic surgery. This evening, Robin and I went to see La Boheme (my absolute favourite opera) at The Royal Opera House. And right now, its snowing.

A not altogether comprehensive festive season activities check list:

Family Invasion.
Check.

Food prep in West London. 5 courses being prepared and 7 bottles of champagne consumed. First Bottle: Krug. Second bottle: Vintage Bollinger. Third Bottle: Ohlson de Fine MCC. Similar fashion to continue until all involved pass out drunk at 10pm; starchy fingers marking the sheets with potato dust.

Check.

Christmas Eve dinner party in formal wear with more champagne, roast marrow bone and tiny, perfect portions of confit duck shepherds pie. Unfortunate incident involving mulled wine reduction that looked like blood on the dessert plates. 100% my fault. I’ve been stripped of my pastry colours.

Check.

Vicious, brutal to the point of injury game of Yankee swap. Robin ended up with a maglite. Shelley got a Jamie Oliver cookbook. I was landed with a pink plastic shower cap in the shape of a pig. Gift FAIL.

Check.

Cheese scones on Christmas morning surrounded by cups of coffee, family and mountains on presents. End of the gift fail. Signature scent in pink box, rabbit hair oversized jerseys, zippo lighters, luxurious soft bed socks, Massimo Dutti sleep sets.
Check.

Christmas lunch at Kyle and Amy’s Christmas grotto of a living room. It was like a holly jolly santa ate too many Christmas cookies and exploded in there. In a nice way. Incredible gammon. Lots of wine. Feeling a bit sad about not being with my parents, brother and sister and upon (rather unexpectedly) seeing photos of them, bursting into floods of tears and dealing with an unattractive lip quiver for several hours. Followed by more wine.

Check.

Boxing day with puy lentils and pork chops, wine and old musicals. There was a lot of couching involved. See also: Sofa surfing, sloth, indolence. Inability to button up my Acne jeans.

Check.

Retreating to the countryside for the black hole between Christmas and New Years Eve. Marshmallow couches, listening to far too much Queen, drinking copious quantities of red wine and dancing to said music in the living room, rare roast rib of beef, The AGA, house shoes, teaching the parents about Jurassic 5.

Check.

All in all it was a festive season well spent. Tomorrow morning I must traipse back to London at a reasonable hour as I have a gig tomorrow night. And then, this year will be gone. See you all in 2010. xoxo

"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat that doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me..."

When I grow old, I want to be one of those fabulous old woman London seems to breed. You don’t see them as they age, as they grow into their eccentricities. It’s almost as if they exist only in old age, waiting under a rock until they turn 75 and then emerge, fully formed, clad in Chanel and politically incorrect luxurious furs.

They always seem to be wearing massive sunglasses and walking with their knees slightly bent and their backs poker straight, somewhere between the awkward stumble of a baby giraffe and the gait of a runway model. They wear massive amounts of make up, have perfectly manicured nails and drawn on eyebrows that arch oh so high, as if to signify that behind those sunglasses they are in a state of permanent surprise.

I have seen a few lately that have stuck in my mind. On High Street Kensington at 11 o’clock in the morning I saw a tiny woman dressed in ankle length black fur, her white hair in a tight French roll, her face hidden two black Jackie O saucers. She walked slowly, with purpose, toward the red stand alone letter box next to the church and upon arriving at it, dipped a diamond encrusted hand into her quilted Chanel bag and retrieved a large white envelope. The address was written in elaborate curling calligraphy. I thought that the paper she used to write on probably cost more than my lunch that day. Dropping the letter into the box, she turned and made her way back along the road, into the maze of tree lined streets and opulent townhouses that define Kensington. As she walked away I noticed, on her feet, a pair of four inch black alligator skin boots.

On the bus, there was a statuesque woman carrying two Max Mara bags that would’ve crippled a lesser lady. She couldn't have been less that 80. She was rail thin but tall as an Amazonian, with long, rounded nails painted a pale gold and wore an outfit that consisted solely of shades of cream. As the journey went on and day quite quickly slipped away into the 4 o’clock nights of London winter, she removed her sunglasses and I noticed that she kept sneaking furtive glances at me from the corner of her perfectly made up eye. She was forming some decision about me in her mind, that much was clear, but I was unable to decipher if it was one I would find compliment in. As I stood to leave the bus, I made my way past her and saw her give me a small but distinct nod, as if she had come to the conclusion she found me acceptable. I self consciously touched my hair, fiddling with the loose top knot piled on top of my head. She caught my eye again and very quickly, closed her eyes and gave an imperceptible shake of her head, as if slapping my roving hand from my head. “Behave Eloise.” I dropped my hand. Apparently, if I want to grow up to shop at max mara and wear only cream, self conscious fidgeting must be left behind on the number 49 bus and not retrieved. Ever.

Going to Chiswick, I was sat next to an old woman who looked fit for a day of long walks in the Cotswolds. She was with who I can only deduce to be her granddaughter, who had clearly had enough of her company for one day. The granddaughter sat in stony silence, her arms folded across her chest, and fumed. The old woman, dressed in a knee length tweed skirt and a Barbour jacket, sat with her small shopping bag from a bespoke stationers and her handbag in her lap. She opened her purse and rifled though, pulling out a cream paper bag with old fashioned print on its crumpled front. She held the bag in one hand and with the other, wiggled her fingers over it, as if a top hat that a white rabbit was supposed to appear out of. She stretched out the opening of the bag and held it out to her granddaughter.
“Would you like a chocolate darling? I’ve got some rather good ones.”
Her voice was high and thin and clipped. It sounded like money and boarding schools for girls and long services in cold churches in the winter. The granddaughter, undeterred in her irritation, shook her head.
“Are you sure darling? They’re brandy truffles.”
The granddaughter shook her head again. Unruffled, the woman dipped a delicate hand into the bag and pulled out one dark truffle and popped it into her mouth. She gave a small shiver of satisfaction and closed the bag, dropping it back into her purse. Her granddaughter stood up and moved toward the door, where she stayed standing until she reached her station, a full two stops later.

Paris vs Berlin

It’s a question I’ve had over and over in the last few months, “So, which did you prefer? Paris or Berlin?"

It’s on odd thing, the way those two seem to be, to most, the ultimate in atmospheric city competition and simply cannot co-exist in the intrepid wanderer’s heart. I find it particularly curious as when I returned from Shanghai, no one declared, “Shanghai or Hong Kong? You must choose!” Similarly, there has never been any need for me state a preference between Christchurch and Sydney or Champagne and Franschoek, Barcelona or Brooklyn. But having lived in both Paris and Berlin, it appears that I am meant to find myself drawn more toward one than the other.

One thing I have heard numerous times, without any prompting, “Berlin is so you! More so than Paris!” As if I had preceded this statement with some confession of how I was never really all that comfortable buying baguettes twice a day and eating figs for breakfast every morning. For the record, no such thing is true. The honest truth is that I love Paris. I loved it then, I love it now. I miss it. I often read apartment listings longingly, wiishing the pound to gain in strength against the now almighty euro and bid my return to My Beautiful Paris. But the statement, the casual brush off of “Berlin is so you, Paris isn’t” is such a sideswipe it has often left me reeling. How am I not Paris? Are my shoes not designer enough? A quick glance at my shelves proves otherwise, spotted: Gucci, Versace, McQueen, Louboutin, Gina, Giles Deacon, Pucci, etc. No, i think I own sufficient snobbish footwear to qualify to Paris. What is it then? Am I not elegant streets and window boxes and city beaches in July? Am I not sidewalk cafes and wine in the afternoon and hot, buttery garlicky escargots and silk scarves and Laduree and coral lipstick in the cracks of the mouths of the old women in their moth eaten furs on the threadbare carpets of the beautifully dilapidated tea salons, eating nicoise salads, feeding the hard boiled eggs to their dogs? How am I not Paris, as much as I am a bit of everywhere that that I have ever been?

I don’t feel that I’ve gone anywhere and not taken something from it. It’s true I may not be Paris through and through, because I am also a little bit cold Methode Cap Classique in Robertson’s thundering rain, Shark Kites in Shanghai’s night sky, Milk Dumplings in Ningbo’s private dining halls, the thrill of cyclone in Coney Island and eating pizza at 5am in New York’s Lower East Side and Tuscany’s tiny passage ways and kid sized cars. I’m at least a fraction watermelon cocktails and blown out tyres under brutal Spanish sun and a tiny bit of those little pewter coloured pottery bowls bought on the side of the road in Swaziland, and just a hint of the Mozambique sunrise and a whiff of the dhows and dawas in Mombassa. A little bit British, a good handful of African red earth and the smell of gum trees and petrol and spice and hair cream and Zam-Buk.

How am I not one place as much as anywhere I have been?

And how am I so Berlin? How am I Berlin more so than anywhere else?

Berlin is a confused city. It bears its scars. It is, in my opinion, the only major western city that would do something like leave the bombed out spire of the Kaiser Wilhelm Church as is and make no attempt to mask it, rather to preserve it as a testament to loss. Berlin makes no qualms of its scars, its past. They are plain enough to see. As if finding shame in its past would equate a dismissal of its self, its bones. Berlin has long lived under a fragmented rule. It has been pulled apart by separate governing states. It has been burned. It has been bombed. It has been literally divided in thought and process and physicality. And even now, its identity is being forged. Even now, all these years after the war and the wall. Berlin is still learning how to be. It’s no wonder it is such a haven for the worlds poets, punks and general lost souls. At least in Berlin, you are always almost in sync with a city struggling to find its way, stumbling over its own feet, just as you are.

So maybe, in this way, I am Berlin. Fragmented. Stateless. Divided.

So... Where were we? Ah. Yes. The Hale.

I love and fear this area equally. I hate the way when people ask where I am living my reply generally elicits one of two responses:

1) Where?

2) What the fuck? That is the GHETTO!

Needless to say, I am fully aware of the ghetto status of the area in which I find my lovely abode. JFK told me only last week he is not allowed to ever return to the Hale due to a (if I remember correctly, which I may not) minor incident involving a crow bar. Colour me shocked. Last night, as I was getting ready for work, I heard the distinct rapid fire wall of sound that can only come from one of two things: multiple cars backfiring multiple times, or a small but very real shoot out. I chose to believe the former, but did not leave my house for an hour just to be safe, thus making me slightly late for work.
Having said that, the people I live with prove to be lovelier by the day, and my female housemate, S, is an incredible cook. I worship slash hate this. I am utterly perplexed by being the vastly inferior cook in my living area. (This obviously excludes the family I have lived with, as we all know that we, as a family, know how to use a pan/wok/grill/pizza oven/braising dish etc. No offense intended to absolutely anybody.) But trust me, when you wake up hungover at one in the afternoon, and your housemate is cooking something that smells AMAZING and then dishes you up a king sized portion of astoundingly delicious Japanese curry with sticky rice, you too will gloss over possible gunfire.

Anyway, I thought this juxtaposition of adoration/fear called for a little round of LOVE/HATE:

Things I love about London:

Love:
Saturday night dinners with friends I have not seen for far, far too long.
Included picturesque French brasserie in Chelsea, tiny tables in little nooks and crannys, windows that steamed up and glass that dripped with condensation as it poured with November rain outside. Champagne in unbearably elegant flutes, steak and burgers, red wine in glasses big as calabashes. Regaling hilarious stories from Berlin, hearing fantastic stories of her oh so famous employers, laughing till blue in the face about all the things that have happened since we last saw each other.

Afternoon shopping with my cousin
Trawling the shops with SS with the sole mission of finding her the perfect party dress for the damn near upon us end of year party season. Nipping into coffee shops that smell of cinnamon and spice and emerging onto the street with steaming vanilla lattes (hers) and soya milk hot chocolates (mine.) Finding the most perfect Ben De Lisi floor length number for her. Eating sushi on a park bench in Kensington, watching the flower sellers sell their pink hued cabbage roses.

Hate:
The suspect grease stains on the glass partitions on the tube and windows on the bus.
Note to EVERYONE who takes public transport. Please please please DO NOT put your filthy, grease covered, product slicked head on any glass surface. It’s revolting. I am getting a crick in the neck from trying to move my head as far as physically possible from the offending surface whilst remaining in my seat. (This is London. Bar a very old person or pregnant woman, you simply don’t give one of those bad boys up.)

Speeding Buses that hurtle around corners in the rain
Walking home this evening from my fantastic dinner, I berated myself for absentmindedly leaving my umbrella at home for the second day in a row. It was purely accidental both times. I changed bags and failed to see the little thing fall on the floor. Big Mistake. As I neared my street, the rain that was already in steady, constant pouring mode, gave way for the briefest of moments, as if taking a deep breath in, before gushing down in such force, with such ferocity, I was momentarily blinded. I quickened my step and was happy to feel, a mere few more moments later, than the rain had eased, and was back to its steady only halfway bad downpour. As I resumed a normal pace, an out of service bus came hurtling around the corner (the driver clearly a speed freak, both chemical and physical) at an alarming pace. As the aberrant bus passed me at his criminal speed, the rain that had collected in the road, found its way under the wheels, which in turn found its way, rather majestically, think – into a thick curtain, no, wall, of spray, that seemed to reach 10 ft high into the sky, linger for a beautiful moment, and then hit me, the full length of me, at a force so high it could have been measured on the Richter scale. Two thoughts sped through my mind. One was of the Guinness ads with the surfing and the horses that appear out of the waves. The other was, OH DEAR GOD. MY PUCCI SHOES!

Cold, soaked and as shallow as ever.

The Problem with Bickenhall

Bickenhall was a palace. It was the big daddy of apartments, a Londoners hard wood floored wet dream. It was the first apartment I lived in, in London and the single longest stretch I have ever stayed in one house. The ceilings were high. The rooms were many. (bed: five. bath: five. sitting: two.) A red bricked mansion block minutes from baker st tube station with blue doors and carpeted halls and brass buttons that were buffed to a reflective shine daily and 24 hour porters and walls that could talk. Bickenhall was perfect. It was property heaven. It was also home. It was my happy place. The open plan kitchen with its 16 seater table and all the wine we drank and the copious quantities of Rand Bar Special are some of my best memories. I loved Bickenhall.

The problem with Bickenhall is that It has ruined real estate for me. Never again has a ceiling been quite high enough, a room airy enough, a kitchen well enough equipped. Bickenhall is my one true love. And as such, no where else has ever really managed to match up. Sure, there have been flirtations. I’ve dabbled in other houses, other places. I’ve casually encountered a few, embarked on serious relationships with others. But I’ve never loved anywhere like I loved Bickenhall. There was Bond Street and it’s dim sum smell, the late night restaurant refuse collection and never being bale to sleep through the night. There was Chiswick and its trek to transport and the delicious nearness of the river. There was Paris #1, my tiny apartment in the 13^th with the death trap spiral staircase. Battersea, the apartment with my fantastic neighbours and the park and bouef bourgingon every week; coupled with the Italians, a difficult bunch of people with whom I had a difficult relationship and thus, I became increasingly difficult myself as time progressed; as if it were all directly proportional and as the year went on we all just became more and more unbearable. Paris #2, the converted artist’s studio in the 10^th with the mint green smeg fridge and blue floors and ball and claw bath and antique radiators and jungle courtyard, the most picture perfect place I have ever called my home. York mans, the fire place and hallway long enough to do cartwheels in. Berlin, huge, firewood smell, 16 chairs, uncomfortable bed, several chaise lounges.

I hate house hunting. Silly really, as I seem to spend an incredible amount of time dedicated to the pursuit of it. I have a lot of awful house hunting stories that involve dogs, Nigerian scam artists, Eton boys with framed Wu Tang posters and other atrocities. This time, however, I seem to have skipped past the crazies and flea infested cess pits and have landed myself a new spot in a lovely warehouse in North London. And when is say North London, I mean, NORTH. It’s practically the great white north up here. If you’re a Hotspurs fan then come stay with me, because I am now a resident of The Hale. My new abode is a warehouse that makes its living by being a working photographic studio in the day. This morning, on the way to wash my face and brush my teeth, I crossed paths with a wafer thin girl who was half way through the make up process. She was a sad clown. But only on the left side of her face. The space is large and lovely and the floors are black and it’s double volume and the two people I live with seem very nice (and not crazy or ridiculous about labelling food and marking levels on milk bottles with a marker pen) and I think I just might like it here in The Hale...

However. This place is GHETTO. I couldn’t be more ghetto if I moved to Braamfontein. The Studio is on an industrial estate. Our warehouse is guarded by a metal gate I need two hands and my full body weight to open, kept shut with a padlock so big if used in a fight it would qualify as assault with a deadly weapon. The Hale is hardcore. The local store is a Lidl. It’s a bit of Berlin nostalgia. Only pricier. There are 24hr cab joints, Brazilian grocery stores and men in white vans everywhere. I am bringing back the canvas bag as my Paddington is not making a post midnight appearance in this area. From now on, I’ll carry my keys and phone in my pocket. No drunken 4am teetering on sky high stilettos, fumbling to find locks to fit the keys in my hand. Please. 'Wits about one' springs to mind.

It seems that as the years go on, I find myself moving further and further from the centre of London. I’m now here, at The Studio, in The Hale. Zone 3 people. Zone 3. Somewhere, 2004 Eloise is dying a slow, screaming death. At this rate I'll be moving to a little secluded spot in The Cotswolds sometime in 2014.

So here I am. In the hale. And I like it. I mean, it’s no Bickenhall... But then again, nothing is.

A brief summation of the return home and the other transportation means that followed

As expected, the journey was somewhat okay and the carrying of things was miserable. I returned to London to find it pissing down with rain. Caught an easybus back to the city (as I think we can all agree that Stansted is by no means London proper) and was sat behind a newly reunited couple who were so ecstatic to see each other that their 90 minutes make out session gave way to frequent groans best not aired in public and bouts of fervent dry humping. It was decidedly awful and I had to get the hell away from them and change my seat 30 minutes into the journey, which proved tricky when being driven down the motorway at breakneck speed in a vehicle with an alarmingly high centre of gravity and a cackling, mad Polish driver at the wheel. Anyway, arrived back in town, dropped my bags off, put on a pair of decent shoes and went to work. Electricity Showrooms has a light up dance floor that I love more than one really should love a dance floor and in all honesty it's a fun, easy set..... despite being a sometimes lengthy 6 hours long. Saturday was a similar scene. Only this time, on the way to work, somewhere near Elephant and Castle the bus driver took a wrong turn. Yes. A bus. Took a wrong turn. The bus driver, quick to realise his mistake, rectified the situation by doing a hair raising three point turn on a none too wide side street and emerged (miraculously) unscathed on the correct route.

Miss Trouble and I played at Catch on Saturday night (which, we realised, is our longest standing residency - the best part of FIVE YEARS) where it was full to the brim of Shoreditch tourists, hipsters and hipster tourists. Catch is a bit of an endearing disaster that somehow keeps itself alive and packed to the gills every night despite mediocre alcohol, awful DJ equipment that frequently fucks out mid set and a very bizarre dance floor/bar set up. Every time I play there I veer wildly between love and loathe, and at least once a set I decide I am going to pack it in; that the stupid equipment that scratches my cds, the needles that lose grip and skate across my vinyl if people jump really hard next to the booth (Beastie boys is dangerous territory here), the almost criminally low pay and the ever dwindling alcohol allowance can go fuck themselves. But then, somehow, I never do. I don't know if it's the weird people who come and shake your hand at the end of the set, or the kids who get so excited when they hear certain song they leap onto the guard rails and dance, one foot on a table, one foot one a rail, several feet up in the air, or the fact that after 5 years and a lot of moving around, it's pretty much the closest to a living room I have. So Catch happened. As it always does.

I then waited for the night bus. For an hour. In the rain.

When it arrived, someone had vomited on the floor.

Oh London.