Champagne Charlie
Sex and souffle, Champagne Charlie’s guide to Valentines
So, you have decided to cook for your missus/mister/person who doesn’t like to be referred to as either of those things because they are A) gender neutral B) a bit of a scary feminist/whatever the male equivalent of that is, or C) they actually don’t like you that much/secretly have two children and another girlfriend in Slough.
At first, inviting your sweetheart round will have seemed like a particularly cunning plan. Whilst friends will be hectically ringing York’s finest (and fully booked) restaurants, trying to create their own Fox and Apple cards out of yoghurt pots and biro and eventually booking a table for two at Dixy chicken, you’ll be smugly smirking on the sofa, kicking back in front of Dancing on Ice. You’ll seem sensitive and caring, you think to yourself, and more importantly you won’t have to compete with that greasy Italian waiter at Ask who wears tight, tight trousers and keeps thrusting his unfairly large “black pepper Madame?” into your girlfriend’s cleavage.
But as it gets closer to the time, you’ll start to panic. What if your dreamboat casually drops in that they’re a “veggie” just before you proffer them your massive Cumberland? What if your herpes-infested housemate refuses your polite suggestion of Sunday Night Gallery and insists on wandering around in his unseemly transparent boxers, doing elaborate farts in your lounge? Soon you’ll be kicking grannies in Lakeland Plastics in the shins to get that last heart shaped muffin mould and scouring Valentines themed websites, of the sort written by chubby, older women who wear Eeyore sweatshirts and also collect porcelain shoes.
Take a deep breath. For one thing, you’ve done considerably better than your amici at Dixy Chicken, in that you’ve already got your date to come back to yours. Ca-ching. It was that simple. They fell for it hook, line and sinker, and with any luck it will take half a bottle of Jacob’s Creek and 45 minutes before they look like this:
http://static.reelmovienews.com/images/gallery/the-whipped-cream-bikini.jpg.
However, for those of you still trembling beneath your tea-towel, here are some lovingly compiled notes on those popular Valentines snackettes:
Oysters – oysters are supposed to be an aphrodisiac, so you could be forgiven in thinking you were onto a winner. Get a bad one however, and your date (or yourself) is highly likely to get explosive diarrhea. Hmm, not so sexy now is it Casanova? No amount of lip gloss can undo that kind of damage. So, if the oyster isn’t tightly closed or it smells a bit funky then abandon ship. Also shucking oysters isn’t as much of a bloody walk in the park as everyone makes out. You have to get a very sharp knife and use it to click the shell open, although if you’ve had the other half of the Jacob’s Creek you’re probably twice as likely to slip and stab yourself in the palm, omitting a very girly high-pitched wheal at the same time.
Chocolate fondant – so, you fancy yourself as a bit of a Gordon Ramsey/Nigella at heart. Up till now you’ve been scoffing at this article, congratulating yourself on your marvelous cooking expertise and looking forward to cooking something risky. Your date will gasp, “aren’t they very difficult?”. “Not if you’re as good a cook as I am my darling” you’ll drawl and slip off the ramekin just like you’re hoping to slip off other things later…. And you know what? You’ll look like a knob. No-one likes a smartarse. If you really are that good under pressure, cook something more sophisticated like a bavarois or something equally unpronounceable, and leave the “I’m hard on the outside and soft in the middle” jokes in your head, where they belong.
Garlic – I’m actually going to recommend this. Get your date to eat loads of the stuff. Then if they’re considering the irresistible pull of SNG as an alternative to the delights of your recently hoovered boudoir, no-one will kiss them. They’ll basically have a choice of snogging you or no-one. Get in.
Strawberries and Champagne – this is very romantic and foolproof, a la pretty woman. Girls love strawberries because they’re almost pink, and guys love alcohol, with or without the strawberries. Double win.
Chocolate fountains – these are a really terrible idea, especially ones with white chocolate. You start off with bits of kiwi fruit and grapes, then move on to mini doughnuts, fudge and other things that you buy in the plastic packets bit of Sainsburys bakery, and before you know it your date has turned into your wife, and someone who once looked like Megan Fox now looks like Kerry Katona. And you’re stuck together. Forever. Don’t do it.
I’ve just asked my housemate, and apparently I don’t need more foods. So here are the ones I would have included in bullet point form: artichoke hearts (awww hearts, that’s sweet isn’t it?) pineapple (don’t ask why), soufflé (hope it doesn’t flop) and anything from the Marks and Spencer’s adverts (my friend Flick has just announced that they “turn her on”. She is single, and up for Valentines fun, XX Windmill Lane if you’re interested…)
Good luck and Happy Valentines Day everyone! Mwah! xxxxxxx
Jamie’s America
When I first saw the advert for Jamie Oliver’s new American TV series I was full of excitement. “Estupendo!” I cried to myself in a mock Mexican accent. Actually, this isn’t strictly true. My actual first thought was crikey, Jamie’s chubbed up a bit. Indeed, I even mused to myself that Jamie was actually a new camp member in the stonking new ITV program, “Fat Teens In Love” (sorry to digress but please watch this on i-player, there’s only one episode and the quality is equal to the sensitivity of the title…). But then I considered that perhaps he was a little festively plump due to all the delicious tidbits he had been sampling in the US of A, the tasty and heavenly morsels he had discovered and would obviously soon be sharing with me, his most devoted fan – huzzah!
I was genuinely looking forward to this. Jamie’s PR team had done the trick and come Tuesday night the anticipation was killing me. I shut my loud and annoying Siamese cat in the airing cupboard (yes, I do do that, she likes it!). I managed to prise my Dad’s claw like grip from the remote and get him to listen to the cricket in his room by rustling a large bag of Doritos all the way up the stairs. I asked my brother to prepare me one of his legendary “Scooby snacks”, a kind of “this is going to be such a monumentally terrific program that I’m going to want to celebrate with a ball of melted cheese the size of a babies head” type snack. Everything was ready. And then it came….
Jamie’s America was, in fact, more than a bit pants. Normally, I am a big fan of Jamie Oliver. I admire his honesty. Whilst various C list celebs swear blind that they’d never shop anywhere other than Morrisons, and that they really are passionate about their new range of heat proof dishes, Jamie has always admitted that actually, he just wouldn’t mind the extra dosh. His campaigns to protect little chickens and dinner ladies, and abundance of genuine enthusiasm, have ensured that The Naked Chef will always have a special place in my heart. Sadly, “Jamie’s America” won’t be joining them. For starters (get it?!), there was very little actual food on show. The majority of the time Jamie was chillin’ with a gun toting posse of Mexicans, most of whom looked like Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite. In between heart wrenching stories about murdered uncles etc. Jamie would try and cram in the odd recipe, but it didn’t really work. “These Mexicans are living in absolute poverty” Jamie would begin, tears already streaming down my hormonal face and ruining my 10,000 calorie snackette below, “but they do make a mean salad” Jamie would suddenly add and start trying to rustle something up in da hood with a speed and lack of speech which would suggest he was about to be shot at. It was a bit like watching one of those RSPCA adverts with a dog in the rain, with Delia Smith trying to knock up a mean trifle in the background, all a bit bizarre. The food also didn’t look that good. At all. The ‘mole’ (pronounced mole-ay or mole-eh or something like that…) which was thrust in front of the camera at various intervals looked uncannily like something fished out of a Mexican sewer. If you eat with your eyes then I certainly wouldn’t be chowing down on that, and in any case I was now far too depressed to start thinking about pre-party nibbles while those on screen talked about their partners in jail for life. This was all washed down with a generous glug of Jamie’s “I’m a real Essex boy wotcha mate I’m from the hood too ya know” which grew quite tiresome. Jamie’s parents are from Clavering in Essex which is near me. It is one of the prettiest little market towns, the kind with old ladies with plastic hair caps and tartan shopping trollies. He’s just as gangsta as I am. Nuff said.
I feel bad for not liking it because I’m aware that I sound like a kind of Radio Times Marie-Antoinette, striving to keep suffering riff raff off my lovely safe middle-class telly, but it’s not that at all. Cooking just didn’t really seem to have any place in what could have been quite an interesting documentary. Whilst Jamie tried to convince us of his honkies back in the UK, a bunch of surly Mexicans looked on, clearly not the sunny, photogenic, speedy gonzales types that the production company had aimed for, looking less than happy that puppy face Oliver was trying to mussel in on their crew and nicking all their precious mole. So sadly it’s back on the nachos for now, a tiny bit frightened that Jamie’s vast support team are going to come and get me and ask me to retract this. Ah well, you’ve all got my back right? Safe.
Lighting for Lovers
There is one thing in my life that I have always wanted to do, and one that I have never wanted to do.
Number 1 – go to the restaurant Dans le Noir in London. If you haven’t heard of it, this is a restaurant where you eat in a completely pitch black dining room, served by blind waiters. I can already hear people Northernly booming “But you cant see what the fook yer eating!”. Yes indeed my friends, that’s the idea. Supposedly by removing your sense of sight your other senses, e.g. taste, are heightened, transforming your Efes-furred taste buds into that of Lloyd Grossman (hopefully without the silly voice). Thus making you the food equivalent of that guy from ‘Perfume’ with the massive nose, if you will. I’m very curious to try this. Is this simply a master con of epic proportions? Is it likely that whilst diners are lamenting the delicious food to their companions a la Hamlet, the kitchen are snickering behind a mound of Iceland ready meals? Does the food on your plate actually spell out obscenities? Do waiters try and draw on the back of your neck with permanent marker? The possibilities for tom foolery and high-jinx of every kind are endless, and I’d like to see if they are exploited.
Number 2 – go on a “blind date”
As much as I love Cilla and am sure people have a “lorra lorra fun” on blind dates, the prospect fills me with horror. Your dining partner could look distractingly like a Lord of the Rings extra. They could have a “moley moley moley” (Austin Powers) that you simply can’t tear your eyes away from. Or a penchant for steam train mechanisms. Even if they turn out to be your Prince Charming, you still remain in danger. If like me you are wee bit cack-handed when it comes to clumsiness (my friend calls me a “gumby”, I think that’s a bit unfair…), there is every likelihood that as you stare into your lovers eyes you simultaneously drop a hefty forkful of summer pudding down your cleavage, and are left with the awkward dilemma of whether to attempt to retrieve it or not (you both saw it drop…).
However, the other day I considered the possibility of combining the two, and came up with what I believe is known as a “cunning plan, Batman”. How about a literal blind date, in the dark? Perfect! Embarrassing snaggle tooth? Misread the instructions of that home perm kit? Take them to Dans le Noir, they’ll never know! Yes, whilst your partner is entranced by your witty and stimulating chat, you can smirk to yourself that by the time they discover that medieval forehead of yours they’ll be well and truly in lurve. In fact the more you think about it, the better it gets. Don’t know what to wear? Go in your pj’s! Want the spaghetti but not got the fancy forkwork to make it look elegant? Go ahead! By the end of the evening when you’re both a lot more relaxed and, let’s face it, reasonably intoxicated, you can even whisk yourself off to the (apparently very nice) toilets for a quick sponge down to disguise any remnants of your enthusiastic tucking in.
Of course, like all my good plans, there remain a few slight problems. Mainly, it would be crushing to have your date announce your unmistakeable chemistry and whisk you out of the restaurant, shortly before emerging into the cruel light of day and dropping your wedding plans like a hot brick. There is also the possibility that the “witty and stimulating chat” remains non-existent and, realising it’s the best they’ll get, your sneaky dining partner seizes the opportunity for some indiscriminate and “accidental” gropage. It only takes one “let me help you with your napkin” and you’re begging for a candelabra. Still, it is comforting to know that there is a place where you could have a decent shot at seducing your object of desire, before they discover your huge zit. Think of it, if you will as a sort of head start.
Before ending, I would like to add a disclaimer to warn against creating your own “Dans le Noir” up in lovely York. In a restaurant, pitch black dining is “edgy”. Inviting a girl to your pitch black kitchen to disguise the mess however, can be read as nothing short than a bit creepy. Fairy lights or candles are almost as forgiving and a lot less “rapey”. Happy dining!
The Culinary Adventures of Miranda and Dump
Authors of student cookbooks are, undoubtedly, hilarious. Dividing into two types, the smug, successful “you can tell by my constant use of the words “cool” and “ace” that I’m in your age group and relate to you (please buy my book)” students, or friendly old “I’d never lie to you about the cost of oxo cubes” grannies. Browsing through books in my communal kitchen, I recently discovered a real gem of the former kind – Miranda Shearer’s “The STUDENT (its all in capitals on the front) Cookbook (complete with an illustration of a truck dumping cauliflower cheese and what looks like a crisp (?!) onto a plate…mmmm tasty). It’s available, new and used from the bargain price of £0.01, and in my opinion, worth every one penny.
Miranda’s introduction seeks immediately to establish herself as “one of us” stating she hopes that we don’t use her book “to roll a joint”. I’m sorry, what?! At £7.99 in real book shops, surely a packet of Rizla’s is cheaper, although perhaps less entertaining… I should also point out that this book is a hardback. In “myths and truths about what you are told to do”, Miranda goes on to say that tasting is fine, but don’t taste everything or “you will end up a fat pie muncher!”. Firstly, what does Miranda have against the harmless, trusty old pie? Secondly, what does she have against fat people? A “fat pie muncher” sounds like they’d be jolly good fun to me, much more fun than Miranda’s hilariously named friend “Dump”, who she states she “pie munches with through thick and thin”, or I venture her perhaps now ex friend “Lou the bimbo”. Hilarious advice from Miranda is rife, featuring examples such as “Poached Salmon – No, not stolen from a nearby river!”. Where does Miranda live, that she feels the need to specify what ingredients can and cannot easily be stolen?! Furthermore, she specifies that the salmon “must not be a smaller fish”, so if you were to rebel against Ms.Shearer, fail to read the second line of the article and set off pointy stick in hand, where would you find this mystical river of the giant salmon anyway? Sounds like more trouble than its worth…. I’m starting to feel a bit mean now, but to be fair Miranda really does set herself up for this… statements such as making potted crab is “easier than making a bowl of cornflakes and a cup of tea” really are laughable. Unless of course, Miranda is making her cornflakes from scratch. My absolute all time favourite is “Always sift flour to check for weevils” (written in bold to emphasise the seriousness of the issue in hand). Weevils?! Rest assured reader that there is no need to start treating your bag of self-raising like a sand pit every time you want to make a cake. A) We are not in Napoleonic times B) I have seen weevils first hand (*gasp!*). Weevils are black. Flour is white. There is no need to chuck the poor old weevils about for fun and games when you can see them from the off. Seems a bit unfair. But then maybe that’s what Miranda and her friend Dump do on their Friday nights and have a rollocking good time too, I don’t know….
Anyway, I won’t ruin your fun, there are still so many times that Miranda shares her thoughts on Jiff Lemon (“its rank!” “I’ll kill you!”) left undiscovered, and its really worth buying, honestly. I leave you with Miranda’s advice not to chop chilli and pick your nose (thank GOD she told me), and that “Nibbly bits are good”. Classic.
To sympathise or not to sympathise, that is the question
Welcome to Champagne Charlie’s first baby blog post. From truffles to Toblerone, macaroons to Moet, this blog will cover what everyone wants, needs and loves – food and drink. So, let’s get cracking…
To sympathise or not to sympathise, that is the question…
News has come to light this week that Gordon Ramsay’s Flagship Restaurant, “Gordon Ramsay”, has failed to make the San Pellegrino list of top 50 restaurants in the world, dropping from 13th last year, to failing to even make the top 100. In contrast, his protégé Marcus Waerings’ restaurant at the Berkley Hotel narrowly missed the top 50, coming in at number 52, and being tipped by organisers as “guaranteed to break through by 2010”.
Rumours suggest that reasons for Ramsay’s plummet to hell’s kitchen include a reported mouse and cockroach problem at his Claridges restaurant (personally I don’t mind this, adds a more “traditional” feel to things…), along with the Sun’s discovery of “boil in the bag” coq-au-vin being served at his gastropub’s. I must say, part of me is delighted. You can’t stride around, plunging your arms into other people’s deep fat fryers (which, by the way, always seems a little unnecessary to me, you can already see that its dirty without dangerously flinging around fistfuls of chip fat about your head …) and screaming “F*** YOUUUU” in the faces of frightened little Pillsbury the doughboy types, trembling in their homemade pinnies, and not expect that someday, it’ll come back to haunt you. Gordon takes no prisoners, and in this case maybe I don’t either. The truth is, if you DO fancy making like Kim and Aggie and can’t resist the pull of a mouldy fridge, you can’t spread yourself too thin – taking on the fat-tastic burgerland of the US of A armed only with a rubber glove and a bottle of Jiff was admirable, but to be honest Gordon, it was never going to work. However, a tiny part of me does feel a bit sorry for poor Grumpy Gords. He’s playing it down, but what’s basically just happened is the culinary equivalent of your boyfriend running off with your sister, and your sister telling you that she doesn’t love you anymore…and taking all your stuff. Waering was the best man at Gordon’s wedding, and his carefully phrased comments on his recent success can be loosely read as “YESSS, in yo face Gordon, suck on that!”. The rift between the two chefs has been steadily increasing, but Waering’s recent statement that Ramsay is just a “celebrity” who is “not really part of the industry now” is just not very nice is it? Perhaps he should learn some respect for his (3 year) elders – in any case, he’s certainly not about to call Michel Roux, who also dropped in the ratings, a camera loving courtesan, despite Ramsay and Roux being markably similar. So come on boys, now’s the time to kiss and make up. Otherwise Waering’s provocation that Gordon should “put a gun to my head, shoot me, put me in a box and bury me” may well be the icing on top of a Michelin starred cake.