The Burnt Offering

Posted on 29 October 2012 by sheg4184

“The smell of gas was there, and of burning chops when he opened the door. He said, “I’ve got some chops going.” ~ Patrick White, The Eye of the Storm.

What do I miss most in Manila? From our 32 floor apartment without even a balcony, never mind a back garden, it would have to be our barbecue.

Although the barbecue was not invented by Australians, we have made it our own, and it is now an ubiquitous part of the Aussie landscape. The tripod, the gas barbecue, the built-in brick Barbie, the kettle or Weber that is perfect for cooking the Christmas roast without heating up the kitchen  to 100’C.

The most sophisticated barbecue we have ever owned was aptly named ‘The Australian’, which we acquired in the UK, and would drag out onto the patio, rain or shine, balancing under umbrellas if we had to – which was actually quite often in not-so-sunny Kent. My sorely tested One & Only had to cook his own 40th birthday dinner on the Australian in the middle of a damp and chilly December night.

The Australian

In her book about Australian Gastronomic Heritage, Barbara Santich calls the versatile barbecue ‘a national symbol’. And in all its shapes and forms, I would have to agree. According to Barbara,  ‘to barbecue’ originally meant to roast an entire animal outdoors, usually for a grand public event. By the 70s it has become synonymous with the Australian lifestyle: the convivial gathering of friends and relations in the back yard, cooking sausages and chops on the Barbie and eating them off paper plates loaded with coleslaw and tomato sauce.  The menu may have got more sophisticated over the years, but the laid-back simplicity of this informal dining experience is paramount.

A short story by a Filipino writer that  I read recently amused me with its description of the barbecue as if it were some solemn religious rite. It rang bells. Certainly, in my world, it is an opportunity for the Australian male to pose, dressed in either a sturdy, masculine apron or a tasteless novelty number, armed with tongs and a beer,  making an event out of cooking a few chops, the High Priest of the Barbecue. It is a Boy Thing, far more significant and important than merely grilling a snag on the stove.

The Tripod

When we were kids, my own father owned a small tripod barbecue that had at some stage lost a leg, and was precariously balanced on a broomstick or some such thing for years. Heaven forbid he should invest in a new one, this one was ‘perfectly alright!’

Dad never really got to grips with that barbecue – he would fill it with a huge pyramid of wood, and flames would soar to the sky like a bonfire. A lack of patience – or possibly the whinging of four hungry kids – meant that he always threw the meat on before the flames had died down, and we would end up with charcoaled chops. For years, I never realized there was any other way, particularly as my mother’s regular contretemps with the grill inevitably produced similar results in the kitchen.

I remember relating this story to my sister-in-law, teasing Dad as we sipped wine by the sea, and he battled with the gas barbecue on the deck. He was getting decidedly huffy at the insult to his barbecuing prowess, as Ann and I giggled into our glasses.

The Weber

“Lucky this one’s gas! No charcoal chops tonight!” Hahaha, snort…

Dad grumpily pushed the perfectly cooked steak to one side and humphed off in search of another beer. As he wombled away, his back to the barbecue, the fat dripped onto the open flame. A sudden flair shot up the sides of the grill and cremated the steaks. Ann and I shrieked and wept with laughter. Charcoal chops again!

 

* With thanks to Google Images – because somehow the barbecue is never quite in the picture!

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Dining with the Winemakers

Posted on 24 October 2012 by sheg4184

The Wine Depot Toast Club and the New World Hotel, Makati were offering an eight course dinner with matching wines, and the opportunity to meet a plethora of winemakers from Australia and New Zealand, Chile and America, Germany, France and Spain. It was irresistible! With the help of a good friend who has an innate skill for organizing events, we were able to book two full tables, each hosted by a visiting Australian winemaker: Geoff Grosset from Polish Hill in the Clare Valley and Nikki Palun from de Bortoli’s in the Yarra Valley.

After hors d’oeuvres and pre-dinner bubbles, we were escorted to the ballroom for the main event. For some extraordinary reason, a huge screen played old black and white silent movies throughout the evening. I was never able to discern why. A far noisier event next door generously shared their ridiculously loud music with us. Apparently it was impossible to turn it down. Apart from these unnecessary distractions however, we had a full house of wine lovers keen to chat with the winemakers and work through the impressive menu.

Eight courses and fifteen wines probably sounds a little daunting, and you would be right. It was. Each course was accompanied by two wines, and we were soon drowning under a deluge of wine glasses, trying desperately to keep up with our over-enthusiastic wine waiters. A quick word encouraged them to clear some away so we could at least focus on the ones we were supposed to be matching with the plate in front of us. It was a great opportunity to try a wide range of wines, but someone needs to teach those waiter’s to pour ‘tasting glass’ amounts, not ‘entire-goldfish-bowls’ of wine – or at least provide spittoons.

I could work through the menu with you, but quite honestly, I was no more than three courses in before I lost track. Don’t judge! Even if you are only sipping, that was a lot of wine. But it was certainly a feast for the senses. The first course was a colourful platter of dips served with crispy bread: smoked eggplant, lemon and tomato salsa and kasseri, a soft, feta-like Greek cheese. There was a creamy, perfectly grilled scallop and a pork loin with a toffee sauce, reminiscent of America’s infamous bacon with maple syrup – that is even available as an icecream in Manila. The US beef tenderloin served with potato gratin melted in the mouth, but I found myself (12 glasses down) getting quite lippy and loud about the chocolate sauce on the perfectly cooked lamb which I decided, in my disheveled wisdom, was an insult to our national dish. However, the operatic display of chocolate in the foyer was breath-taking and the chocolates tasted sublime.

It was a thoroughly entertaining evening and a great opportunity to hear such an international bunch of winemakers discuss my favourite beverage.  I was particularly interested in Grosset’s Polish Hill Riesling and its creator, Jeffrey Grosset. So you can imagine my delight when not only was Mr. Grosset’s 2012 Polish Hill Riesling the first wine poured – delighted because I was still lucid enough to appreciate it – but I found myself sitting right next to him! At the risk of sounding like a groupie, it was undoubtedly my favourite white wine that night – and from my favourite Australian wine region. The Clare Valley is about 100 kilometres north of Adelaide, just past the Barossa Valley.  Jeffrey Grosset has been making wine there for 32 years.  This long established – for Australia –  wine region is renowned for its Rieslings, and Grosset’s Winery has turned out many of Australia’s best examples of this dry white. Grosset is an unassuming, quietly spoken gentleman, but with no false modesty. He talked fondly of his wine, quietly proud that it rates up there with Grange Hermitage as one of Australia’s iconic wines.

And the critics agree. Jeffrey Grosset was voted the inaugural Australian Winemaker of the Year by Gourmet Traveller WINE in 1998. He has been designated one of the top ten white wine makers, and one of the industry’s most influential. In fact every critic you read waxes lyrical about this man’s glorious wines. According to Cracka Review, you will find his wines in many of Australia’s finest restaurants. Grosset’s Riesling in particular is renowned for its consistent excellence and its ability to age well. I love Grosset Winery’s own website description and could not begin to write anything so sumptuously loquacious, so here it is verbatim:

The 2012 Grosset Polish Hill Riesling has all the hallmarks of greatness: it’s tightly constrained, uber-concentrated, steely, and zingy. There are lemon blossom and white flower aromatics, vibrant lemon pith and lime zest flavours with shaley minerality, taut and tightly coiled, before a long, ultra-dry finish featuring refreshing natural acidity. It is pristine, seamless, wonderfully detailed, and has great line and length.

Don’t you just love the way wine connoisseurs express themselves so poetically? I wish I had half their skill – and a teaspoon of their flowery vocabulary.

Multi-award winning wine writer Tyson Stelzer gave the 2012 Riesling 98 points and said it had “refined poise” and “devastating purity.”  He went into transports of delight at the “flow of fruit precision on the palate [that] is an epiphany, every bit as hauntingly perfumed as the bouquet.” Apparently we should not miss “this crucial chapter in Australian Riesling history.” We didn’t. We even went back for seconds.

Thank you to all the other winemakers  for contributing your time and your wine to this mouth-watering event. I know I have selfishly focussed on my favourite, but that’s not to say I didn’t try – and enjoy – the rest. I am sad there wasn’t time to chat with all the winemakers that night, but I left quite satisfied at having had the opportunity to meet Jeff Grosset, and to quote Bridget Jones, “with, let’s face it, a bit of a crush now, actually.”

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Planting Your Own Garden

Posted on 21 October 2012 by sheg4184

Roses for Mum

At Toastmasters recently, I was given an interesting table topic about forging your own destiny. It provided inspiration for my final speech:

Plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone else to bring you flowers

Of course receiving flowers is a wonderful thing, particularly for a woman. It can be a symbol of affection from a friend or lover, a sign of gratitude or recognition from a colleague or a boss; a timely reminder that somebody cares, someone has noticed you.

However, a book I read recently suggested that very few people go to the trouble to discover your favourite flowers or even your favourite colours beforehand, and you often end up with their favourite flowers instead of yours. So, without meaning to sound ungrateful, if you love a particular flower, perhaps it is wiser to buy your own.

‘Plant your own garden’ is a picturesque metaphor that reminds us we should never wait for circumstances or other people to shape our lives for us; that if we want our life to reflect our own characters and tastes, our own needs and aspirations, we must take control and plan it ourselves.

To extend the botanic allegory, here is a short story:

In 2001 we bought our first house in the UK. The house had been home to one large family for twenty years.  It had good bones, and the atmosphere was warm and loving, but it was desperately in need of a little TLC.  The previous owner had expended a lot of love and energy on the garden, however, and he gave us a tour of every plant and flower. There were three ponds – the children promptly claimed one each –  a small greenhouse, an extensive rockery and a huge oak tree. I think we chose the house for that oak tree. It seemed only fitting when we were living in a town named after these stately trees.

Unfortunately we were not so fond of the flowers. I won’t describe them – they may be favourites of yours and I don’t want to offend anyone – but we liked neither the colours or the scents of many of the flowers blooming so enthusiastically. Despite feeling conscience stricken, we promptly went into over-drive to dig up everything we disliked and replant the flowerbeds with our own favourites.

Over the next six years we made huge changes to the house and the garden. I like to think the loving atmosphere stayed put, but we added rooms, converted the garage, redesigned the kitchen and gutted the bathrooms.  I am afraid the previous owners would recognize nothing in the garden but the oak tree.

We made mistakes. I pulled up floorboards and flowers I later regretted throwing away so flippantly. We had to move a beautiful acer to accommodate the new family room, and the poor sensitive little soul never recovered from the shock. Yet the mistakes – and the satisfaction – were ours. By the time we moved on we were really happy with what we had created: a light, modern family home, combining – we felt – the best of English and Australian styles surrounded by a garden full of our favourite things.

In my own life, I have always been fiercely independent. I try to listen to advice, but I don’t like to let anyone make choices for me. Sometimes my decisions have been gut reactions rather than deliberate strategies, and occasionally I look back regretfully at where I may have made a wrong turn, but I have rarely felt trapped by decisions I failed to make. It is the times when I have drifted, allowing the winds to blow me off course, that I have felt most frustrated with life, and myself.

Back in the 1970s, feminist Colette Dowling suggested that thousands of us give up important life choices – career, money, power, freedom – to the whims of chance and circumstance. While Dowling was talking specifically about women, I bet there are plenty of men who are happy to sit back and let life take its course without ever grabbing the steering wheel – or rather, the wheelbarrow and spade. Passively waiting for Prince Charming to arrive on his white horse, or a Fairy Godmother to wave her wand to create  the ‘happily ever after’ is unrealistic. As Dowling reminds us, there is no Prince Charming, no Fairy Godmother. It is up to us to forge our own destiny.

This can be both challenging and frightening. Many of us feel hampered by a lack of confidence, a dread of hard work or a fear of failure. How many of us think other people must find it easier than us, are born with more advantages, or are braver under fire? In truth, it is never easy, but the best results demand hard work, and realizing even a small dream builds confidence and self-esteem to take on the next challenge life throws at you. There may appear to be less anxiety in drifting, but is that living?

Dependency is like weeds, taking over your garden and smothering your imagination and your sense of self-worth. It makes you feel entangled in someone elses life rather than your own, out-of-control and helpless. So go ahead, pick up that spade and plant a tree. You will feel so much more satisfied than if you sit in the shade of somebody elses dreams. By the time we left England we had created a home and a space for our family that felt uniquely ours. We took charge and made our own impression on a small plot of land in the heart of a town we loved. And when we moved away, I left a piece of my soul and so many memories under that oak tree.

 

*With thanks to Google images for some of these photographs

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Passionate about Pampanga

Posted on 17 October 2012 by sheg4184

It was a dawn gathering, outside Starbucks, in Makati. Armed with coffees and cameras, we climbed aboard a minivan and headed north, past rice fields and lakes full of water hyacinths, sugar cane and wild grasses. Our tour guide, Bryan Ocampo, was full of information about Manila, and Philippine history. Obviously aiming at first time visitors to the Philippines, he soon found himself caught up in vigorous discussions with those of us who have been living here for a while.

(I have heard it before, but I still like the phrase about the Philippines being created by 300 years in convent, and 50 years in Hollywood!)

Our first stop was Guagua (as in water or agua), where we had an open-air breakfast in a sala beside the Lapid’s family bakery.  The buffet style breakfast was a great start to the day, as so far my stomach had only seen a Starbucks coffee. I filled my plate with bite-sized longanisang guagua (local homemade pork sausages with a hint of thyme) served with an amazing, zesty green papya pickle called atchara, lechon de homo (pork belly slow cooked in an old brick oven), dried fish, rice and scrambled eggs all washed down with a mug of Tsokolate Espeysal:  carabou’s milk and rich local chocolate, flavoured with crushed nuts – a kind of liquid Nutella. Although Filipinos would tend to put everything on their plates at once, we divided it up a little, keeping the suman bulagata till last. This moreish sticky rice snack was sprinkled in brown sugar for just a touch of sweetness.

Then we set off for a short walk through the streets of Guagua, attracting a good deal of attention as the only non-Filipinos in town – and perhaps also due to my small blond niece hiding beneath her sun hat! We wandered in the sun past the street stalls of the Guagua public market, dodging jeepneys and pedicabs, dropped in on the Guagua parish church, Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception,  and rode back in a pedicab. I was immensely grateful to share it with Miss Four – if it had been anyone larger we would have been squeezed in and hanging over the edges. Yet again, that humiliating reminder that I am XXXL in the Philippines.

We drove on to Santa Rita, to a sweet factory, owned by the Ocampo-Lansang family. This small family business is run from the family home. “Lola” (Granny) welcomed us as we entered, with waving arms, tears and every song she could remember, delighted with her large group of visitors. We watched the sweets being made by hand, and believe me, making turrones, or cashew nut nougat, is a labour intensive business…and HOT!

Chewing on turrones, we moved on to Bacalor’s famous sunken church, San Guillermo. The original church was constructed by the Augustinian friars in 1576. It was destroyed in 1880 by an earthquake, and rapidly rebuilt, only to be buried by lahare flows from Mount Pinatubo in September 1995. The ash flow claimed the altar, the cemetery and the monastery. Only the choir loft and bell tower remained. The elaborate altar, salvaged by the town’s people, now sits beneath the dome. The church itself has a barn-like quality, with its wooden roof beams six metres closer to the congregation today than they used to be.  Second floor windows have been converted into new entrances, and the arches at the top of the original windows visible at waist level.

At lunchtime we drove on to Mexico, to the home of renowned Kapampangan cook and food connoisseur, Atching Lillian Borromeo. Her heritage house was built in 1916 and Borromeo has restored the original kitchen and filled it with culinary antiques.

Atching Lillian must have been cooking for days, as there was enough food to feed the village. We lined up in orderly fashion to fill our plates. There was ensaladung pako, a salad of young fern fronds and monitor lizard eggs, sitting beside a dish of frogs, stuffed with ground pork and vegetables, and deep fried.

While I would try most things at least once, I have never felt overly brave when confronted with exotica like offal or insects or frogs. I have eaten frogs legs before (very tasty, like tiny chicken drumsticks), but I have never met an entire frog on my plate before. If I am honest, the only reason I finally took the plunge was to show-off to a friend, wary of anything but rice and the Golden Arches.In fact these small morsels were delicious, once I overcame the psycho-logical hang-up about munching on Kermit.

The morkon, a rich, heavy roll, mostly chicken and eggs, was delicious, but I could not manage the tidtad, a grey Pampango blood stew, which did not appeal at all, although it is apparently a local specialty. Sisig is another Pampango dish of pork cheeks, head meat and liver. I have eaten this before and it went down smoothly, despite the predominance of offal, reminding me a little of Thai larb gai, only fattier. Actually, thinking about it, a dash of lime juice would have complimented this dish perfectly.  Bringhe is a filling dish of glutinous rice and chicken cooked in coconut milk – a perfect nursery food – but my undisputed favourite was a light chicken broth with squash (pumpkin) and deep green bonifacio leaves. Dessert? Tibuk-tibok, a carabao milk blancmange that slid into the very tiny space left after this enormous lunch.

After lunch, Lillian gave us a history and baking lesson, displaying her carved wooden moulds from the seventeenth century and telling the tale of the origins of her Panecillos de San Nicolas or arrowroot biscuits. Several of us experimented with rolling out the dough and using the wooden moulds, and received a lovely bamboo and coconut shell stirring spoon as a reward for our efforts.

We said our goodbyes and thank yous, and headed for Angeles, and the Holy Rosary Church whose twin towers dominate the town’s skyline. The Church was constructed from 1877 to 1896 by the forced labour system imposed on Filipino peasants by the Spanish colonial government. We were lucky to get a peek today, as the church had been closed to prepare it for the annual fiesta held in honor of the Blessed Virgin of the Holy Rosary.

Opposite the church is a museum with a culinary twist, housed in the original Town Hall. Exhibits included a Culinarium – a display of culinary artifacts – and a collection of dioramas illustrating Kapampangan culinary history in intricate detail, complete with Nenita dolls that we were itching to play with. There was even a culinary library in the old jail.

And then, finally, we pulled in for an early dinner at San Fernando’s ‘Everybody’s Café’. It was a light and tasty grand finale, just the right amount after a day full of meals and merienda. There was a bit of a free-for-all over the beef morcon, with a side dish of deliciously rich dripping, and a wonderful sinigang containing the most enormous freshwater prawns I have ever seen or tasted, huge and meaty, like lobster. And of course, the pièce de résistance: Kamaru or adobodo crickets with caramelized red onions, surprisingly sweet, and, equally surprising, my favourite dish, despite my own protestations that eating anything so tiny was simply ridiculous.

The day was so much more than just a food tour. In fact it felt like a microcosm of Filipino culture and all that the Filipinos are most passionate about: their politics, their religion and their food. Thanks for sharing that passion with us, Bryan, and we hope you enjoyed our rendition of ‘”It’s not easy being green” and “Why are there so many songs about rainbows?” on the way home, in memory of Kermie.

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Maltese Cuisine

Posted on 13 October 2012 by sheg4184

Part 2

Malta, like it’s nearest neighbour Sicily, has an indigenous cuisine that  has been heavily flavoured by Italy and North Africa, but has also been seasoned by the various foreign powers who have raided or relocated to Malta over the centuries, including the Arabs, the Spanish and the English.  Our hospitable hostess was keen for us to try everything: local snacks and specialties; home cooking; fine dining, we sampled it all. Our first port of call, however, mere moments off the ferry, was the local supermarket.

Used to the heavy American presence on Manila’s supermarket shelves, we were initially surprised to find our favourite English chocolates, biscuits and breakfast cereals in residence, until we learned that the English had a prominent role in Malta for almost a century, and continue to visit regularly. We tossed in a packet of Penguins for the kids, but for me, the best part of any supermarket is the delicatessen counter. The one in St. Paul’s Bay was irresistible, and we selected a ridiculous amount of antipasti. We were keen to try everything. We found some old favourites like dolmades, but we also made a point of choosing a number of Maltese delicacies: stuffed olives; Bigilla (a thick dip made from broad beans and garlic), and Gbejniet which is a small round Gozitan goat’s cheese served with traditional Maltese crackers called galleti. These are thin, hard and brittle, quite a different texture from the delicious soft rolls called hobz  or ftira, a ring shaped loaf of similar consistency to the Italian ciabatta, but with a harder crust.

Our Maltese/Australian hostess had previously taught me how to make kapunata, a Maltese ratatouille, is now a firm favourite in our household. ‘My grandmother’s recipe’ she tell me, ‘uses aubergine (eggplant) , onions, red and green peppers and zucchini… with tomatoes, capers and olive, [but] it should not be confused with a pepperonata,’ she advises, ‘this is an Italian dish that the Maltese make too, but it contains only red , yellow and green capsicum and sometimes onions.’ Our first night in Malta, she treated us to another of her wonderful pasta dishes: a simple spaghetti pomodoro with garlic and basil that was quite possibly the best meal I had eaten in weeks.

The second night, we drove down the road to Charlie’s Inn, for a feast starring  the local speciality il-fenkata, rabbit stew made with red wine and flavored with herbs. Fenek (rabbit) has been a culinary tradition in Malta for centuries. The Knights of Malta uncharitably prevented the Maltese from poaching wild rabbits, so now they eat as many as they can catch or breed. We started with a delicious rabbit sauce with piselli (peas) served on pasta, followed by pan fried rabbit with oil and garlic.

On the third day we lunched beside a gorgeous little harbour called Spinola Bay.  Speed boats, dinghies and sailing boats bobbed on lapis lazuli waters. At Café Rafael, we sat on a broad terrace overlooking the bay, surrounded by baskets of red petunias and shaded from the hot midday sun by a huge umbrella.  As we soaked up the view, and the midday sun sparkled on the water, plates of salmon and zucchini pasta and calamari fritti  were consumed with enthusiasm. More interesting, however, were the Maltese specialties: timpana, a pasta bake of macaroni, minced beef and pork, eggs, cheese, chicken liver and bacon topped with pastry; and the stuffed squid. In many Mediterranean countries squid is commonly sliced into rings, fried, and served with lemon. The Maltese love to stuff the squid with onion and garlic, tomatoes and a glass of wine, diced bread, capers, prawns and herbs, before simmering it in a spicy tomato sauce. Over-indulgence indeed.

During the in-between-times, we snacked. In Malta, there are a myriad street stalls and tapas-style bars selling a range of traditional morsels, and we had three days to try as many as possible. Hobz Biz-Zejt  –  and yes, I have to admit I have no idea how to pronounce it either –  makes a wonderful snack, brunch or lunch. Brush a piece of bread with olive oil and top it with ripe and roughly chopped tomatoes, onions and herbs, tuna, white broad beans and capers, and you have a tasty, traditional snack. Once a humble dish, these days it has become very trendy and you can find it served in many smart restaurants as an appetizer. In Spain,without the added extras of beans, tuna and capers, it is breakfast. In Italy, bruschetta bears a family resemblance.

Pastizzi provide another easy mouthful en route to the next Church or viewpoint. Diamond-shaped, flaky pastry parcels filled with ricotta or mushy peas, pastizzi are the perfect merienda, distantly related to empanada, only lighter, and eaten hot. For those with a sweeter tooth, mqaret are pastry parcels filled with a thick, rich date mixture and then deep fried. They make a sumptuous mouthful, but be warned, they are addictive – and fattening.

Anyone feeling hungry? Me too. See you in the kitchen, chopping tomatoes…

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Pinot 101

Posted on 5 October 2012 by sheg4184

As you have probably realized by now, I really enjoy dining at Enderun College’s Restaurant 101, and there has been a number of lunches, dinners, wine tastings and coffee mornings over the past two years. A recent visit for a wine matching dinner, however, has been one of the most memorable evening I have ever spent there.

Partly, I should say, because I got to go on a lovely date with my One & Only, and also because restaurant manager M. Gérald Savigny had organized a fabulous four course dinner with matching wines of various styles, but all based on the red and white Pinot grape.  Originally the grape of Burgundy, it can be unpredictable, but is now revered by winemakers for making some of the best wines in the world.

The food, as always, was exquisitely turned out, and the wines were all interesting choices that inspired some heated conversations between my husband and me. Of course the more we sipped the more astute and verbose we became! But back to the beginning…

We were greeted at the door with a welcoming smile and the prompt arrival of an aperitif: a glass of Gancia Pinto di Pinot Spumante. This is a popular and zippy little Italian sparkling wine, with all the requisite fizz and bubble to begin the evening with a sense of celebration.

We were seated at a table beside an impressive wine display, and the menus had been printed out on elegantly embossed cards. I always love a set menu, as I so enjoy the luxury of not having to leaf back and forth through a vast menu, trying to decide what I feel like. And I can always rely on the chefs at 101 to provide something deliciously enticing.

Our entrée was a dainty Snail Torte that consisted of a pastry biscuit spread thickly with sweet tomato marmalade, and topped with garlic butter escargots imported from Burgundy. We were unexpectedly delighted with these small, smooth, al dente escargots, with the texture of champignons and only a light hint of garlic. The snails were served with an Australian 2011 Yalumba Y Series Pinot Grigio. It was a beautiful match. The wine was refreshingly dry, with a crisp finish, the allusion to the fruity flavours of apple and pear nonetheless held their own against the subtle touch of garlic in the snails.

The main course was announced: roasted duck breast served with steamed broccoli and a ‘Jenga’ block of polenta, garnished with fresh blood orange and topped with a delicious gastrique sauce. Although unfortunately misspelled on the menu as gastric, it is not actually stomach juices, but a very simple, French, sweet and sour sauce made from a vinegar or citrus juice and honey. It is usually served with chicken but in this case the combination of sweet and sour complimented  the duck perfectly. A little extra sauce on the side would have been welcome, as there was a generous amount of duck, but only a smidgen of sauce. It was accompanied by a 2010 Argentinian Trapiche Broquel Pinot Noir.

My husband and I argued boisterously about that wine. We both agreed that it was youthful and slightly acidic (almost antiseptic in my opinion) but the One & Only thought it made a good contrast to the gamey taste of the duck. I would have preferred a more full-bodied, rounder pinot noir, however, to compliment the richness of the duck rather than fighting it.

A soft, fresh local goat’s cheese (imagine the texture of mozzarella) was served on a strip of toast with truffle honey and some wafer thin radish to garnish. It was accompanied by a 2011 New Zealand Pinot Noir, St. Clair’s Vicar’s Choice. According to our host, goat’s cheese is traditionally served with Pinot Noir in his home town in the Loire Valley. I loved the wine, but found it a little strong for the more delicate flavour of the local cheese – although I can understand how well it would accompany a stronger, aged French chèvre. (Amusingly, this is the one I would have preferred with the duck). When we discussed it with M. Savigny he suggested that I might prefer a lighter Sauvignon Blanc with the cheese, which proved an excellent recommendation.

Our dessert was a large helping of pear crumble, just like my mother used to make, and it came with an Australian Angas Brut Sparkling Rosé. It was an unusual idea, but the nutty, yeasty flavours in both were a good match. We both felt that the crumble needed a scoop of vanilla ice cream to complete it, and luckily, our kind waitress was happy to oblige us.

Then we merrily headed homewards, replete with beautiful food and definitely oversubscribed on wine, quite in agreement that wine tasting is a highly subjective sport.

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Nights in Malta

Posted on 1 October 2012 by sheg4184

Part One:

Malta: island of knights and castles, Italian painters and British phone boxes, bays and boats and beaches, cliffs and torrijiet (Maltese towers), flea markets, fine lace and fenkata. It was a whirlwind tour in the heat of the summer.  As we raced around the island, packed to the gunnels in a pocket-sized car, we attempted to cover every square inch in three days. I think we just about did it.

Most recently a British colony – Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip spent the early years of their marriage posted here with the Royal Navy – Malta has also belonged, amongst others, to the Phoenicians, the Romans, the Arabs and the French.  In fact, Malta has only been ruled by the Maltese since 1964. Lonely Planet calls it ‘a microcosm of the Mediterranean’ with its eclectic mix of North African, Italian and Arabic influences.

This rocky outcrop in the middle of the Mediterranean actually consists of three islands: Malta, Gozo and Comino. Parched and yellow in summer, with the occasional splash of green vineyard and dry, honey-coloured limestone walls,  these three jewels are set in sapphire blue seas. The ferry from Pozzallo is the most picturesque way to arrive. The huge catamaran slips quietly into the Grand Harbour of the Port of Valletta, which is lined with cruisers, tankers, sailing boats and dinghies, and overlooked by nineteen stone warehouses, two hundred and fifty years old, stretching along the Quay Wall, where the Knights of St John and European merchants once unloaded their ships.

In 1530 Malta became the official home of the Knights of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, better known as the Knights of Malta, a renowned Christian security force of the Middle Ages. In the decades that followed, these wealthy knights turned Valletta into an architectural showcase of palaces, gardens, and churches, many of which remain today as major tourist attractions. Every summer the population of these tiny Mediterranean islands triples in size due to the huge influx of tourists and pensioners (who retire here from northern Europe for the joys of a warm, dry climate), the largest boost to the local economy.

The island of Malta is about 17 miles long and 9 miles wide. Don’t let the size fool you, the winding roads and cluttered town streets can still make any trip seem a lot further than it looks on the map. The blessing is, though, that whenever the heat and crowds being to overwhelm, you are never too far from the sea in which to cool off.

 So what did we manage to see in three days? Where shall I start? Mdina, Città Vecchia, is the original capital of Malta, a beautiful medieval town, walled and moated, situated on a strategic hill in the middle of the island. Mdina is a town of quiet, quaint, cobbled streets, with a resident population of just over three hundred. There is an elegant Cathedral with its canons facing into the square, and two clocks set at different times to confuse the devil, who is apparently not very bright, and cannot tell the difference between day and night. Just inside the main gates are the Mdina Dungeons, which house a gruesomely enticing display of mediaeval instruments of torture and methods of execution. Our teenagers loved all the blood and gore, and it didn’t seem to turn their stomachs too badly, as they later filled themselves up on cakes and milk shakes, at a busy café on the ramparts, while we gazed at the wonderful view across the island.

The ‘new’ sixteenth century capital, Valletta is a beautiful baroque town above the port full of souvenirs left behind by the Knights of Malta. Some have been altered or demolished by the British, and even more were destroyed in Nazi bombing raids, yet the city that remains is stunning, and infinitely appealing, even in 35’C. Modern structures have been tastefully added to  compliment the older buildings, and the city exudes refined elegance and reams of character.

We began our walking tour of Valletta, a UNESCO World Heritage site, at the Upper Barrakka gardens, where a colonnaded terrace frames a beautiful picture of the Grand Harbour. We then sauntered down Merchant’s Street to the flea market, which sells all sort of cheap clothing and souvenirs, such as samples of the local lace. We discovered the covered market place.  Is-Suq is the only one of its kind in Malta, with its beautiful British wrought iron but these days looking a little sad and neglected. Apparently there has been talk of renovation or rebirth as a museum, but so far it has sat undisturbed, tucked behind a plethora of overflowing stalls.

We meandered on to St John’s Co-Cathedral, built by the Knights of Malta between 1573-8. When Napoleon invaded Malta in 1798 the French took away everything of value that was not fixed in stone, except for the golden gates into this highly ornate and intricately carved Cathedral, which were painted black by the locals and consequently overlooked during the pillaging of the city.  St. John’s now houses an outstanding collection of Baroque art, including two masterpieces by Caravaggio, The Beheading of St John the Baptist and St Jerome Writing (stolen on New Year’s Eve in 1984, but subsequently  recovered), which hang in the oratory. Unfortunately the immense crush of mid-summer tour groups drove me rapidly, and dizzily, into a quiet, walled piazza beside the Cathedral, apparently a lovely spot for summer concerts.

Once my head stopped spinning, we cut our losses on museums and queues and strolled across town to St George’s Square and the Piazza Regina, wonderful open spaces with an eye-catching architectural blend of ancient and modern. Pavement cafés and designer shops abound, and a new dancing fountain intermittently shoots jets of water into the air in the middle of St. George’s Square, entertaining adults and children alike, as they dodge and weave through the spray, the perfect panacea to a hot day.

As the shadows begin to crawl across the city, we wander along Republic Street and back past the controversial construction site for the new city gate, parliament building and an open-air performance space to replace the Opera House bombed by the Luftwaffe at the end of World War II,  designed by world famous Italian architect Renzo Piano.

Malta is a tiny island nation steeped in history, soaking in azure seas, and dazzling the eyes with luscious views, not to mention dazzling the taste buds with luscious food. But more of that later…

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Of Anthuriums & Fiddle Head Ferns

Posted on 24 September 2012 by sheg4184

In the extreme heat that hit Manila last May, we drove south from the city to Los Baños, to meet a group of provinicial businessmen and women who benefit from a local micro-financing program, partially supported by a social welfare group with which I am involved. It is a community-based development project created to alleviate poverty in the countryside. First established in 2002, it was designed to provide small loans to self-employed individuals  with which they could develop their businesses. Some of the recipients include vegetable and flower farmers, pig farmers, owners of sari sari stores and jeepney services.

We were joined by a team from the head office in Los Baños, and we drove in convoy up a long and winding road to Nagcarlan, a tiny community high on the side of the mountain. When we got out of the car, my first impression was how much cooler life could be at this altitude. A group of locals was waiting for us in a dry, dusty yard scattered with washing lines and wire baskets of roosters. Seated on plastic chairs, and held by the unblinking gaze of a clutch of toddlers, we listened to several villagers explain how the micro-financing support had changed their lives. It was moving ceremony that ended with the presentation of a giant thank you card. Signed by a dozen local business people, it bore this touching message:

Thank you for working hand-in-hand in helping us overcome extraordinary odds and initiating change in our lives.

Through your kindness and sponsorship, there was a significant improvement in us and our family and able to bring self-reliance to step confidently into the future.

After the speeches, some needing translation as very few of us were fluent in Tagalog, villagers accompanied us further up the hill to where a ‘vegetable bi-cable tramline’ (it looked like a glorified flying fox) is used to transport produce down from the higher reaches of the mountain. The view from the cable-car platform was spectacular, and the lush vegetation at eye level grows wild, but look like a tropical garden, full of variegated leaves and bright tropical flowers.

In a small garden just off the road we stood like brides with bunches of pink anthuriums, and admired the family’s livestock: a couple of flamboyantly feathered roosters; a caged owl, and a couple of surprisingly glossy and well-fed felines.

As we walked back to our cars, we passed ponies laden with woven panniers, and highly polished Jeepneys. These villagers may not own much, but they really look after the little they have. On the side of the road, flower farmers had placed blue buckets tightly packed with huge bunches of anthuriums, to be collected by dealers taking them into the city markets. Pink and red and waxy, with their boastful, phallic stamens, these glossy flowers really are a trick of nature in their ability disguise themselves as plastic.

Back in the village, young men were sorting crates of small green tomatoes. We bought several kilos between us for an embarrassingly small handful of coins. Our driver came back up the road, beaming, thrilled with a bag of fruit for which he had paid an equally tiny amount compared with city prices: the joy of dealing directly with the producer.

On the way back to Los Baños, we stopped at a roadside restaurant, for lunch. Kamayan sa Palaisdaan is a restaurant on a lagoon. A dozen or more bahay kubos (bamboo huts with thatched roofs and furnished with bamboo dining tables) were perched on the edge of the lagoon, seeming to float on the still water, teeming with tilapia and catfish. The path wove around the edge of the lagoon, through gardens bejewelled in topiary and life-sized concrete sculptures painted in garishly bright colours.

Tucked into our bahay kubo, we admired the intricate thatching and rehydrated on gallons of water, fresh buko and green mango juice. Then the banquet arrived. Baskets lined with banana leaves were filled with tantalizingly crispy, deep fried pork belly, grilled prawns and grilled squid. There was a light, local speciality, ensaladung pako (salad made with fiddlehead fern) which I have eaten before in Laguna. I love the unusual texture of the young ferns. Bowls of sinigang (traditional Filipino soup) appeared, along with all the little dishes of sawsawan – vinegar and soy sauce, bagoong (fish paste) and kalamansi (tiny local limes). Baked eggplant and steamed kangkong (water spinach) fought with the delicate Ginataang Tilapia (fish cooked in coconut milk) for space at the already crowded table. And of course there was rice. The tradition is to eat it with your fingers, and feed any scraps to the fish. I don’t think those fish got much lunch from us! I was only sorry there wasn’t time for a brief siesta under the trees, before we drove back to Manila, quietly contemplating a day well spent.

*Adapted from article submitted to ADBSA Newsflash, August 2012 issue.

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Sugarleaf: guilt-free indulgence

Posted on 21 September 2012 by sheg4184

Chefs and restaurateurs across Metro Manila are become noticeably more tuned in to healthy eating and are marketing their menus with trendy catch phrases like ‘organic’ and ‘pro-biotic’ (‘a  dietary supplement containing live bacteria, taken orally to restore beneficial bacteria to the body’), that can make a meal feel more like a science experiment.

Some, like Makati newcomer  Sugarleaf,   however, are managing to create an interesting blend of taste, health and education, and this one has the added bonus of being just around the corner. Strategically located above the MEDICARD Lifestyle Center, at the crossroads of Paseo de Roxas and Senator Gil Puyat Avenue (Buendia),  Sugarleaf also has an older sibling living at Greenhills, on the ground floor of the Health Cube building.

The Sugarleaf menu claims to address your nutritional and energy requirements as well as those grumbling tummies: the menu is full of light, healthy dishes, fresh and beautifully presented, if sometimes inclined to overdose on lettuce and skimp on flavour. It is certainly something different from the usual spread of high cholesterol local food with its heavy emphasis on the carnivorous.

As an entrée, I would recommend at least one solo visit to Sugarleaf, to give yourself  the opportunity to read the menu from cover to cover without interruption, as it not only provides food for the body, but food for the mind as well. There are paragraphs of information on super foods (nutrient rich food and medicine), organic foods, pro-biotics and low-glycemic dishes made without processing or refining, flavourings or preservatives, to control blood sugar levels. It’s like ‘A Dummy’s Guide to Nutrition’ that doesn’t sound that dumb.

Alternatively, you could read an introduction to it at home on their website and just drop in with friends to enjoy the food: http://www.sugarleafph.com

I dropped in last month, for a working lunch, and then again, just this week, with a friend.

The menu sounds mouthwatering. Organic-all-you-can-eat salads, vegetables, dips, dressings, sauces, and delicious health drinks full of anti-oxidants and fibre, free from pesticides, genetic modification and chemicals. There are also daily soups, quiches and assorted wraps and sandwiches.

While the blurb espouses lashings of fruit and vegetables, meat eaters are not neglected. There is a wide range of sandwich fillings: chicken with basil, green apple and sour cream; Spanish sardine; chorizo and alfalfa; crabstick and mango; smoked marlin and dill; free range egg mayo, and Turkey Waldorf all served with sugar-free banana crisps (always good to know in the Philippines where sugar is often liberally added to everything). There is also some tasty homemade fettucini with your choice of sauce.

It is wonderful to indulge in fresh, high quality salads, and the juices are delicious combinations of fruit and vegetables, boasting names like ‘Relax,’ ‘Detox’ and ‘Hangover Buster’. Unfortunately the practicalities behind this commendable product still  need ironing out a little. The staff definitely failed to cope comfortably with a party of nine, and we were served in a very erratic fashion. One woman received two courses and a drink almost at once, while the rest of us waited more than half an hour longer for our wraps, sandwiches and smoothies. It would have been nice if we could have eaten together!

However, when I returned with just one friend, the staff coped better. In true Filipino style, the dishes are likely to be served haphazardly. Everything either comes at once, or as today, our salad turned up in place of dessert – but I blame myself for forgetting to spell out how and when we want dishes brought out. Our juices were truly scrumptious, and the fillings for the sandwiches and wraps were tasty, although my crunchy baguette appeared to have morphed into a warm, slightly soggy (as in ‘defrosted’) focaccia.

I do not have a very sweet tooth, and rarely eat desserts, but Sugarleaf almost tempted me, and I loved the catch phrase on the dessert menu: ‘Desserts – guilt free indulgence!’ These included such healthy delights as cranberry and pistachio biscotti, cashew sans rival, macadamia pie, organic carrot cake, and kefir cheesecake.

And I can highly recommend the coffee. Admittedly, I was dubious about the tiny jug of hot soy milk, but it was in fact a perfect match: nutty and ever-so-slightly creamy, flavours that mingled smoothly with my cup of Arabica coffee.

On the first visit, our nine diners at Sugarleaf had a mixed, somewhat muted reaction, largely due to the slapdash service. The second time around, and with only two of us at the table, I felt much more enthusiastic about this newcomer to the Makati restaurant scene.

It’s definitely worth a try, as something different from the battalion of junk food franchises in Metro Manila. You certainly won’t go hungry, and you have the added joy of feeling virtuous about eating a truly nourishing lunch.

*Adapted from article for ADBSA Newsflash, August 2011 with photos borrowed from Sugarleaf website.

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Relocation Relocation

Posted on 17 September 2012 by sheg4184

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I love this poem. I am no poet, but it describes my ever-diverging life perfectly, and so much more beautifully than I could put it.

I left South Australia in 1990 armed with a boyfriend, a backpack and a boarding pass, and since that day it feels like my feet have barely touched the ground. Now, over twenty two years later, we have added  a marriage certificate, three kids, seven countries (some of them twice)and a forty foot container to the mix – not to mention the twenty-something addresses scratched out in my mother’s phone book!

At each point of departure we are sent on our way by friends sadly exclaiming how difficult it must be to pack up all our belongings, uproot our family and move on again.  Arriving at a new destination we are greeted with more exclamations of despair at the difficulties we will encounter settling in: how we are bound to have problems with housing, staff, traffic, the food, the water, the traffic, the locals, the weather, the traffic….

After twenty one years of purging and packing up, unpacking and purging again, I feel it is finally time to stand up and be counted:  I want to own up to being one of those inexplicably odd souls who actually enjoys her nomadic lifestyle.

First and foremost I love travelling – but not in the sense of being a tourist. In this era of cheap travel, ‘tourist’ has become a dirty word, with its insinuations of second- rate hotels, mind-numbing coach trips and stale set menus. To be a tourist is like licking the icing off the top, but not getting the cake, a sweet but insubstantial mouthful of fairy floss that leaves you still hungry and slightly nauseous.

I prefer to pause for breath, be it for two weeks, two months or two years, and at least  pretend to be local. I want to get to know the back lanes and the nearest bakery, using my ‘otherness’ to ask all sorts of impertinent, obvious questions about the locals and their town.  I like the feeling of setting up a new home, however temporarily, and claiming some sense of ownership for our latest location. Armed with a map book and a list of housing options, I love the challenge involved in finding my way round a new city and into a new life, of wandering off the beaten track and finding my way home again.

I like the chance to give life a good stir now and again. Gathering moss is not my strongest suit. I get sluggish, unmotivated and unimaginative.  I find each new posting gives me a fresh and liberating perspective on life. We have tried settling once or twice over the years, but the siren call of new destinations continues to lure us ever onwards.

I have loved sharing the world with our children, and together we have collected birth certificates, passports and class photos from all over the globe. While those first weeks in a new school can be difficult at any age, I have observed that most kids prove amazingly adaptable, and generally immerse themselves in their new environment more quickly and easily than their parents, given the routine and structure of school life. And the life skills they learn are invaluable: making new friends quickly; saying goodbye to old ones; experiencing new cultures; meeting new challenges and availing themselves of new opportunities. Moving teaches them the benefits of bungee jumping into life, of learning to meet changes and challenges head on, with anticipation rather than dread.

Fifteen years ago I wrote an article in Kuala Lumpur about trans-cultural kids, based on an interview with a relocation expert. She took me through the process of moving a family overseas, the practicalities, the problems and the benefits. And she assured me then that professional studies generally paint a positive picture; that living abroad has more than enough benefits to balance the scale. Our Third Culture Kids will be independent and adaptable, possibly bi-lingual and generally more racially sensitive than stay-at-home kids. They also have an added awareness of their place on the global stage: the world citizen prototype for the 21st century.

As parents, we can give them the wings to fly, although I have noticed over the years that so much depends on our attitude as parents. If our kids hear us bemoaning our fate, complaining about problems and anticipating difficulties, they too will whine and worry. It is up to us to take the lead and teach by example. Even for those of us who may prefer not to live as expats, it’s what we do, and we not only need to accept it, but to grab the nettle and get on with it to the best of our ability. If our kids see us putting on a brave face and attempting to face the challenges, they will learn from us to do the same.

Of course there will be a sense of loss, even grief when they must move on again, but that is life, however we choose to live it. Life has a tendency to change when we least expect it, whether we sit in one spot for fifty years or we move annually, and the sooner our children learn to deal with this inevitable part of life, the easier it will be for them as they grow. We have an amazing opportunity to educate our children, to fill them with enthusiasm, optimism and positivity that will prove invaluable when they turn to face their own adult challenges.  They may need time to  grieve for the loss of friends and familiar places, but we should try not to let them wallow and forever look backwards.

Our kids have one huge advantage over the ‘army brat’ kids of old. Today our children are blessed with so many ways of keeping in touch with old friends, ways that were unimaginable to us even twenty years ago. No ‘snail mail’ for them, but Facebook and Skype for an instant fix of their families and friends who are scattered all over the planet. And air travel has become so much easier and cheaper. It has, quite literally, made the world their oyster. For those of us given cosy, secure childhoods in one house, one town, one school, such rootlessness can be hard to fathom. Yet our kids will be truly global kids and understand that it is possible to make a home anywhere. They have tasted so many new environments that their horizons are broad beyond our imaginations – that is their reality.

A lesson we learned long ago was how to throw ourselves into the deep end. As expats, we must. None of us have our extended family living round the corner, so we must quickly create our own families from the strangers we have moved in with. We all get so close, so quickly – particularly in hardship postings – that we often fear moving away from the tight knit group we have created. And yet, somehow, there are always more friends to be made. We all discover that some friends are simply for that moment, some will last through a move or two, and a handful will be for life, those with whom we can pick up the loose threads anywhere, anytime, but every one of them has added a depth and colour to our lives.

Over the years I have found myself doing things I never imagined: travel experiences; unexpected job opportunities; new hobbies. In the expat world, there is always something to bring newcomers into the fold. For me, schools were once the obvious entry point, but as the kids became teenagers, having their mother hanging around in their space became too uncool to be tolerated. This time I have had to find my own path, and it has been an interesting change.

It isn’t always easy. Expat years can be tough on marriages and family, but it can also strengthen them. We have had to learn to rely on each other when extended family is not in the immediate vicinity to share the joys and the worries. As I remind the kids from time to time, their siblings are the only people in their lives who can share the memories of every move we have made and every new life we have created, so they should hold on tight. It has been a roller coaster ride of ups and downs, but it has been an unforgettable  adventure.

* Adapted from an article published this month in ‘Inklings’.

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