Sodding Summer

Upon awakening this morning, I could not see out my windows. Lion asked me if it had been raining - the condensation was thick and punctuated with large rivulets that revealed the jungle our garden has become. But if I look out the windows on the second storey, I can see nothing but beige. The light is dull, the sun shrouded in mother earth's pollution - dust and humidity.

The streets are silent, but for a man in orange sweeping the curb and a gardener in grubby shalwar qameez dragging a rusty lawn mower behind his bike. The joggers and dog walkers are nowhere to be seen. Even bus children wait in the air conditioned zone on their front doorsteps until the last moment when the school bus toots. Outside has become the wild frontier - only the strong, mad or unfortunate will brave it.


My day revolves around thirty second walks between my car and cooled venues. I leave early and ensure I arrive in time to secure a good carpark at my destination. Others flout the rules and double park wherever they please, knowing the parking ticket is worth it to avoid the long walk in the heat. Not that there are many parking inspectors on the job anyway.


On the radio, the news reader reminds us to check our tyres for tread and inflation. Bitumen can get to 70ºC on days like this, hot enough to cause a second degree burn in 1 second, and of course cause tyre blowouts. I am also careful not to leave my purse in the car when I lock it - not because of theft, which is a rare occurance here, but because my credit cards could melt.

Today I brave Karama. The folks back home want a collection of good cheap knock-offs. Even the polo shirts hanging outside on racks are hot to the touch. Inside they have the AC set to max. A haze of humidity gathers at the door where the temperatures clash, and no matter which way you are walking, you end up damp on the other side. My handbag man gives me a cuddle upon sealing the deal, and he recoils in soggy horror after accidentally touching my sweaty shirt-back.

At pick-up, all the parents run from car to school foyer, where we wait illegally till the last moment. We have been instructed not to clutter the public areas, but the thought of waiting outside is sickening. Small talk with other mothers has all but ceased. Our sedentary indoor lifestyle provides little in the way of news and anecdotes. Besides, the heat makes us tired.

Everyone is tired. We get no sunshine and are all vitamin D deficient. We are lethargic, moody, and our viruses keep circulating in the perpetual air-conditioning, so we are all sick.

There are those who work outside, and they are sicker, with heatstroke, never-ending headaches, urinary tract infections, high blood pressure, and other effects of extreme heat and dehydration. Heat-related deaths are not unheard of. Outdoor labour is banned between the hours of 12:30 and 3:30, but this is often ignored. I see them in their blue overalls, wet from the shoulders to the waist, faces stained with dust and salt. They wrap scarves on their heads in meager protection - I wonder if it actually makes them hotter. At the traffic lights, from my air conditioned car, I see them peering through my windows, and I wonder how they can keep the malice from their tired stares. After all, I may not be their boss, but my life in Dubai supports this employment and everything that comes with it. Sometimes they even smile, and it makes me want to cry.

At home, I put on a new DVD for the kids, and we break the Lego construction from yesterday so we can start again. We play foozball, UNO, build cubby houses with chairs and blankets. I bake, and blog, and then blog about baking, and eventually, in our boredom we slump on the couch and eat cupcakes.

On the weekend we go to malls. We shop, walk, ski, skate, abseil, play pinball, take rollercoaster rides, and terrify tots in playcentres, all in malls. We eat in the malls. We buy things we don't need. We stop for coffee we don't want. It's all expensive, and every moment we look forward to the day we can get back in our pool. For it remains in the central yard of our compound, a tempting yet deceitful cool blue colour, but hotter than a bath.

This week we have visitors - friends of my parents. We were supposed to go out Tuesday, but Margot was struck down by the suffocating air and spent the first 36 hours doubling and tripling her asthma medication so she could breathe. We finally make it out on late on Thursday evening, relatively cool at 36 degrees, and are actually able to have a drink outside at Madinat Jumeirah when a freak sea breeze wafts in.

I wonder why people visit Dubai at this time. And I wonder why the UAE tourism board promotes visits. Everyone who comes at this time of year hates it. All they see is the malls and the haze. They boil, and then seethe at the money they have wasted on such a ridiculous stopover. There are some that don't seem bothered - the crazies of course, loons I can see sitting outside on the "Big Bus Tour', or the die-hard shoppers, just here for the festival. And then the naive, who let the tour companies take them out for a simmering desert experience. Even a stroll around the gold souq is enough to topple the unseasoned. They miss out on so much - the beaches and crystal clear water (which is now about 40ºC), the souks and Bastakiya, strolling around the waterway under the Burj Khalifa, the JBR Walk, the Marina, dhow trips, desert camping and the mountains and wadis, and just ambling around the back streets of Deira around the Naif souq. They go home and tell their friends what a hole Dubai is, poisoning it's reputation.

If only they came in March....But it is a stopover, isn't it. They're all on their way to Europe for the summer, joining up with cruise ships, escaping the monsoons to the east.

The lucky leave this season behind, migrating north to milder climates, or south to a winter we never see here. Those who remain may tell you that summer is not so bad. The seasoned laugh at us newcomers. We are weak and intolerant. And it's true, Dubai's Summer does put one more in touch with the soul of this amazing place. We do live in a desert after all. And for some reason, while swinging in my hammock outside in the evening, sweating out the toxins of my man-made, interior-spent day, in Dubai's free daily sauna, I do feel that the Muezzins always sound better at this time of year. I really DO live in the Middle East.

Apple Tea Cakes

Sometimes I like to tell myself that the junk I eat is good for me. This recipe, for example. It is good for me, because I halved the suggested amount of sugar (although I added a little maple syrup for flavour), I included apple (hence helping on the old 5 and 2 a day that often falls by the wayside), and I iced it sparingly. 

So it is true, that these are healthy, but only when you compare them to other cakes and desserts. Well some of them at least. Fortunately, they are also very, very easy to make. Just don't eat them for dinner, because then they should be classified as decidedly unhealthy.

Ingredients 

• 125g butter, softened
• 125g (1/2 cup) caster sugar
• 2 tblsp maple syrup
• 2 eggs
• 200ml buttermilk (or plain milk with a dash of lemon juice)
• 250g (2 cups) plain flour
• 3 tsp baking powder
• pinch salt (can leave out if you use salted butter)
• 1 apple, grated coarsely

• ground cinnamon mixed with caster sugar or fine brown sugar for dusting

Instructions

1. Preheat oven to 180ºC (350ºF), then cream butter, sugar and maple syrup with a beater.
2. add eggs one by one, and then the sifted dry ingredients and buttermilk alternately
3. Finally stir in grated apple, then spoon 3/4 full into cupcake moulds and cook for 20 minutes or until golden.

These cakes taste beautiful just with a light dusting of cinnamon sugar, but I also made a thin icing mix out of icing sugar and boiling water and drizzled it over the top, then dusted quickly with the cinnamon so it adhered nicely. This is quite heavily adapted from Bill Granger's Buttermilk Cake in his 'Bill's Food' book of 2002.

Going home

Home

As an expat, one only seems to return home for an event or a catch up. If it's for an event, you catch up with as many people as you can while you're there, and if you come back purely for a catch up, you try and schedule it to coincide with an event, or instead organize and event to make the whole catching up exercise more efficient. Either way, it's going to be hectic.



I remember a friend once telling me that since she moved to Sydney, she had associated a visit to Melbourne with no sleep and people fighting over her attention. She said it was a sapper of vacations, and she had not had some lazy time in the sun since she moved. I had initially thought her a little egotistical, and this resulted in a sour grapes behaviour involving thoughts like "Well if you're so important, I don't want to be the one monopolising your time - go spend it with someone who cares". Now I realize she was right. It doesn't matter how many or how few friends and family one has as an expat, there is guaranteed to be someone who believes they have been shortchanged of your attendance. And "me time"? Forget it. That's just selfish. Not much of a "holiday" is it?

So my recent trip to Melbourne, although for a horrible reason, allowed me a Melbourne experience I haven't had in years. I had a couple of afternoons as a tourist. You see, nobody except the immediate family knew I was there, at least until later. Not only that, I was traveling without children, so found myself in a position of irresponsibility that entirely suited my mood.

I potatoed myself on the couch of my dilapidated 100 year old house, with new episodes of Masterchef and drank way too much red wine. I enjoyed Melbourne winter in the best possible way - an open fire, stodgy comfort food, and a snuggling chocolate Labrador for extra warmth. I relished the shock of a cold cheek as my sister in law came home and kissed me in greeting. I shut the door and the world out, and laughed with her over bowl-shaped glasses of magenta magic and pretended nothing was wrong.

I drove down to Acland St, usually a walk, but the rain provided a lazy excuse. I entered my old haunt - Cicciolina, the duchess of St Kilda bistros. I sat myself at a table close enough to graze elbows with some hefty builders, who played with their iPhones and swilled Pyranees Shiraz as an accompaniment to their Angus T-bones with truffled mash - a far cry from what the Dubai labourer and his lunch. I gorged on perfect pasta with ham hock ragu and drank boutique Pinot Noir from Central Otago. It warmed me like a blanket on the inside, and made me realize I do actually miss Melbourne itself, not just the people I know who inhabit it.

I ambled past the famous cake shops of the strip, every store touting the "state's best vanilla slice", "Melbourne's favourite meringues" and "Rygor delight" which is a brick of chocolate and cholesterol that I believe has been named so because it causes death and therefore rigor mortis. No need to buy - just looking at them filled me satisfyingly. Instead, I turned the corner into the cheap end of Acland St and had soy chai at the Galleon. Another institution of St Kilda - perfect in its rustic simplicity, and it's unfailing offering of superb tea and coffee. The chai was so good, I wondered how on earth it could be made by a non-Indian. Melbourne might not be as multicultural as Dubai, but the food and drink is.

The next day after my morning ritual with Mum, I headed to the South Melbourne market. Dubai, with all it's 'world's best', cannot provide me with a complete market such as this. Butchers, bakers, fishmongers, delicatessans, florists, second hand traders, variety stores, market gardeners, and greengrocers sold their wares loudly and brashly or silently and prettily.

Pork - not hidden behind the curtain...

I purchased local organic chicken, freshly caught ocean trout and home-smoked organic kassler. Flowers for my sister in law - Christmas lillies in June, because here it's the start of winter. Fruit and veggies - sparse in variety compared to Dubai - but all fresh, in season, and comparatively local. I visited the 'Jeans Man' for a pair of Lee Rider Bootcuts - the best jeans in the world (for me), and the only man that bargains in the market. He dropped the price when I surrendered to winter and bought some moleskins that seem to make me look like a size 10. Or so he says.

And then I went home, to my old house (which my brother now lives in), to cook. The kitchen is a 1970s colonial-inspired tragedy with coffee coloured tiles complete with baskets of onions printed on one in every ten. The laminate is peeling and stained. The blind doesn't go up all the way, and the single light globe only emits an energy-saving 8 watts behind its paper Ikea shade. It's not quite the maid-cleaned marble-benched  and stainless-steel applianced spacious kitchen of Dubai. But the veggies were squeaky fresh and totally inspiring. I made trout and asparagus risotto, ratatouille, gnocchi all'amatriciana and a mild coconut chicken curry, and boxed it all up in freezer containers to take to my dad in the afternoon. It felt so good to do something little to help after all my parents have done for me, and in my favourite vein of assistance - cooking.

Friends who bring me peace

That evening, I finally confessed to some very close friends that I was in town, and dropping everything, they rushed over. I wondered why I had refrained from telling them I was here earlier. I saw their beautiful children, who have grown a foot in 12 months, they were polite and welcoming, just like their parents. Then they whisked me off to the Carlisle Wine Bar, thrust me back into the Melbourne so familiar to me and make me forget all my troubles. And for some reason, they didn't care that I selfishly enjoyed time on my own. Ahh. I'm glad I've got some more time to see them in July. 

Just in case you're wondering where I've been...

I've loved being an expat. Apart from Dubai's double-sided sticky red tape, the ridiculous season they tamely term "summer" and those few crazy drivers that are always trying to kill me, I've been very happy here. To be honest, I haven't missed Melbourne much - all the things I have missed have been made up for in other ways. But you can't replace your family and your very best friends. And when their health fails, you do to. I'm back briefly in Dubai, after getting a first hand look at the worst part about being far, far from home.

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

"hey Dan! How are you?"
"ahhh. Hi Sep. Ahhh... Not too good actually, Ma's in hospital."
"....        "
"you there?"
"what?"
"Ma's in hospital"
"what?"
"she can't open her eye. They think she's got swelling in her brain. She's in Frankston hospital, but they don't seem to be able to help her."
"what?"
"Sarah... Dad doesn't know what to do. We think she needs a specialist. He said maybe you could call Tony for us?"
"what?"
"Sarah?"
"what?"
"can I speak to Hambone?"




Hope
Maybe it's not as bad as it sounds. Hambone's dad was hospitalized for a subcranial bleed a couple of years ago. The cavity between the brain and the skull filled with blood, caused swelling and then it had to be drained. He was ok after a couple of days. I google like a crazy woman, and find at least three diagnoses that fit her symptoms and go some way towards easing my state of mind. It could be a subcranial bleed, or a random swelling pressing on the pituitary gland which would refer swelling to the right optic nerve. That could be with or without tumor. Of course it would be without.


Impotence
I'm stuck. I'm her daughter, her eldest. We're very close - we email every couple of days, skype frequently. Each year either I go home or she comes over. Mum and dad were due in Dubai on July 21. We were going to have 5 1/2 glorious weeks in Europe. My brother, although he lives in Melbourne, does that non-committed drifty thing that all sons seem to do. He's there, but more on a NEED basis rather than a want one. I regard myself as the important one. But with my move to Dubai I lost that vital 'R' and became impotent. I can do nothing. I can't tell her I love her, or that everything is going to be ok. I can't make sure dad's coping. I can't help in any way whatsoever. I can't even seem to hold myself together enough to talk on the phone. Hambone plays phone tag with My brother and his own (Tony, our savior in all serious health issues, who is a highly respected and well connected Melbourne surgeon and all round incredibly nice and helpful bloke), sorting out hospital beds, which seem to be very difficult to find despite my parents' private health insurance and the urgency of the situation. Dan rises up and does all the important things, and the only thing I can do is book a plane ticket.

Denial
"Don't get on a plane straight away. We don't know how bad it is." They keep on telling me.
My mother had a knee replacement 6 weeks ago. Besides that, she's always been the tough one. Her own mother is 92, and they share similar constitutions. I had noticed mum had been a little off-form the last few weeks. I'd even questioned Dad about it, but it all got hidden because of the operation she had just been through. Mum has never reacted well to anesthetic, and her headaches, nervousness around a computer, sudden impatience and baffling frailty in stressful situations had been put down to post operative trauma.

She even told herself that this was normal. When she had fallen out of bed and couldn't get up, she had refused to let Dad call the ambulance. She was fine. She was always fine. Dad, who takes a cocktail of candy-colored pills each day for cholesterol, blood pressure, arthritis, blood thinning, pain and all kinds of other things was the one who got sick. Mum was always the strong one. So now, when she is lying in Frankston hospital unable to talk, with a morphine drip for the blinding headache and an oxygen mask to keep her breathing, dad tells himself it's going to be something simple. Mum's going to be fine. She's always fine.


Shock
Dan calls again at 5am.
"she's still in Frankston. They haven't moved her. They're not doing anything here, but I cant get Epworth hospital to come get her. Tony says to call his secretary but I can't get onto her. Sarah.... They've got the scans back.... It's a tumor."
"I'm coming."
"We don't know if it's cancer. Dad says don't race off thinking crazy stuff."
"Dan, she's got something growing in her brain. I'm coming home."
"Why don't you wait till she sees a neurosurgeon?"
"Dan, if you were 14 hours away by plane and you got this news, you would come, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah."
"Ok. Speak to hambone. I'll see you soon"

I put the phone down. I go to the computer. I buy my ticket for the ten am flight, come back to the bedroom and stand in the middle of the floor, shaking and wringing my hands. I know I have to pack a bag, but I can't make my feet move. Then I can move them, but only to pace the rug, turn around and pace it again, and say "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck"

Hambone makes me tea.

I finally pack my bag. Once I arrived in Melbourne in the midst of winter I would find 15 pairs of underpants, one bra, no socks, three pairs of high heeled boots, one jumper, jeans, and 6 summer shirts and 6 pairs of dangly earrings to match them. No toothbrush, toothpaste or comb.


Guilt
It's my fault. If I had been there I would have known earlier. I left Melbourne thinking this was the best time for my family to be expats, forgetting the older generation of my family. I'm selfish. Then I chastised myself for being so self centered. I'm not so all important as I like to think sometimes. Dan could obviously handle things in my absence. I rethought - maybe I wouldn't have noticed. My ego gets a guilt trip. Then I feel guilty for leaving my children behind. It will be difficult for my husband. They should see their grandmother. But I don't want them there, and then I feel guilty for not wanting the work of dealing with my own offspring while monitoring my own misery. Then I am guilty of being miserable, when I am not the one with the tumor. It's a wash cycle of acid and doubt and it makes me want to vomit.


Worry
I approach the airport a different Sarah than usual. I've never flown for a reason other than holiday or work. I don't want to be here. I hate flying, it scares me. The only thing that usually makes me get on a plane is the thought of the wonderful experience waiting at my destination. Airports are horrible. They're full of fluorescent lights, queues, women feeling you up and making you take your boots off, grumpy looking men with guns and walkie talkies. Shiny floors that mirror my grimace, bouncing my unhappiness back at me in cold grey marble. Nobody else is looking at the floor. They're smiling at each other, laughing, practicing French, talking about what they're first going to do when the arrive. I want to curl up in a corner with a huge motorcycle helmet on and block all the buggers out. How dare they be so jovial?

It gets worse when I'm on the plane. They put me between a chattery melbourne woman on her way back from a holiday in Dubai, and a surly Italian who sleeps with the blanket over her head and freaks me out. One I want to punch because she is so happy, and the other I want to run away from because she is dark and scary.

I put on my headphones and tune into the trashiest movies I can find. Then I spend 14 hours saying "oh God please help her, oh God please help her". And nobody brings me enough wine.



Fear

And then, as though from a dream, I step off a plane and find myself in Melbourne. Home. But I'm here for all the wrong reasons, and I just want to curse at everybody. I want to cry, there is water sitting behind my eyes, but my body seems to have released some hormone, and I'm oddly numb. All I can do is plod, plod, plod to the slow tock, tock, tock of that damnable clock, and do the things that by rote I know need to be done. It's so unreal - a TV soap-drama issue, not an everyday normal family problem. And it can stay unreal until I see her, so I almost want to put it off. It's wrong to have been so far from family for so long, then fly back just to hold yourself off the reunion. But now the guilt, worry, denial, impotence, all flood through simultaneously in anticipation of the shock that is coming. This is not a good day.

---------

You will be happy to know mum is ok. She could be better, and she has had pretty horrible week or so. Most of the tumor is gone, and she is set on a more optimistic path than the one laying before her this time last week, but she still feels pretty awful, and like me, is scared stiff about what the future holds. Please send any brain tumor recovery stories, they would be much appreciated.

And I'm sorry about the mood. I thought maybe writing it down would help. It didn't.

Biryani v Biryani

What is it? I know it's more than just curry and rice. And it's not pilau - that's lighter, I think. And is it the same as Pilaf? Or isn't it? I wikipedia-ed it, and it says it is spiced meat or vegetables and plain rice cooked separately, then brought together and layered. This differentiates it from pilau, which is more of a one-pot-wonder.

But then again, there are hundreds of styles of biryani, many of which seem to break the rules outlined above. It originated in Persia, and then spread along the spice route, and it appears that every nation from Iraq to Malaysia has it's version. Come to think of it, there are dishes like Ouzi from more western areas like Palestine and here in the UAE that could almost be termed biryani.

This is the 6th competition the Arabian Courtyard Hotel has held here, and yet the first I have heard of. It came to me through our tabletalk.me Facebook page, asking for competitors. Unfortunately it coincided with bakefestdxb and the remaining tabletalkers, including myself, considered ourselves unworthy. I had only cooked biryani twice in the past; once was a complete burnt disaster that resulted in a quick run to the local curry take-out, depositing the biryani pot in the bin on the way. The second result was what I like to term 'meh' - completely uninspiring. So I laughingly offered to judge. After all, I am a very experienced diner. Who would have thought they would take me up on the offer? 

The Biryanis we are looking at today are predominantly Lucknow or Hyderabad style Pakki Biryani. This means that the rice is cooked by absorption method, simply seasoned with little more than salt, saffron and possibly cardamom. The meat, fish, or vegetables will be cooked separately in a richly flavoured sauce. The other spices we will expect to find are mace, turmeric, cumin, pepper, cloves, coriander, possibly garam masala, or a fragrant curry spice mix, bay leaves, garlic and ginger. They will be brought together only in the final moments - an arranged wedding that we know is going to work.

When I arrive at 11am, the first group of ladies have started. From 75 submitted recipes from applicants, they have selected 10 to compete today (Interestingly, all Asian, mainly Indian in origin, and all female). There are 5 women sharing the Mumtaz Mahal kitchen, and in what is probably an unpleasant turn-around, Chef Glen is taking orders from them rather than governing his own kitchen. It has been commandeered for the day - a welcome change or a thorn in his side.... who can tell? He fetches fried onions, nuts and lettuce at their command, procures pots and covers for their pleasure and then stands in the corner appearing intermittently worried and supremely chefly.

I am joined soon by Rakesh Puri, who's credentials you can find by clicking on the link. He's been judging this event since it began six years ago, and he has the ladies giggling and offering smiles and flattery as bribes in seconds flat. When he enters the kitchen, he is given a Toque Blanche, and I grumble to a poor little waiter who had earlier given me a particularly unattractive hair net. He bows obsequiously and returns moments later with a chef's hat, but by then I am embarrassed by my behaviour and decline.

The first group are pushed out at 12 noon, and the new 5 ladies quickly assume their positions (two due to swelter in their abaya and hijab) while Rakesh, Chef and I peruse the first offering. Dish #1 is deconstructed. The other ladies are shocked to see potato duckies sitting on vermicelli nests, and a vase of carrot flowers. The meatballs are coated in silver leaf, and guardedly, they ask if they also were expected to present as such. They are horrified, worried and jealous. No, says Rakesh - they will be judged predominantly on the taste - the items of presentation must have some bearing on the flavour of the dish or they will be ignored. Four women smile contentedly and nod among each other, and distance themselves from the food-stylist.

The other four dishes are more simply presented, but far from unattractive. The rice is always deeply coloured with the saffron, and often there is a pleasant mixing of both yellow and white grains. The prawn biryani at the end wins my vote for presentation - six crispy red tiger prawn heads appear to launch themselves over a golden wave. It also wins me on taste - the prawns are cooked two ways - either curled up into springy little spirals, or thickly sliced slabs of sweet and tender flesh. The spices in this one are simple, and don't overwhelm the delicate seafood. The mutton biryanis vary tremendously - one sweet, complex and nutty, the other richer and saltier. The vegetarian is covered in fruits - pomegranate, grapes, pineapple, and although the rice is beautifully flavoured, overall it's a little too fruity for me.

The first ladies gossip in seats in the other half of the restaurant that look like rickshaws - it gives me the impression they are riding off to lunch and having a good old natter on the way. Families join them. A sitar player treats our ears. A little girl falls asleep on a beaded cushion at his side. Rakesh whips out a sheath of paper and works on some healthy recipes, and I wish I had brought something to make myself look busier. I begin a particularly furious game of online scrabble with a fiend called 1Maynemayne, and convince myself that he is cheating - "weasons" is a word, he says. I'll give him a weason to keep clear of me if he ever comes near one of my games again - that wascally wabbit!

Round two finally nears completion, but the steaming copper bowls arrive at such large intervals that I find myself salivating. I point out that it would be unfair to judge some cold, and luckily the others agree. The vegetarian this time is a wet style in a rich coconut gravy - southern, I am told. Two chicken ones are as different as the two mutton ones were earlier - one is Kachchi Gosht ki biryani, and has been cooked differently - the marinated meat is placed in the bottom of the pot raw, with the rice on top, and then the pot is sealed with dough to stop any moisture leaking. I really enjoy this - the chicken is more tender, and the spices more integrated. I also love the stuffed marinated eggplants she has served along-side rather than the more traditional raita. Rakesh tells me this is forbidden, but I ignore him and mark it well anyway.

The stand-out is the fish-stick biryani, which I admit, sounds terrible. It is in fact tender little parcels of crispy crumbed hamour and coriander, mixed with a very fragrant rice - more herbacious than the others, which have spices that are just as piquant, but have tended towards the sweetly pungent end of the spectrum.

We have been given judging forms, and I duteously fill the entire thing out, giving marks out of 10 for hygiene, timeliness, presentation, colour and texture, and a mark out of 50 for taste. At completion I look at Rakesh and Chef's forms, and they have only three pencil-marks as compared to my 60. First, second and third. I total all mine, therefore adding another 10 scratches to the table, and surprisingly come up with pretty much the same choices as them. I concede my third choice (the chicken Kachchi Gosht) and agree with Rakesh's choice of the prawns. The more complex of the two earlier mutton dishes takes second place.

The ladies gather for photographs, and the crowd swoop on the remaining biryani. A presenter from Hum FM circles the table and give account in Hinglish so fast it flows out of her mouth like musical popcorn. My second look-in at the fish-sticks was fruitless, but luckily everyone else left the eggplants just for me. The prizes were glittery sandals and vouchers for the other restaurants at the Arabian Courtyard. And just as I am dawning on the fact that I and the Food and Beverage manager are the only western people in the jam-packed room, I am called up to accept a thank-you gift and speak.

It's one of those time-stands-still moments. In a room of strangers, having judged something you know little about - an outsider, an intruder. But then I gaze around the room, and see all these expect and and happy faces with full smiles plumped with spice, and feel surprisingly quite at home. I confess my burning episode with my first attempt at Biryani, and vow to give it another go - inspired as I am with all their work and my love of the dish itself.

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

The Biryani Competition is open to all amateur cooks, and occurs annually at Mumtaz Mahal at the Arabian Courtyard hotel in Bur Dubai (ph. 04-3519111). This particular one was on May 27 2011. The restaurant deserves further exploring - I intend to return soon to see their apparently authentic 11 piece band and eat traditional and excellent Indian food with the owners of all the textile shops in the nearby souk, who dine here nightly.

Come dine with me.

Foodies.

The word itself is cozy. It's got a lovely long vowel sound that makes one pout, followed by one that encourages a smile. a kiss and a grin - worthy of replacing the word "cheese" during a photo shoot. So why is it that I find myself gritting my teeth when I bring this word to mind?

Nerves.

The kind of nerves that 18th century aristocratic French women used to get. The vapours. Anxiety brought on by committing to an amateur version of "come dine with me". But, unlike that show on the BBC, where they hand-pick 5 people that are polar opposites, of varying cooking ability, and generally fit into the typecasts of snob, comedian, geek, earth mother and slapper, in our version are 5 food lovers with food blogs. And its a competition. The event was planned for Saturday lunch (so the light would be suitable for photography without a tripod.)



Decisions.

What do you cook food bloggers? This is not your standard menu-planning operation for any old dinner party. These are not forgiving friends. They are epicureans with insatiable appetites for perfection. There are several factors that need to be satisfied.

History. All dishes must be something cooked previously. The thought of trying a new recipe and have it leave egg on one's face either figuratively or literally is enough to break out the smelling salts. No, it must be tried and tested.

Presentation. It MUST look good. These people are food stylers and photographers, but not only that, so are you. They expect the food to look as good as it does on your blog, or as good as the food looks on their blog - whichever is better. They are snap-happy maniacs who bring tripods to lunch. They plan how they are going to plate up their recipes the night before they cook them. These are the kind of people who fight hungry hands off plates of delicious treats until they are cold and unappetising, just so they can take 45 photos to get that good one that will be featured on tastespotting.com

Taste. A pitiful third on my decision making list. But I am not just talking about something yummy. I am talking #nomnomnom yummy. The kind of yummy that makes them shut up for five minutes and just enjoy the food. These people dissect the flavours in food like the would a laboratory frog in biology class. Ideally you also want to wow them, just a little. But heaven forbid you scare them. No offal, truffles, blue cheese or anchovies. You must also remember that these are not chefs, conditioned to appreciate all flavours. No, they might still be picky, and not only that, we have an Englishman, an English woman, a Tanzanian and a German in the mix - all with different palate histories.

Mastery. It must involve a technique or knowledge that you believe you may "own" in the group. Something that makes them say "wow - you can do that?!?". It must be something they would not cook themselves, and even better, could not cook themselves.

Fifth, and finally, preparation. It must be easy to prepare whilst under intense scrutiny. No hours in the kitchen leaving your guests time to discover the skeletons in your closets. No unpleasant sights involving intense perspiration, bespattered clothing, dribbling mascara or explosions verbal or actual in the kitchen. Preferably, you want as much cooking out of the way as possible, with just reheating and plating taking your time.

We had to submit menus one week earlier. I am a spur-of-the-moment cook, relying heavily on fresh seasonal ingredients, so opted for first position, hoping that ingredients needed more than a week to become unseasonal. I cheated, and avoided supplying details of the side dishes, and came up with the following:

• Salmon carpaccio
• Barbecued lobster with tarragon and mustard
• Sticky Date Pudding with caramel sauce

You will notice that I completely ignored my own advice listed under 'taste' and 'scaring guests' and decided to serve raw fish.

Friday morning. Hangover. Followed by birthday party. Fortunately not a pool party, so I found a lurid lime beanbag in the corner and allowed it to suck me into obscurity for the duration. And in my hungover state in this chlorophyll colored cocoon, I made my shopping list, including ingredients for my side dishes, which stupidly included risotto. Risotto of course breaks cardinal rules of both 'presentation' and 'preparation'. It involves 20 minutes of standing around stirring it on a stove, and no matter how well you cook it, its appearance is pretty much lumpy mush. Unfortunately it also breaks the 'history' rule, because although I have cooked it several times in the past, it always ends up with the texture of Clag or Oliver Twist's gruel.

So I went to the supermarket, still shell-shocked from the morning's activites, with Goldilocks in tow. And instead of meticulously picking out all my ingredients, then checking and double checking, I spent the time fending marshmallows out of the trolley, glaring at old women who dared to assume I cannot control my noisy child, and playing zoom-zoom trolley games to stop Goldie throwing out the few ingredients I had managed to tick off the list. Fresh Tarragon? Unavailalble. Scottish Salmon? Old and slimy. Tasmanian Salmon? Only fresh, not frozen (I have no idea how they can call Tasmanian Salmon fresh - it takes me 14 hours just to fly to Melbourne, and I don't have to get off a fishing line, on and off a trawler, over the docks, through quarantine, through a delivery bay and to the supermarket. Although, I guess they have the benefit of not having to stop by the duty free...). At least there were some beautiful, still frozen Omani lobster on special. Jackpot. (yes, I like frozen fish, particularly when I am cooking it the next day)

Take two. Saturday. Hangover. Hambone disappears to the office for a couple of hours to escape my moans and groans and quite possibly a little bit of nagging, and two children who for some godforsaken reason seemed to want some attention. Fortunately I have Mother Mary to help me in these situations, and although I felt it would be cheating to have her do any food prep, I was more than happy to offload all other responsibility. The shopping trip was more effective this time around, saving my rising blood pressure just a little. The only downfall was a continual lack of decent salmon. Why did I pick Carpaccio? I'm out of my head. Quick change - tuna. This of course resulted in a complete change of side dish. Bugger.

My prep went well - besides being elbow-deep in lobster entrails for far too long, and taking off half my knuckles in the first batch of lemon zest, it went without incident. Sally has detailed the rest of the day here. She has kindly neglected to mention the inevitable slovenly pile of al dente glue that the risotto became, the burning of the first batch of garlic butter and my nead to steady myself with several glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. But, I must say, that apart from that, the day was considerably less intimidating than I expected. I also met them all again this week at Sukaina's house, so think I managed to feed them without poisoning them.

So, now you know the inner workings of my neurotic character as a precursor to this luncheon, do you think you could steel your stomach and "Come dine with me"?

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Other competitors are Sally from My Custard Pie, Anja from Anja's Food for thought, Sukaina from Sips and Spoonfuls, and Jonathan - our token male and non-food-blogging gourmand. The girls also contribute to tabletalk.me

I'll be popping the recipes up on my pages in coming days - the sticky date pudding can be found here.

Venice Transplants

Imports...

In Dubai, it would be nigh impossible to live without them. Even historically, this region has been a centre of trade - silk, spices, gold, food, it all comes and goes. When I do my weekly shopping, I return home with beef from Australia, prawns from Oman, apples from China, oranges from Spain, potatoes from Saudi Arabia, cheese from France. I've spoken about this before: in Dubai, we are all consumers - the rest of the world creates, and we buy it in and eat it up. But how far should it go?

Last week, I attended the launch for a new dining concept, (Dinedubai) and they had me and a bunch of much more important people meet them over lunch at Caffe Florian in the DIFC. When I received the invitation, I knew the name, but couldn't remember where I had heard it, so I Googled. Lo and behold, it's an import. The oldest still-running cafe on Piazza San Marco in Venice has decided to update it's image by opening in block 6 of the DIFC Gate district. Natural progression, no? I mean, Venice, Dubai, they're just stepping stones apart really?

hmmm...



But, I kept an open mind. I need to control myself in these matters. I am just a little anti-brand if that makes sense. I have been ripped off just one too many times buying the 'real deal' - don't even get me started on $300 frying pans. So, putting to the back of my mind my €10 Chinotto last year in Piazza San Marco, complete with snooty service, shitting pigeons and thousands of tourists, I tried to remember the circa 1720 interior, the smell of authentic panforte and espresso, the clamour of 10 chefs in a kitchen the size of a Dubai maid's room, the whisper of ghosts in the walls and the poetry of tragic romatics.

The DIFC is beautiful, but it's too clean, linear, sterile, straight and grey. The cafe is well lit, modern, sure, Italian, but in the way an Armani Suit is Italian. In the words of the great Dr Spock, "It's life Jim, but not as we know it." Not quite Venice transplanted. More like Venice translated - into the kind of English you see on a pirate video cover.

Sure, it's pleasant in its own way. I wont talk much about the food, because I was there 1. for free, and 2. at a function of 30-odd people, and I believe it's a little harsh to judge a place in those contexts. However, they did do a remarkably good job impressing me with a parmesan taglietelle and shaved truffle dish.

The Maitre'd brought out a wheel of Parmegiano, it's top concave He began to scrape the surface with a silver spoon, roughing it up in a fluid motion and leaving delicate little curls like sawdust in the base. A jar sat along-side with a bulbous black truffle stored in cool rice. Soon, the chef arrived, and loaded the steaming taglietelle straight into the cheese-bowl, then tossed it theatrically to incorporate the tiny swirls of salty deliciousness. Then each plate was delivered, and a generous amount of black truffle was shaved onto each serve by the Maitre'd.

It really was quite wonderful. I haven't had any decent truffle since last year in Melbourne, and even then, I don't think it was this good. The amazing thing with black truffle (which I know is the cheaper one, but in my opinion, is actually the superior), is that they are sweet and delicate when fresh - nothing like that toxic funky truffle oil - which often contains not a scrap of truffle. Despite all my following complaints, I will probably return to Caffe Florian Dubai, just so I can eat some more of this king of fungi. Hopefully they won't also make me eat my hat.

My problem started with the very brief conversation I had with the Maitre'd. As you can imagine, I often bring my camera out at restaurants, and for the first time ever, I was told I could not take photographs. The response to my obvious retort of "Why?" was something along the lines of
"because we are forbidden to sell pork or alcohol, we have decided to forbid photographs"
"Huh?"
"We do not want the publicity"
"Huh?"
"Caffe Florian is a very prestegious brand. Very Italian. We would be ashamed."
"Errr...."

As you can see, I completely ignored his requests. I was quite shocked with the response, and so confirmed it with my companion, who agreed that was exactly what she had heard. Now, I must stress that this is by far, NOT an official comment from the group, and may have been mis-heard (by two of us). But why would you want to sell a franchise that you would be "ashamed" of? And do the Dubai owners realise that this is the way their own staff (who I believe were Italian) regard this venue - to be inferior, and far from a match of the prestigious venue they have bought the name of?

And this brings me back to imports.

What is the region's fascination with brands, and when will it end? I can understand some items - cars, shoes, electronics. Consumables where the brand will provide a guarantee of quality and style, durability and performance. I can also understand hotel chains - again, a guarantee of the standard due to their international profile, and for that matter I will not begrudge brand names such as McDonalds and Starbucks. Again, international brands that take the risk out of consumption for wary travellers.

But the original Cafe Florian (right) is famous mainly due to it's history and location. Some may say it's because of it's beauty, or the fact that Casanova, Byron, Proust and Dickens were patrons, but can you imagine for a moment that it would have lasted the test of time if it was a beautiful cafe in the middle of Bur Dubai? Or even outer-suburban London. Probably not. People visit the Caffe Florian in Venice, because they can sit where those famous people sat, and look out at exactly the same view. They can watch the sunlight on marble and the shadows between the columns and discover where these artists and lovers found their inspiration. If you took Caffe Florian out of Piazza San Marco, would it be worth anything?

No. It's just an Italian restaurant. With techniques that can be copied, staff that can be poached and decor that can be purchased elsewhere. I have reviewed three other big brand names recently - Emporio Armani Caffe, Shake Shack and Fauchon. Sure, the venues on their own are good. But would they be just as good if they were called "Cafe Italiano", "American Burger House" and "Patisserie Francais"? I'm sure they would.

And it would give me one less thing to complain about.

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

Caffe Florian is located in the DIFC, block 6, the  Gate Village, close to Zuma. ph 04-3231833

And by the way, for the Maitre'd; there are plenty of restaurants in Dubai that sell both pork and alcohol - it is the owners choice to settle in a space that is unlicensed to do so.

Happy Birthday

Lucrecia is a lovely gal. She's happy all the time. She brings energy and giggles into any room, but not only that, she's worldly, opinionated, unabashed and particularly good at funny voices. I had always thought she was smarter than the average bear, but then she invited me to Angel's 4th birthday. She was going to have a pool party.

Friday morning disappears in a haze of hangovers, 'nippers' (Lion's activity with other Aussies on Umm Suqeim beach on Fridays) and shopping for obscure ingredients for the following day's adventure in dining. I find myself falling out of a taxi into extreme afternoon heat on Palm Jumeirah in a bundle of noodles, towels, tangles of goggles, squeaky rubber rings and all manner of buckets and contraptions. Bloody hell, I forgot the bleeding present.


There is a three second reprieve from the heat as we walk through the foyer, but we are greeted again with Dubai's favorite hair-dryer in the face weather as we stumble through the opposite doors. I catch my reflection before I shove the doors open, and with my burden of primary coloured contraptions I look like some kind of mutant irradiated giant squid. Earlier, I had put on earrings and makeup, but already the foundation is dripping into my cleavage and one earring is gone - probably in the cab, or dangling off the end of a piece of floaty foam.

We're late. There are already dozens of kids in the pool, but it's hard to tell how many - in typical child-pool relationships, all I can see is bums, half of which have one cheek hanging out of the swimming costume. The noise is cacophonous. Scream, yelp, whoop, splash, waahh, crack, bounce, wheeeee, whoosh, smash, cough, thud. And yet, above all, I can hear Lucrecia, a broken record, "NO! Stop that! Put that down! Sharing is caring!"

I head for the bar.

This haven is also not silent, full of topless men 'Corr'ing and guffawing into their pints. In typical western fashion, we have battle of the sexes - the females try to keep their children alive in the face of certain peril, and the males try to sink as much beer as possible before the respective female elevates her hand in SOS fashion. If the men are fortunate enough to be slurring their words by this stage, they will be able to escape child minding duty, and possibly even an early start on Saturday. The payment is having to apologize profusely, deal with rolling eyes and nagging, but it's probably worth it. Hambone has left me to fend for myself on this occasion, pleading unfinished work at the office. Yeah, right.

I notice none of the other women are drinking (yet) so I ask for my scotch and dry in a tall glass. I can pretend that I too can enjoy a day such as this sans alcohol. The yummy mummies are bikini-clad and lined up along the wide top step, pretty derrieres just grazing the water, long brown legs angling onto the second or third step, a foot occasionally lifted to inspect the pedicure on their un-bunioned tootsies. They recline back on elbows, keeping their tanned midriffs free of unsightly creases, and chat about schools, maids and handbags.

I sit, fully clothed beside like-sized mothers, these are the ones I relate to. We also pretend to take an interest in the children, but like all the others, are in fact doing the very best we can to disappear into our happy place. I have a reverse "Twinings" moment, where I make it unfortunately obvious that I thought a friend was not pregnant, therefore inferring I had believed she had just got quite fat, or that she was already too fat for me to notice. This is in fact untrue, I had never really checked her out that well, but people tend to cringe when I start on "your beauty is on the inside" stories. I refrain from digging myself further into a hole and shift position to the baby pool.

While Goldie is terrorizing smaller tots, particularly one which is subjected to constant ball-bouncing on the head, I look astern to find Lion vamoosing out of sight around the corner. Mischievous little so-and-so. I immediately leave the alcoholic drink within reach of 15 small hands, and career after him, screaming like a harpy and dragging a flailing and highly disappointed Goldie in my wake. Of course everybody in the vicinity except the intended recipient notices my voracious one-sided discourse.

I finally catch up with him, and discover that he is at the tail end of a conga line of naughty eight year old girls sidestepping out on a ten cm wide ledge that is 4 meters above some very hard brick flagstones. I ask the leader: "Does your mother know you are here doing this Tabby?"
I get the look I used to give my mum when I was 15. "Yes."
"Fine. Go ahead then. Lion, I expressly forbid you to kill yourself. If I find you on this ledge I am going to pull your pants down in front of all these girls and spank your bare bum. Tabby, have fun breaking your legs." I am not going to discipline other people's children. I have a hard enough time stopping my own kids from having fun.

Now, where's my drink?

By now, the 6 year old boys have invaded the baby pool, and the little ones are either face down in tears on the side, or piffing missiles from behind their mothers skirts beyond the wet edge. I find my drink, but it tastes of chlorine and cooties. Lucrecia is still in the pool, now simply tipping buckets of water over the head of any child who gives her lip. The eight-year-old girls are taking this one step further and dunking anyone and anything that gets in their way. The nine-year-old boys have snuck around the corner to tell penis jokes and attempt dangerous jumps. There are at least three children crying uncontrollably, but none of them are mine, so I order another drink. The life guard sits statue-still in his tower, gazing over the mayhem to the hazy Burj al Arab on the horizon. He has obviously found HIS happy place...

Finally we get the summons "FOOD!"

25 children launch out of the pool in a tidal wave and over to tables of sweeties and pizza. Goldilocks emits a battle-cry and forces himself through the fray of larger bodies to the bowl of mini marshmallows, which he proceeds to force in fist-sized lumps into his hungry mouth. Lion arrives three seconds too late, and there is only one slice of pizza left. Goldilocks opens his mouth and kindly offers Lion some marshmallows that are now looking like a tennis-ball sized wad of unicorn poop that refuses to be swallowed.

Lucrecia shakes her voluptuous booty to something upbeat and sickening from The Wiggles, and all join in 'Musical Statues'. The big kids pretend they don't like it, but are experts. They whine when they are eliminated for the slightest twitch while the three year olds stay in despite obvious lack of rhythm and reflexes. In the end, Lucrecia is surrounded by a group of hot and grumpy mini complainers, all of which think they deserve to win. She sighs, not for the first time today, and everybody gets a prize.

I sit in the shadows trying to delve inside myself for inner cool, but cannot find it. The heat is unbearable. It's sticky and still, and I wish I'd brought my bathers, even though I'd have to wave my dimpled white butt in front of all those nymph-like bodies and risk unsightly pool-hair. As it is, my face is melted off completely, and my hair has curled in the humidity to the point where I look like I have two little horns protruding from my temples. As Hambone finally arrives (with the forgotten present), I decide to act like the devil I look, and have another glass of Chardonnay. He asks why I'm not swimming in this heat, and I try to explain the large amount of people and my ugly bottom, and he glares at me like the idiot I am.

At 5pm the cake arrives. It's a masterpiece of pink, girly fluffiness - a princess, complete with a de-legged barbie thrust in the top. Goldilocks thinks it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Lucrecia has finally attired herself in a towel of the Australian flag, and fends off the mosh-pit of children developing around her, just for the amount of time it takes Angel to blow out the candles and the rest of us to sing a particularly un-gorgeous version of Happy Birthday. Then it implodes like a reverse volcano, occasionally throwing up an arm loftily bearing a plate with its prize of cake. Goldilocks manages to get a piece against all odds, and eats only the frosting - delegating the rest as 'Mummy's cake'. Nummy.

Today we are fortunate, and Lion is tired and wants to go home. This saves all levels of bribes and unhappiness at the exit (I have found that party bags just don't cut it any more - our spoiled children seem to need more than we did to keep them happy). We say goodbye and thank Lucrecia for putting up such a wonderful show. We apologize for the lack of conversation. I feel guilty. I could have helped a little more, especially when she was tipping water on the kids heads. But then again, I did my party miles in March, and will do so again in October. I can tell you now, it won't be a pool party.

...Maybe a sleep over....?

Sticky Date Pudding

It's always baffled me in this part of the world. Why is there a complete lack of sticky date pudding on menus here? It is one of the best desserts in the world, and we are living in the centre of all date production. It's a travesty. 

Recently, a bunch of fellow foodies and I (members of tabletalk.me) started a fun round of non-televised "Come dine with me". Sally from My Custard Pie has already popped a post up on this - I was first up, and am still reeling - I may talk about it soon, when I am ready to relive the horror that Sally didn't seem to see. 

Anyway, I thought I would introduce my foodie friends to Sticky Date Pudding. I have found out since, that the English "Sticky Toffee Pudding" is in fact similar, and does, despite the title, contain dates, and so it was no great surprise for Sally. It was however for Sukaina, who kindly oohed and ahhed and asked for the recipe. Here you go my dear...

Ingredients:

• 170g dates (about a cup, stoned and pitted and chopped)
• 300ml Boiling water
• 1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
• 170g of flour (about 3/4 cup)
• 2 eggs
• 60 g butter
• 100 g brown sugar
• drizzle of vanilla essence

For the Sauce:

• 150g butter
• 250g brown sugar (about a cup)
• 2/3 cup cream

(note - I use metric cups, which are 250ml - not the American cup, which is closer to 200)

Instructions

1. Preheat oven to 180ºC. Put the dates and bicarbonate in your blender, and pour over the boiling water, then leave to rest.
2. Cream butter and sugar, then add eggs one by one, then stir in flour gently. 
3. Puree date mix roughly, then fold into batter. Pour into small doughnut molds and bake for 15-20 minutes, or until a skewer tests clean and pudding springs back when lightly pressed.
4. While pudding is cooking, place sauce ingredients on the stove on a low heat and simmer for about 5 minutes. Drench puddings in sauce, and serve warm with a scoop of marscapone or double cream, and make sure you also take a jug of extra sauce out for people to have more lashings of heaven.

I used mini doughnut molds, because I thought it gave a slight impression of a date plant. Besides that, however, they work like a bundt mold, and ensure the center is cooked perfectly whilst the outside doesn't get overcooked. This is not a self saucing style pudding - you want it cooked nicely all the way through. It is however, traditionally cooked in a round pan - 18-20cm would be best, and made this way, will take approximately 30-40 minutes to cook in the oven.

The gift of food art - Honyaki Restaurant

Natural Disasters tend to have a ring-on effect. A tsunami brings with it waves that continue to beat the country even months and years after the waters recede. Although the news has petered to a trickle,  Japan's problems are far from over.

Of course, there is the rebuild, the ongoing threat of radiation, the grief, and the lack of services or assistance compounding the problem. If you want to keep up with it, just type Japan into Google. The first site will be Wikipedia, but under that, you will find only tragedy for page after page. No tourism, no sushi, no technology news. (the best update I have found is here)

One of the key words you will find in your search results is 'boycott'. Because, of course, there has been a radiation leak. This poison transfers fairly easily into foods, particularly fruit and vegetables. So we have poisoned food in a country where resources are already disabled in all manners. This means lower levels of food for domestic consumption, and international boycotts on their exports. Ironically, one of the best sources of natural iodine is Japanese sea kelp, and the consumption of this will assist the body in fending off any radiation absorption.

I feel awful. The pain keeps on coming for these people. But at the same time,  I don't want to put any nuclear food in my body. In my panic I avoided Japanese restaurants for the last month, worried that radiated product would be heading our way. I know they are testing radiation levels in the USA, UK and Australia when it comes to Japanese imports, but I've read nothing about that here. To all those that think my fear is stupid, inflamed and irrational, you are all right. I'm sorry, but my brain is a fragile organ that I have very little control over. Fortunately, time tends to heal my nerves, and now I have returned to one of my favourite cuisines. Hello Honyaki.

Honyaki opened in Madinat Jumeirah only a couple of weeks ago, and 'Foodiva' Samantha Wood was heading down for lunch and wanted some company. Lucky me, I love dining with other foodies - we can talk about all the nit-picky stuff I love.



As you can see from the photographs, the kitchen is not actually a cooking zone, it's an artist's studio. We ordered sashimi, maki rolls, a sushi sandwich, a couple of spoons and ice-cream. You would think that would be enough for two, even a couple of ravenous foodies, but every plate that passed us fueled our appetite. The guys behind the bench really are something special - I have rarely seen prettier food.

But does it taste good? Sashimi was tasty - particularly the yellow-tail - but the salmon was cut in long fine waves, and I'm a traditionalist - I like little bricks - they're easier to pick up and fling into your mouth before the slippery little suckers fall off your chopsticks.

The Maki was OK. We had ordered the 'rock and roll' spicy tuna maki, and I was expecting something to explode into my mouth like an Aerosmith drum solo. Not so. They seriously need to crank up the heat. Together with that, the wasabi paste was a little insipid. Samantha tells me that the real wasabi one finds in Japan is traditionally not as spicy as we tend to eat it elsewhere, but this Aussie likes a fire up her nose - if it's not there, it's just not right. The sandwich was good - a crab mix with crunchy tempura flakes sandwiched in between rice and nori, but again, needed a little more punch.



The stand-outs were the spoons. This is something I have not seen in Japanese restaurants before, but I LIKE it. It's almost like a deconstructed roll. The first was wagyu - described as simply seered wagyu with sweet soy sauce, but in fact was a wafer-thin roll of melt-in-the-mouth rare beef topping some deeply flavoured rice soaked in sticky soy and I'm sure something else - maybe some beef stock derivative. This was then sprinkled with fried panko breadcrumbs and crispy shallot flakes. It had everything - sweet, salty, spicy, meaty, crunchy, chewy, crumbly. Just magic. It was so good, that Samantha declined dessert, opting instead for the salmon spoon, which came with sweet mustard miso sauce and bursting salmon roe the size of green peas. I really hope they increase the range of spoons available - at the moment there are only 4.


Dessert for me was two patties of green tea and lychee  ice cream, both encased in little soybean pillows. Again, stunning, and probably better to look at than eat, but still, very good, and I would order it again, particularly the lychee.

But the question is, do I now have radiation poisoning? No. Most of the kelp used in Nori production, although termed Japanese Kelp, is in fact farmed thousands of kilometers away in China. The fish is all sourced as locally as possible, as are all the other ingredients. (However I have heard there is a dearth on the pickled pink ginger - none of which we saw on the plate today.) All we have taken from Japan is their expertise. And when I think of it like this, it feels like I'm stealing. But will that stop me going back to Honyaki? I think not.

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Honyaki is located above the Amphitheatre in Madinat Jumeirah Souk, next to Jambase. It is licenced and serves Sake, some other Japanese beverages and extortionately priced wine by the glass, and of course soft drinks. I can imagine quickly finding my way to the bottom of my wallet here on the terrace on a balmy March evening. The tea is bottomless and a bargain at 25AED. Total of our bill was 380AED - not cheap, but we were very well fed. Opening hours are daily from 12 till 12.

Tel: +971 4 3666730
Fax: +971 4 3666649
website: jumeirah.com