Mayonnaise - Jar or home-made?

I've tried to make mayonnaise several times in my life. Sometimes it works, and less times it doesn't. There's really no excuse for not making it, of course, because even when it doesn't work, the ways to fix it are easy (I love the way this lovely lady makes her mayo). Except, it's fairly easy to buy good mayonnaise in a jar. But is it good?

Jar mayonnaise is fine for sandwiches, and as an ingredient to mix into other dressings, but when the mayonnaise is the main ingredient in a sauce or dressing, it is obvious when it's store-bought. The other reason to make your own mayo is when you want to play with the consistency. For example, in a potato salad I like my mayonnaise loose and runny - if it's too thick, then when combining, it buffs up the edges of the potatoes, and besides, it's just far too stodgy.


So here's how the slap-dash cook makes potato salad:

Ingredients:

• 2 egg yolks
• 1/2 cup olive oil
• pinch salt
• 2 tsp lemon juice
• 2 tsp mirin or Japanese sweet sauce
• 1 tbsp finely chopped capers
• 1 tbsp seeded mustard
• 1 tbsp finely chopped parsley
• 4 large potatoes - cooked firm, cooled and diced
• ground white pepper to taste

Instructions

1. Using a whisk beat the egg yolks and salt until they are creamy. Then start drizzling the olive oil in bit by bit (not too fast, or the mayo will 'split' or 'break' - link above has the solution to this). This will involve about 5 minutes of continuous beating, so if you are a weakling, use an electric whisk. I like a texture that is creamy, but without peaks. If you like it thicker and whiter, add more oil and keep whisking.
2. Add lemon juice, mirin and mustard while whisking.
3. Combine with the other ingredients, potatoes last of all.

This mayonnaise is an olive-oil based one, and so will carry the pepperiness and bitterness of the oil. If you like it milder, then use canola or sunflower oil. I take the skins off my potatoes, but they could easily be left on.  This is a tart potato salad, and you could also add mild green olives if you like them, or stir through some cooled roast chicken chunks to turn it into a meal.

The Golden Ticket

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I'd like you to close your eyes for a moment. Now open them, because I need you to keep reading. But pretend they are still closed, and take yourself back to age 7. Drop all your baggage, your knowledge, your mistakes, regret, rational thought, tooth decay, and ask yourself - "What do I want to do right now?"

Now girls will probably come to this particular dream after marrying prince charming and riding a unicorn. Most boys after defeating Darth Vader and taking off with his space ship. Charlie was a simple boy - this is the only thing he ever wanted. To visit the chocolate factory.

Now of course, I have not been visiting chocolate factories in Dubai - the whole idea of desert heat and chocolate brings to mind a chocolate deluge of disasterous proportions - Even Willy Wonka's chocolate river would overflow here. But I got to do the adult version of the dream - a chocolate tasting.



Has anyone ever heard of Sprüngli? Anyone? Can you even pronounce it? Try "schproongly" - it's about as close as I could get (not "sprun-glee", as I first thought). I had no idea they even existed, let alone were in Dubai, until I attended a tasting at their office in the Dubai Flower Centre (they also have an outlet at the Movenpick Bur Dubai, called "Sweet"). We were met by Gorgeous Chocolate Women Numbers 1 and 2, who welcomed us with smiles, espresso coffee and a table choc-a-block with hand crafted Swiss chocolate.

I had been on a diet.

Sprüngli are not quite like the standard chocolatiers you see around Dubai, eg. Galler, Godiva, Patchi, Alison Nelson, (who are all worthy of a visit, I must say) - most of Sprungli's sales are direct, and not through an outlet. In fact, their office is an excellent demonstration of "it's all about the product", rather than the appearance of the furnishings. No ambience, people - the party is only in your mouth.

So we tasted the chocolate.

Ok - I'm not going to take you piece by piece, because then you will discover the complete decimation of my diet. My behaviour was really quite disgusting - but what would you expect when you let a hedonista loose in a chocolate depot? But let me say, there is chocolate, and there is chocolate. I've always been a fan of plain, ordinary, creamy, luscious, mouth watering milk chocolate. And there was one little piece looking like a perfect tiny rosebud that was so smooth and pristine in appearance, it looksed like it was slightly melted. Sorry Deb and Samantha (my tasting companions), all mine! Not only was it perfectly firm, and unmelted (until it reached my mouth, anyway), but it also had a touch of hazelnut, and a dried cherry fleck in the center to add a touch of sour and bitter to offset the sweet - clever.

Then the nougat truffle: a chunky praline pyramid, with crispy caramel flecks, nougat and wafer - a little like a toblerone and a ferrero rocher and a Fauchon caramel eclair all rolled into one. Then the white chocolate truffle, which I was eating while Gorgeous Chololate Woman Number 1 was telling us all about the cows and the high altitude and the herbs they ate, which in turn affects the creaminess of the milk, the tiny nuances of flavour, and thus the quality of the chocolate, particularly in an item such as white chocolate, where the flavour is decidedly transperent due to the lack of bitter cacao. It is creamier than a Lindor ball, not as sweet, better, but funkier. Serious white chocolate, and I like it.

Then Gorgeous Chocolate Woman Number 2 opened the box of Luxemburgelis. Done macaroons to death yet? I thought I had too. But these are serious macaroons. A tweet with the heading "best macaroons ever!" received a response that shows that the world is still not sated with these little amaretti-meringue hybrids. The best were the caramel, which has sepia crystalline chunks of salt on top to offset the cloying sweetness of the caramel flavour. The cappuccino has a dark chocolate ganache instead of a butter cream in the center, and I prepared myself for a bitter hit, but it is delicate, slightly sweet, and sure, it has the bitterness, but not the gunshot of it I was expecting. The lemon tastes like a lemon merangue pie - exactly. But the best was the raspberry - inside it has a tangy sweet and sour slither of jelly - perfectly emulating the perfect mix of a fresh raspberry. All macaroons shatter like a thin egg-shell, are only semi-sweet, and have only a tiny little element of chew, and are masterpieces in the art of taste-bud management - it really does not get better than this.

There were some samples that were not as spectacular as I had hoped - the pineapple wedge dipped in white and dark chocolate, was nice, but boring. The Amaretti were lovely, but without the kirsch, missing the bitter/alcohol tang I think they need. The Pistachio macaroons had the almond essence flavour everyone seems to use when making anything pistachio flavoured. But all in all, the taste sensations far outweighed the disappointments.

While I was tucking away my leftovers, trying to make out I was less of a pig than I actually am, I asked Gorgeous Chocolate Woman Number 1 and 2 how they could possibly remain so svelte of limb and skin, whilst working for a Chocolatier. They eat chocolate every day, they say. But I still questioned how much. "Oh, one or two with my coffee", number 2 says. "Ahh, so it's portion control?" I ask. I've never been to good with that. But we discussed the chocolate diet, and the benefits in particular of small amounts of dark chocolate for appetite suppression. And then we talked about Mr Maag.

Mr Maag puts the princess almonds on the Princess Chocolates, and he eats 200 - 300 g every day, and he never gets fat. The reason? He's an Oompa Loompa.

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Sprungli generally ship all their products directly form the factory in Switzerland - yes, that's right, Swiss chocolate cannot be produced anywhere else in the world, so carbon footprint here we come. They ship with dry ice and copious amount of bubble-wrap and very rarely have issues with delivery. Often it is as fast as two to three days, and so even the freshness of items such as macaroons can be guaranteed.

The Dubai office is the only international dispatch. Possibly this has something to do with the UAE postal service? (Still waiting for my Blurb book delivery 6 months and two tries later...)

Chocolates are hand made to order. You can even order boxes to be printed with names or designs, or the chocolates themselves! Many of their orders are for personalised bonbonniere and baby celebratory gifts.

Pricing varies from 50AED for a 55g box of 8 chocolates to 1100 AED for 1.4kg of assorted truffles in a fabric box. The astounding macaroons are 100AED for 16 mixed, up to 320 for 72. And no, they don't do pièce montée - you would have to arrange that yourself.

contact them on ec@spungli.com or +971 4 220 0704 for a full price list

This is an impartial review - not an advertisement or a paid endorsement
 

A Week by the Lake

Grand Hotel, Tremezzo

I had lunch al fresco today, and for the first time this year, the air was marginally on the wrong side of comfortable. It may be one of the last outdoor lunches I get before its too hot.

Yes, that's right, summer is on the way. Most would think that Dubai residents would regard the approaching summer with almighty dread - the Armageddon skies, melting roads, boiling temperaments - it's not for the faint-hearted, especially for those without the blessing of air-conditioning, for whom the summer can often mean illness and death. The body is simply not built to live 24/7 at 48º C. But for the fortunate few, Summer in Dubai actually means Summer out of Dubai. We go to the continent dahlings.

For an Australian, it is actually more expensive to go home than it is to fly to Western Europe and rent a house for a few weeks, and for the last few years, that's exactly what we've done. I've just booked this year's jaunt and I'm thoroughly in the mood, so prepare yourself for a series of French and Italian travel posts "a la Sarah"


Let's see if you can guess where I'm talking about...

Menaggio

Diving in Bellagio

It's a lake, but in this part of the world, they call it "un lago". You must make sure the emphasis is always on the second-last syllable of any words spoken in this country. It becomes "oon laaaahhh-go", and even sounds mystical and romantic when spoken through an Australian mouth. In fact, this may be the only country where the locals pronounce their vowels broader and flatter than an Australian, and so the twangy accent helps one settle in quite nicely.

The lago is the shape of a Mercedes logo without the circle, but if it was encircled, that would delineate the picturesque hills - mountains in fact, that surround the lake - many spotted with medieval villages, chapels on precipices, billionaires hideaways and oft-trampled and yet still pristine national parks.

The lake itself is freezing - the yearly run-off from nearby snowy mountains fills it, and yet bathers still brave its icy temperature in the strong heat of summer. They tiptoe over the treacherous stones on the lido and launch themselves quickly into the water, just to save the soles of their feet. Only for moments though - just enough to take the heat off the sunburn, but not enough for the impending hypothermia. They retire to roses and wafer-thin pizzas served beach-side on red gingham tablecloths by arrogant waiters.

The only other way to escape the heat is to get on a boat. Ferries leave every ten minutes to various townships. The conductors announce them in sing-song voices: "BellAAAH-Jo, MenAAAH-Jo, Var-AIR-nah" - it doesn't matter which one you get on, they're all beautiful. But possibly the highlight of the ferry is not the destination, but the journey. Finally, you get caught in the breeze that shoots itself down the lake but seems to avoid the land, and as you peer over the glittering water, you see the famous villas:

Villa Monastero, Varenna

Ahh, there's the old home of Caroline of Brunswick, the raunchy and tragic estranged wife of king George IV. Now, Villa Carlotta, built for a Marquis, bought by a princess and gifted to a duchess, with gardens to make Lion's grandmother weep. This one set the stage for Misses Bentley and Beaumont to engage in rivalrous flirting with Major Wilshaw. It also held the secret marriage of Queen Amidala and Anakin Skywalker, and the mighty Mr Bond recovered in the shade of it's candelabra-pruned plane trees. A movie star lived in that one, before the paparazzi scared him away. A movie star still lives in that one, and that one and that one. I want to live in that one....

Varenna

But land still holds wonders. The townships are perfect - tourism is hefty, and has sufficiently kept these antique beauties in liquid finance and perfect condition. Bellagio is the most famous. Menaggio is the best place to stay (for a family), but the one that sweeps you off your feet is Varenna. It's card-board cutout terrace houses, magical cathedral, twin harbours, excellent restaurants, and then the impeccable Villa Monastero with its tessellated tiles, Grecian columns, botanical garden and fairytale boat mooring.

The ice cream is heavenly. Wine is cheaper than water. Most of the beauty of the area can be seen for free, or for the price of an espresso, so you can sit at cast-iron tables under brightly coloured canvas umbrellas and watch the world go by. But there is still plenty to spend your money on. My mother and I took an impressionist painting class at Fresia studios – for E120 we got three hours with Jerry Fresia, a professional painter, who traced his educational lineage back to Monet and Gauguin. It was worth it just to sit on his veranda and gaze over Lenno and the distant Tremezzo peninsula, pretending for a moment that we belonged in his incredible villa.

Villa Balbianello, Lenno

Tremezzo Public Garden

You can hire a boat, and scoot it around the lake at your own pace. Stop off the beaten track for a picnic of delicacies wrapped in the Menaggio delicatessen, partnered with a bottle of cheap Prosecco, which for some reason always tastes better in Italy. You can loiter out the front of private villas, go star spotting, pull up at the greatest movie-star of the lake, Villa Balbianello, and imagine that you are a young Darth Vader, recovering James Bond, or the unrequited Miss Bentley.

On a rainy day, you can cross the border into Switzerland, visit Lake Lugano, the non-tourist-filled neighbour, which under overcast skies is filled with opaque aqua water. But you will return – Lake Como, for that is indeed the place I am talking about, is full of tourists for a reason. It is one of the most magical weeks I have had in my life.

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We stayed at the 6-bedroomed Villa Azalea, which is a private villa about 200m walk from the main square of Menaggio, around the corner from a supermarket, and in the quiet part of town. One week was about E1550, which we thought was particularly good value, as the house was basic, but charming in a kooky way, and very clean and functional (and air-conditioned!)

Although I loved Varenna most of all, I would not stay there unless traveling without children – it was full of narrow inclined stone paths, and very busy. Bellagio is the most famous, and a tourist Mecca, with some beautiful hotels, but not so much my cup of tea – just too big and shiny. Lecco is tiny and rustic, and just down the path from Tremezzo, which is stunning but poorly serviced. The hotel there is incredible (the Grand Tremezzo), and is next to the unmissable Villa Carlotta.

Lake Como (or Lago di Como) is only an hour or so from Milan Airport. One week is really only enough time to explore the central lake area - we did not even get to Como. Oh well, another time!

O happy biscuit

"You are going to have a very comfortable old age"

That, I seriously doubt. With my love of Champagne, Bouche D’affinois, chocolate truffles and many other vessels of alcohol, sugar and saturated fat, combined with my complete lack of willpower, I am probably going to spend my old age unable to move due to weight, explosive hypertension, gnawing gout and exhaustion. I wish it were true, but unless I can get a handle on my love of the finer things, or someone manages paint me a Dorian Grayesque version of Sarah Walton, I think I am doomed. As Oscar Wilde says:

"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful."

Possibly I should hand the fortune cookie back to it's provider: Wok In, the new Asian restaurant at the Movenpick, Deira. Its future is sitting on Libra's scales even more precariously than mine. I can simply stop yielding to temptation, but the Movenpick has to weather multitudes of economic, cultural and fashionable storms and remain standing. The gift of longevity is all a new hotel asks for.



Wok in....

Is it a play on "walk in"? Or "rockin'"? When I arrived (date of the foodiva for one night only), there was an uber-funky DJ in shades spinning the decks with style. Just my kind of house - progressive, but gentle and chatter friendly. He was a spectacle in spectacles, Buddy Holly in negative and casual attire. He ignored me while I attempted to artfully photograph him on low shutter speed in the dim light. I'm far too school for cool.

Waitresses with soft corsets strapped over their conservative attire handed us Asian herb-infused alcohol bombs, which we sipped and discarded in preference for the mainstream but good quality Italian wines on offer.

My companion schmoozed. It's an art I have yet to master - I am the queen of uncomfortable silences and Freudian slips, or at least inappropriate jokes or ill-timed guffawing. Within moments, I had met the entire room, but settled on a new friend - Anu - the Indian who can't tolerate chilli, the photographer without a blog, the woman who teaches English to laborers on her days off, but hates learning languages, the food lover who can't put on weight. I love a woman of contrasts.

Soon more cocktails arrived - brightly colored, scary as witches brews but tasting like bubblegum. And then a gong was pounded to draw our attention to the bar tender who suddenly morphed into Tom Cruise and flared bottles of vodka. Literally. Not just the flipping and jiggling, but large amounts of hot, real, spewing flame. Talented, and a demonstration of Movenpick's knowledge and promotion of gifts within staff. A sign of good HR in Dubai? Rare, but possible, I suppose.

The waitresses fed us wasabi prawns and crumbed dumplings - the former great, the latter non-astounding. And when we had eaten enough for a main meal, we were told that dinner was served.

The room is perfect - that "Chinatown" feel has been captured, right down to the red and black chairs, the central circular kitchen, the chrome-framed glass doors that show passers by how many are dining inside. Sometimes it's best to stick with a classic - it's old, but not tired, non-pretentious, and I like it.

The ruckus inside was wonderful. Woks clanging, fires surging, noodles violently slapping bench tops. The chefs smiled - they knew they were the leading players, and their audience well entertained.

The BBQ beef spare ribs were divinely tender and well seasoned, and at 39 dirhams, a steal. The dumplings were good, but not superb. The Szechwan chicken sauce was very flavoursome, but the meat a little tough. Noodles a little too wet, and the fried rice a little bland. But give them time - this was their first night officially open, and I think they did very well. It was only a quiet opening, and I'm sure they will improve with time. Besides, I am the fussiest of all diners.

Dessert was OK, but again not superb. Foodiva and I decided that the only desserts we ever want to see in a restaurant like this are bowls of sweetened lychees, green tea ice-cream, or the old favorite, banana fritters. Again, the classics should not be ignored - they are classic because people have enjoyed them time and time again.

After our meal, Michael Nugent, the hotel GM, sat next to us and we talked about hotel saturation, construction, regional history and earth hour. He's really a very nice bloke, and in fact, we didn't meet a single member of staff who did not come across as friendly, content, and willing to serve.

And that's why I have confidence that Wok In is worth a return visit. The personality of the venue is one that appears flexible, warm, open minded and ambitious. I hope I'm right. Opening a hotel in a city where there are already about 68 000 hotel rooms is not without risks, especially when the political system of the middle east is combustive. So I extend my cookie - good luck to you friends, I will work on my own old-age personally...

   -----------------------------------------

Mövenpick Hotel Deira Corner Abu Baker Al Siddique and Sallahudin Road - Deira, Phone:+971 4 444 0111


My tips for the Movenpick:

I see great potential for the bar, particularly if the DJ I saw remains, and I really hope there is a plan for lunch-time yum-cha!

Poetry in ocean

On the New South Wales coast, a couple of hours south of Sydney, there is a deep blue bay by the name of Jervis. On the southern arm, nestled in a crooked wrist, between the retiree-infected Vincentia, the most chilled out army base in the world, and the breathtaking Jervis Bay National Park, lies Hyams Beach. We call it Hymens beach, because it is so perfectly pure and clean, and just resting on it's fluorescent white sand (officially the whitest in the world) feels like one has broken through into an alternate reality. In our family, Hyams beach has been on a non-toppling pedestal, and though some have come within the vicinity, no beach has really come close enough to make us question this pinnacle.

Until now.

It's a secret. The coast either side is fairly straight, with the occasional large bay, invariably full of rusty hulks and fuel-seeping fishing vessels. It is without doubt a lovely coastline, but just a nice stretch of beach, that is all. Our driver, who has lived in the area all his life, can't find our destination, has to call and check on the address of "the Villa". When he takes a narrow dirt road between two high and mould-blackened walls, we're convinced he is entering private property. He bumps us past chickens and roaming calves and naked toddlers on a half-lane track, until a few minutes later, we start to see signs of tourism - a stall selling sarongs, a tiny bar, then a flash of blue to the left. Then a guest house, a surfboard rental shack, another flash of blue. Then the coconut palms thin, the track widens a few inches, and we are in the arms of Unawatuna beach.

There are several components to the perfect beach - the water, the wave, the sand, the view, the smell, the facilities, the surroundings, and of course, the vibe.

The water is almost identical to Hyams Beach. Azure and sparkling like a cut gemstone, crystal clear. It's warm. Cooler than the air, but not so cool that your toes recoil at that first touch. The wave breaks directly onto the shore, and although the surf is 1-2 foot, even a three-year-old can wade through the crash to the mellow flow behind. We float and bob as if on a waterbed, which I suppose is exactly what we are on. The current is gentle, one meter this way, one meter that. We could stay here all day floating like dried starfish, and we'd end up exactly where we started.

The sand is creamy beige, coarse, but soft. The perfect texture for construction. Leprechauns can lose themselves in fairytales and space wars of sand while adults float in idle meditation just meters away in the shoulder-deep water. The waves bring bounty from the deep and dump them behind curtains of retracting foam. Shells, coral, polished stones become jewelry for the sandy masterpieces. And the adults still float.

Between my semi-submersed toes I can see the shore, and beyond it, candy-colored guest houses that remind me of photographs I have seen of the Caribbean. The sea air has bleached them, but has not tempered their beauty. Dudes with boards wax in anticipation, and occasionally a "tinny" with an ancient off-board motor appears to take them to the reef break. Boats approach us too, glass-bottomed and manned by Sri Lankas luckiest workers. They peddle visions of the deep and snorkeling equipment. $10 for an hour of underwater glory? Sounds like a good deal to me.

The boys leave me to hunt treasure beneath the waves, and I continue to float. The land hugs the bay in a loose arc, and I feel protected. The sun finally pushes me back to land, and I find refuge between the coconut palms and a kaftan hut. Here, in my wonderous solitude, I find hunger. I am positioned at a midpoint between grilled prawns and frying curry leaves. They are tearing me in two directions, and yet I have to wait for my family. I watch the beach break as I would count sheep, and eventually my brain gains control of my stomach. I wait.

It is from a half-sleep that I glimpse Lion racing towards me. Smiles all round, the boat was a great success. They too are caught quickly by the aroma of lunch, and we vamoose in the direction of the curry leaves.

Lunch is typical SW Sri Lankan fare. Mainly vegetables, hundreds of bowls, coconut, curry leaves, garlic, lemon, mustard, cumin, dried fish, all intoxicating in their own right, but so thickly laid with chilli, cold lager is also required. Theblasphemous kids eat pizza and slurp chocolate milk. It is the best food so far at a Sri Lankan restaurant. Even Mary and the driver are impressed.

We sit as long as we can, dodging requests for beach or home with extra orders of ice-cream or turns with the iPad. The staff tickle goldilocks and chase him around the garden while we order more beer and stare through the ornate iron railings and over the blue. Occasionally we sigh happily. Then we realise that the last time we felt like this was at Hyams beach. The sand is not as white, but the water is warmer. The trees are not as tall, but they are just as thickly planted. The architecture is not as modern, as sympathetic to the landscape, but the contrast it provides is welcome. The food is better. The people are more chilled. The vibe is definitely supreme. And finally, we could actually afford to buy here. Now there's a thought....

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Unawatuna is about a 2 1/2 hour drive from Colombo airport, and the first village after Galle. There are two parts to Unawatuna - the village and "Unawatuna Beach", which rests on a small peninsular, and has a particularly secret access! If we were staying again, we would definitely stay here rather than Hikkaduwa, but it is quieter - so it really depends on the kind of holiday you are aiming for. We ate at the Villa, and saw the rooms there too - they are charming, clean and spacious, with lovely bathrooms. The Villa is next-door to Thaproban, which gets a pretty good rap too. All accommodation is in small guest houses, and pools are rare. There are basic shops and facilities in Unawatuna, plenty of (small) restaurants, cafes and bars. It would be easy to plonk here and not move for weeks.

Putontha Puttanesca

When I was living in Melbourne, I used to get acupuncture once a fortnight after work. I would look forward to this day for thirteen days before it - not because I was going to get stuck with needles, sucked with cups and given a revolting tea decoction by Marina, but because Simon Johnson Fine Foods was underneath her parlour of mini-pain. After every session, I would buy a 560g jar of his Puttanesca sauce, and bring it home to make the easiest dinner ever - boil and drain pasta, add jar, chilli and one tin of drained tuna, stir and heat, and serve with stacks of piquant pecorino. And despite being the least difficult of all meals to prepare, it was always the household favourite, even when young Lion came along (minus the chilli).

In Dubai, I have not found the equivalent. Sacla have a lovely arrabbiata, and Jamie Oliver's rosemary sauce is not bad, but there is nothing that even comes close to Simon Johnson's Puttanesca. But it's no big deal, because it is fairly easy to make. Leave the tuna out if you like - traditionally, Puttanesca sauce does not contain it, but if you do, it's best to keep the anchovies in for that touch of salty/fishy goodness.

Ingredients:

• 1 onion, diced
• 3 garlic cloves, crushed
• 1 jar of passata (crushed tomatoes, about 400g)
• 1 tin of tuna, drained (about 220g - optional)
• 1/3 cup chopped pimento olives
• 1tbsp chopped capers
• 2 anchovies, finely chopped (optional)
• 1tbsp tomato paste
• 1tsp sugar
• 1/2 tsp dried thyme
• salt, pepper and chilli powder to taste

• penne, or any pasta - about 300g

Instructions:

1. Put water on to boil, adding pasta when boiling.
2. soften onions and garlic in a pan over medium heat, then add all ingredients except tuna. simmer until pasta is cooked.
3. When pasta is cooked, drain, then add tuna and pasta to the puttanesca base and stir through. Serve with grated pecorino or parmesan

Serves two people with leftovers for lunch, or 4 people as an entree. The sauce freezes very well, so you could easily double quantities and keep some for later. You can use tinned or fresh tomatoes instead of the passata, but fresh tomatoes should be given extra time to simmer down, especially if you do not peel them. The other alternative is to simply add olives, capers, chilli and tuna to a basic tomato pasta sauce - just cook in the pan for 3-4 minutes to help the flavours merge nicely. 

A drink, a drink, a drink, a drink, a drink.....

Excerpt from the Qur'an:

"Shaitân (Satan) wants only to excite enmity and hatred between you with intoxicants (alcoholic drinks) and gambling, and hinder you from the remembrance of Allâh (God) and from As-Salât (the prayer). So, will you not then abstain?"

I live in a region of alcohol avoiders. It's not surprising - it is a Muslim state, after all. In fact, I count myself lucky that I am allowed a drink at all - in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Gaza, and even just 20km away in Sharjah, alcohol is prohibited completely (but it's amazing what some people can do with some peaches, a bucket and some aquarium equipment...) When my husband first suggested the UAE as an expat stint, my first question may well have been: "Will I have to give up the booze?" Because I am not a Muslim, and the God I talk to is not telling me to abandon that tempting elixir. Thankfully, Dubai is kind to the pro-alcohol people of this world, and I am allowed to drink in most hotels, clubs, and my own home.

In Australia, drinking is part of social culture. It is rare to have a picnic, dinner, night out on the town, casual barbeque, or even a baby shower, without a little tipple. Some events require a big tipple. The use of alcohol is so ingrained in us that we have got to the stage where a non-drinker is not to be trusted. They are generally perverts, religious extremists (mainly Christian, because Australia is still very vanilla) or are pure to a scary level that might one day involve them personally taking on the endeavour to wash the world clean of its filth.


Here in the UAE, I find I meet just as many non-drinkers as drinkers, and surprisingly, most of them are pretty much ok. It's got to the stage, however that we tend to have two distinctive groups of friends, and never the twain shall meet.

It's been a giant cultural leap for an Australian. All of a sudden, I have had to find other forms of entertainment at picnics, and different ingredients for my Dutch Courage. I was introduced to this during pregnancy, but quickly discovered that all the drinkers were very boring when I wasn't joining them, and I always wanted to go home. As you could imagine, I resumed my liquid hobby upon cessation of lactation. Amazingly, parties became fun again. Here, it's easier. When people have lived entire lives without alcohol, they find other ways to have fun, and I am grateful they are sharing the secrets. Also, I find that in contrast to being the solely sober while pregnant at parties, here, where everyone is sober, the conversation is far more sensible, and just as often as exhilarating as when it is injected with liquor.

After a while of living here, I had begun to lable all people as non-drinkers until they proved themselves otherwise (except for the Australians of course, and the Brits, who are even worse than us). So when someone I had assumed was a teetotaler asked me to do a structured wine tasting at her home, I jumped for joy. Not only was she a rare and treasured drinker, but she also had a love of fine wine! A comrade of the finest sort! I have not run a wine session for over three years, and it had me singing a happy tune for a week in the lead-up.

Wine tastings with friends are an excellent way to brush up on your wine knowledge, even without a resident expert. Just the action of trying several similar tastes alongside each other trains your palate into looking for more narrow and particular traits, and is a quick step towards becoming a wine geek.

We had a look at Chardonnay and Pinot noir, the two great grapes of Burgundy. Prohibitavely expensive to buy for private consumption, this is the perfect way to try - one bottle shared between several. Now Burgundy is savory and somewhat stinky stuff to the uninitiated, and so I wanted to throw in a couple of fragrant cheapies and some new world wines for comparison.

But the I was faced with a problem. Selecting wine in Dubai is simply despairing.

Firstly, it's at least twice as expensive to buy. Dubai's wholesalers bring in wines from all over the world. Some, they double the price of. Some they triple. Some they simply invent an astronomical price for. Then they add 30% tax at the checkout. Alcohol is so expensive here that they won't allow everyone a license to buy it (that's right - in other countries you need a licence to sell alcohol - here, you need a license to purchase from a wine store). You have to earn over a certain amount (4000aed a month from memory) before you can get one, you must not be Muslim, and you must also have a letter of acceptance from your employer.

This has several results:

1. Some people drink less, or not at all.
2. Some people spend too much on alcohol
3. Some people become involved in illegal bootlegging (which has a reputation of gang leaders constantly murdering each other in the most brutal ways you can imagine)
4. Some people do the "booze run" to the worst-kept-secret tax-free liquor stores in Umm al Quwain or RAK such as Barracuda, or Al Hamra, which involves a passage back through the dry state of Sharjah, where of course it is forbidden to posses alcohol. This has resulted in all kinds of road shenanigans, where it is said a local will hit your car on purpose, then blackmail you into handing over insane wads of cash before they call the police (as one must for all road accidents in the UAE). This does have the dubious characteristic of all urban legends though - "I know someone who knew someone who....."

I fall into category two. I have been told that Barracuda has an incredible range of wine - much better than we find here in Dubai, but to my chagrin, my lawyer husband refuses to allow me to go - the return is, after all illegal, as there is no way to avoid Sharjah unless you travel by air.

Secondly, the selection is despairingly narrow and mainstream. Back in Melbourne I could have a different wine every night and still never run out of fantastic options. Here, we constantly drink the same stuff - it's doing hideous damage to my palate memory. After much deliberation and several wine shops, my wine friend and I finally came up with the following list.

Chardonnay:
Finca Flichman, Reserva Chardonnay, Mendoza Argentina 2008
Maison Louis Latour, Macon-Villages Chameroy, France 2009
Bouchard Pere et Fils, Meursault, Cote D’or France 2007

Pinot Noir:
De Bortoli, Windy Peak Pinot Noir, Victoria, Australia 2008
Jean Claude Boisset, Les Ursulines, Burgundy France 2009
Joseph Drouhin, Chassagne-Montrachet, Burgundy, France 200

And then to confuse them, a Gamay from the Beaujolais region:
Joseph Drouhin, Moulin A Vent Burgundy, France 2007

We had an enlightening night - all 9 of us were so wrapped up in the wine talk, that we missed our dinner reservation by over an hour. All the wines were very good, with the shining stars being the Macon-Villages, and the De Bortoli Pinot.  By the time we got to my tricky one, they were all so entrenched and doing such a good job, they picked the differences without knowing exactly what they were putting their finger on. The wine was really such a great example of what a serious Beaujolais can be, that they were all suitably impressed with the unveiling.

What fun. Can't wait for the next one...

Sheilas in shelas and impressions on oppression

Australian Sheila in dress-ups

In Australia, "Sheila" is a term for a woman. It's fairly archaic now - generally only used by rusty old bogans from the outback, and rarely comes without the obligatory sexist smack on the bottom and a demand for a "frosty one from the icebox" (beer from the fridge). In the Middle East, a sheila is a head covering, pronounced with an "ay" vowel sound rather than "ee", and also spelled shaila, shela and shayla. You will see plenty of "Sheelas" in Australia, but "shaylas" are few and far between.

In countries like Australia, France and the USA, any dress that covers more than what they deem “normal” is seen by some as a form of cruelty or domination. The first thing most Australians would think upon seeing a woman in traditional Arabic dress is "she's from a different world", followed by "that poor thing, her husband/father makes her dress like that" and "she must have a terrible life." And it's little surprise. Australia's Muslim minority only takes up about 1.5% of the total population, and many have assimilated to the point where conservative dress has been abandoned. The only time we see any traditional arabic dress is on TV, when we see Iraqi women wailing with grief over their son's bloodied bodies, or rows of Taliban-governed Afghan women in blue burqas with only a gauze for vision. Of course we associate it with misery and oppression.

Afghan burqa

Just before I moved to Dubai, I had even been asked by some Australians if I would be forced to wear a burqa once I got here (these were not the brightest sparks in my peer group). In France, they banned the burqa (I'm still deciding how I feel about this).

When I first arrived in Dubai, I had never been to any part of the middle east. I remember the first trip to the Mall of the Emirates with my son Lion (then four years old), and he actually screamed when he saw a woman coming towards him in an abaya and a niqab - he thought she was a ghost. Only last night, I heard a full-grown man describe a beautiful, fragile woman in an abaya and hijab as "Darth Vader". And I, after three years of living surrounded by traditional dress, have only just started to look women in the eye if they wear a niqab - I suppose I had subconsciously assumed that because she covered so much, she did not want to be looked at. It does take getting used to. The abaya I love, but the fact that a woman will willingly cover her entire face is still alien to me - I would feel like I couldn't breathe or talk properly. The cloth on it's own would be a burdon, whether I was forced to wear it or not.

Lion (now 7) has finally become accostomed to the appearance, and Goldilocks (4) has always been accustomed - in fact, when I got Lion to take the photo of me above, Goldilocks was dancing around alongside declaring "Mummy Bootiful!"

So, for all my western readers, after hearing a little about it at the culural breakfast, I had an informal chat with an Emirati, a Saudi, and a crossed-culture muslim about this ever-so-oppressive dress. (I'm going to call them Cheryl, Barbara and Nolene respectively, because then you'll know they are not their real names)

Abaya with hijab (or shela)

Surprise, surprise, it turns out they have a choice.

Cheryl wears an abaya (black, ground-length cloak, slightly tapered but not tight, closed at the front), and a hijab, or sheila (headscarf). When I visited her at home, she wore none of those things, and although she is very beautiful, I must say, the grace and stature she possesses when in traditional dress is lost. Cheryl wears the abaya because it is absolutely normal for her to do so, and only a small percentage of Emirati women don’t wear it at least most of the time. She says it is much like Indian women wear a saree or shalwr kameezes, and if she didn't wear it, she would position herself as a minority within her peer group. It is traditional dress as distinct from required by religion (it was around well before Islam, and worn by Jews and Christians before Muslims), and she never wears it while abroad (although some do).

Cheryl argues that contrary to feeling oppressed by it, that this form of attire opens doors for her. The treatment she receives at banks, airports and government offices is alone worth dressing up for. Cheryl has a choice of the style - for example, she chooses not to wear a niqab, and her abaya and hijab are adorned. There are many different shapes and styles to the abaya and the head covering, and it is easy to express one's individuality despite the fact they are all in head-to-toe black (One day soon we are going to go out spotting the abaya-wearing "tarts" and "geeks" and “bohos” over coffee). One day I saw her dressed for a wedding, and although out, she was not wearing the hijab, and had fuchsia detail on the collar and creeping down the front. Her height and the liquid nature of that adorned and billowy cloak made her set for the catwalk – I wasn’t the only one admiring her. Cheryl believes the burqa is considered quite old fashioned, and the niqab stereotypes the wearer as conservative, even by her.

UAE Traditional burqa

Her other reason for wearing traditional dress is that she feels elegant, and it's true - she, and other Emirati women who dress like her, look like they are going to a ball. It's probably the same reason that the traditional dress looks so funny when worn by women while exercising - to me it appears like they're jogging in haute couture.

Barbara wears western dress. And although I have never seen her in a tank top and short shorts, I would not even call it particularly conservative. In Jeddah, she wears an abaya and hijab, partially because she must, but again, because she does not want to stand out. In Saudi Arabia, quite distinct from the UAE, where adaptation of traditional dress by westerners is discouraged, all women are required to cover everything except for their faces and hands. Probably because she grew up with it, she does not feel oppressed by it, but she never, ever wears traditional dress out of Saudi Arabia. She recalled stories of her youth of bathing in shorts and t-shirts on the sun-drenched Jeddah foreshore, but she's not so sure if that would be tolerated now – the religious police are finding more power every day. She used to enjoy the freedom of wearing an abaya, and because it covered everything underneath, she could do the shopping in her pyjamas.

Niqab

Noelene dresses in conservative western dress and wears only a sheila. It is almost part of her skin, and I have only once seen her without it. She wears it because her faith dictates it, and she is very happy with her chosen faith. In fact, she is the only one that mentioned Islam when explaining why she wears the sheila. And after all, the Quran only suggests modest dress and the covering of the bosom, not a full-body sheath. She sees no problem with her chosen form of modesty, enjoys it, and treats it like an accessory, different colours, textures, ornamentation.

All women said that contrary to belief that their fathers or husbands made them go "behind the veil" so to speak, they make their own decisions on this. So these women are far from oppressed, but this is not an area ruled by religious police or the Taliban. And so I would suggest that the women subjected to the rules in countries such as these are not oppressed by their religion, but by men, probably the same kind of men that are happy to dominate people in any other way they can find, not with just attire, but freedom in all its forms. I have never been to a country under this kind of rule, and despite a fairly open mind, I doubt I ever will.

Also, I would argue that although the women say they don't feel forced to wear this form of dress (except for Barbara when she is in Saudi Arabia), their community or peers make quite strong demands upon them. If any were to buck against this trend, would they (particularly Cheryl) label themselves as revolutionary, or in the least, a controversial drama queen?

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for those who would like a rundown on the names an types of traditional Arabic dress, go here.

The un-french cafe and the preposterously good eclair

This is what I picture when I imagine a Paris cafe.

I've never really liked the term "soft opening" when referring to the commencement of a business. It's a term restaurants and hotels like to use to describe that they have in fact opened, but have not had a big party to celebrate it yet. It is followed eventually by an "official opening", which should, by comparison, be called a "hard opening". But the fact is, the "soft opening" is the "hard opening", because that's the time when nothing works, all the staff make mistakes, the recipes turn out to be unloved by the clientelle, and if they're not busy upsetting customers, then the staff sit idle waiting for them, just hoping for a little more practice.

This is Dubai's version of a Paris Cafe

Last night I went to a new cafe that I have been walking past for at least two months. No soft opening, no official opening, but open, nonetheless.

Fauchon is a Parisian Cafe. The Fauchon in Paris is a gourmet grocery store with a bakery and delicatessen attached on Place de Madelaine in the 8th arrondissment, equidistant from the Champs Elysees, Opera and Printemps (yes, fancy pants area).

As with the term above, nothing is what it seems. Firstly, it's not a cafe, and secondly, it's not what I would describe as "very french". But maybe that's just me. When I call up memories of France, I don't think of Louis Vuitton, Chanel and YSL. Sure, they are French, but to me, France is all about croissants flaking into my cafe au lait, tiny tomatoes and radishes at stunning markets, toy boats in the pond at the Luxembourg gardens, skinny women with pretty dogs and bouffant hair, obscurely labeled Champagne in the afternoon on a picnic rug, degustation at wineries with flirty winemakers, and romantic art and architecture everywhere you look. When I recall Paris, I don't think of Philipino waitresses in a mall, in a shiny geometric black, white and pink pleasure cube that to me looks like it should be a nightclub.

Saying that, Fauchon Dubai is similar to the Paris model (the YSL of Parisian cafes), and well worth a visit. Do you remember my last post, when I was talking about the next big fashion in food? I thought maybe it could be turkish delight. But I was wrong - it's going to be eclairs. And Fauchon have the most preposterously good caramel eclair I have ever sunk my teeth into. This alone is worth a daily trip. It is so good, I would even walk there daily in summer to have one. They served it last night in mini-form. It is a choux pastry finger, piped full of caramel cream, and topped with chocolate, flecks of crunchy caramel toffee, and gold leaf. I'm going absolutely mad just sitting here describing it, so I might just have to take a moment.....

The chef had erected a piece montee in the back corner of all these mini-eclairs. Possibly he has the same notion that I do - that the eclair has fashion promise, and prepared the correct way, it may even take off wedding-cake style as macaroons have. but I realised something while looking at this odd construction that appeared to be made of baby eggplants, carrots and zucchini. They need to be round. Not only that, they need to be obsene colours - hues far less vegetative. Chef, if you are reading, please let me know if you ever decide to make a piece montee of strawberry, vanilla and caramel round eclairs - now that would be a photo. But I would probably demolish it double-time.

The odd presentation continued. Scallops came macerated in inverted syringes. House-cured salmon came lolly-pop style on sticks of grissini, and I picked up one of these lovely-looking chocolate lollipops, and had already popped the entire lot in my mouth as my companion's answer to "what is it?" came out of the waitress's mouth: "liver goose". Little shock, I must say. Luckily I like "liver goose", but prefer it infinitely when it is called paté. If she had said it in a French accent I would have liked it even more.

Like the Paris version, there is a shop attached in Dubai (Mall of the Emirates), and you can find all kinds of treats that are as pretty as a picture and priced accordingly - the kind of thing some tend to look at more than eat. There is an excellent selection of tea that is purchased by the scoop, a rarity for Dubai. The patisserie is sublime. Here, they emulate the french perfectly - each piece of pastry is une œuvre d' art - exact, too good to be true, and a shame to destroy by the act of consumption. The chocolate is likewise exceptional, and tastes as good as it looks. And of course the packaging is worth the price alone - the macaroon tins are destined to house jewelry, tea or buttons in their subsequent lives, and possibly turn up in the year 2150 on ebay for a small fortune.   


The verdict? Go. Don't expect it to be a french - you are in Dubai, after all - the antithesis of Paris. And don't expect it to be a cafe, because it is more than that. But you can expect it to be worth the trip, especially if you find a caramel eclair to put in your "soft opening" (I mean your mouth...)

Pretty Sweet Things

There's just something wonderful about a gorgeous thin woman stuffing her face with something extravagant. It's damn sexy. Even for me - despite the lack of lesbian tendancies. But rest assured, I'm lusting after the cupcake, not the woman. 

I find it quite amusing watching food go in and out of fashion, and at the moment, baking is king, with a strong leaning towards flamboyantly decorated cupcakes and multi-colored macaroons. I have come across a few youngsters in our UAE food blogging group - and they're not interested in the slightest in boring things like dinner. They concentrate almost entirely on desserts. 

 

If that's not enough, just ask Bebhinn, our favourite UAE fashion blogger at hellwafashion.com - she's talking about it too. Unlike Bebhinn, I don't pretend for a moment to have any idea what is going on with clothing (my style disappeared with the ability to buy size 8 when I was 25 years old), but food is something I manage to keep my finger - or tongue - on the pulse of. So what's the big thing about sugar?

I put it all down to our natural human trait that is at it's peak between adolescence and our late twenties - the need to rebel. Generation Y, who are just now handing fashion mantles to generation Z, have been raised in an era of nutrient knowledge. Their parents outlawed the white bread jam sandwich that was the staple snack of Gen X, and instead were raised on celery and peanut butter, wholemeal salad sandwiches and granola bars for the sweet carbohydrate hit. Gen Z got all that, plus organic, minus the nuts. And then the world got type 2 diabetes - only the Gen Xs and older of course. So instead of sex, drugs and rock and roll, how do the Generation Y/Zs rebel? With sugar.

And that is why we see tiny fashionistas on screen "oohing" and "ahhing" over Magnolia cupcakes in Sex and The City, and why we see Gossip Girls and fashion bloggers like hellwafashion lauding The macaroon (or macaron for the slightly more francais). It's not because they are the best tasting things in the world (for we all know that title is reserved for cannoli, mangoes and Parmesan-encrusted lamb cutlets), but because they directly rebel against all messages of cholesterol, diabetes and empty calories, and a particularly tiny woman can pick them up in her pretty manicured hands and look like Alice in Wonderland with a naughty fetish.

The funny thing is that women like this don't really eat food like that - not more than once a year. Unless... they portion off a twentieth of it and accidentally drop the rest on the ground, they have a rare metabolic disorder (which usually co-insides with psychotic bitchiness - fact - Google "hyperthyroidism"), or if they barf the lot up the second nobody's looking. But please let us continue to allow them to pose for the camera shot, because a woman like Oprah Whinfrey might make me cry for orphans, but she's not going to sell me a macaroon.

So, what's next for food fashion? Well, I think there are certain characteristics that need to be fulfilled, and they are:

• it has to be just that little bit too hard to make perfectly, so that thin girls can buy them, and fat girls can show off because they can make them as beautifully in the shops.
• It has to have a romantic or fairytale past (e.g. cupcakes and 4-year old birthday parties for little girls, or elegant french ladies with fluffy hand-bag dogs nibbling on macaroons in Parisian cafes)
• They have to come in pretty girly colours, preferably pastels
• They must be able to be packaged adorably for gift-giving
• They have to have no nutritional value and be sweet, sweet, sweet.

And the last two characteristics are desirable but not necessary: they should be bite sized, and exotic.

 

So, have you realised where I'm heading? Think about The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. What did Edmund ask for when the Ice Queen offered him anything in the world that he could wish for? It came in a beautiful little box, and he couldn't stop eating it. The promise of more was alone enough to entice him into delivering his siblings into her evil clutches....

Turkish Delight. It's flavoured with flowers, or not, if the rose is too unusual for you. I've found it in orange blossom, mint, lemon, apricot, vanilla and even violet, with or without nuts. And I'd pretty much die for the stuff. The best examples I have found are at Vivel Patisserie, who are all over Dubai, and if you don't mind big chunks and less variety (strictly rose or vanilla), then believe it or not, Hyperpanda at Festival City is about as good as it gets, and a quarter the price of Vivel.

 

For those who are not food-fashion-forward, you can stick with the cupcake - either go western with the New York Magnolia Bakery at Bloomingdales, or Sugar Daddy's if you like to keep it regional. Both are pretty spectacular, but seriously, it's just a lump of cake with a stack of creamy frosting on top. Macaroons are a little trickier to get perfect, and Ladurée have the reputation for being the best, but are closely rivaled by Fauchon, and Vivel also make some decent ones (but just not quite up there with the others). You'll find all of the above in the Dubai Mall (and other places for some), except Sugar Daddy's, who are at the Jumeirah Village Mall on Beach Rd.