Help! I Think I've Lost It!

My ability to cook that is...

I suspected when the last few rounds of lasagana tasted a bit off the mark, but I just knew it when the latest batch of cupcakes turned out...eggy?

To me, cooking (as opposed to baking) is so much more than following the recipe. Cooking comes from the heart - it's about melding flavours and textures in your mind and seeing it through to fruition. It's about an innate sense of timing - no one can tell you how long to cook a lamb shank stew for - except you. Because your intense love for food will be able to tell when the mush of ingredients and gelatinousness of the tendons look just right.

Oh for the love of apple pie, have I lost it for good?

I think it may have come from hosting one steamboat dinner too many. When all you are needed for is to boil up some stock, chop up some vegetables and golden-fry some garlic, your culinary talent may get a bit offended. Is that all I am good for, it may ask.

It's a frightening thought but the only way out may be to host a dinner with the most critical of people in attendance - friends and family. Out comes the silver, the red wine goblets, the damask table cloth and the napkin rings. Out goes the IKEA china, the the wooden chopsticks and that dreaded steamboat!

Time to turn to Queen Delia herself for some ideas...

Prime Time

Despite my supposed sense of disorganisation, I'm an advocate of preparation. Whether in life or in the kitchen. Studying for exams will get you good results as will slicing and choppping beget you a crisp stir fry.

But there is a thing called overpreparedness.

Whilst controlling the pancake mix may get you the perfect fluff, over mixing it may mean your efforts falling flat in the face. For example, a dinner that has been planned for ages turns out forced, whilst an impromptu night out on the town is the best you've had in ages.

The first time I went to Prime was like the former. There was nothing bad about it. But at the same time, there was nothing good about it. Perhaps we were being over critical of the food. As per my last post, sometimes, it's not about the food. It's about the company, about the surroundings, about the mood. About accepting food for where it stands in life. Not in the centre of the table, but as a side dish if you will.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Prime again and it far exceeded my expectations. The group of 7 could have meant an odd grouping but with one of us seated at the head, it turned out surprisingly cosy. It was also an odd mix of people. Friends of mine mixed with friends of friends of mine. It was a curious combination of PR types, socialites, a cocoa bean farmer and a self-promoting wheeler-dealer. It could have so easily have flopped in the middle, as do some of my cakes, but it didn't.

Instead, it was light-hearted and relaxed. The Osim-like chairs did their job well. And the food as a result was delightful. My prime rib was glutinous without losing any of its bite. Alongside filet mignons, Argentinian Casa whatevers and more prime rib, we stuffed ourselves silly with truffled mash, creamed spinach and all sorts of sauces from the indispensable English mustard to the insatiably good sorrel cream sauce, to the balsamic red wine reductions.

For all its pretensiousness, for steakhouses in hotels that serve truffled mash instead of good 'ol baked potatoes are without a doubt, we somehow missed it. And for that alone, I say it's all about company and less about who else, what, where, why and how.

One Man's Meat...

...may be another man's poisson?

How is it that there are restaurants where one half of the patrons have the worse time ever - bad food, non-existent service, salah ambience - but where the other half claims serves up the best? Same for hotels - why is it you always have the best reviews alongside the worst?

What makes one man's meat, another man's posion, or in this case, poisson? Following my visit to Cafe Cafe, I think I've discovered the answer.

I had never heard of the place before, even though its been there for five years tucked underneath that giant billboard of Caucasian girls modelling locally manufactured clothes. Yes, the Edinburgh Roundabout - remember it those of you born before 1985?

Cafe Cafe was to me, already shot down based on location alone. It's been there so long and even I don't know about it? I casually mentioned it to Actor Man About Town who remarked rather discouragingly, "It looks French, but it's not and the food is not very good."

My expectations were not high. Yet, it was one of those gatherings that I love going to. I don't get to go for dinner with my Dad's friends all the time, but it's a pleasure (no, really) to watch them on the rare occassion that I do. This group have been friends for years (since childhood some of them) and they are just hilarious. They gossip, they bitch, they poke fun and laugh in a way only good old friends can get away with. They know each other inside out.

It's so refreshing to hear such rubbish spewing from the mouths of these supposedly well-heeled, sophisticated members of KL society. Little mention of my No. 1 studying to be a doctor and my No. 3 churning out the 3rd baby. Here, they have fun. Real fun. Not Tatler fun.

Between shocking statements uttered in Can-glish (Cantonese English hybrid language) and hysterical laughter, the offspring watched their parents perform in this comical pantomine like an enraptured audience, eyes dancing from one uncle to the next auntie, ears woofing in the crazy cacophany called conversation.

And because we were sat at an oval table (what a treat at any restaurant these days), dramatic gilt fabric everywhere and blasting airconditioning, it felt like extras in a strange nocturnal, cultish music video, half expecting The Phantom Of The Opera to appear from behind the drapes and chandeliers to serve us coq au vin.

Ah yes, back to the food. The food, it turned was nothing like Actor Man About Town's description. Let's just say I was stuffed to begin with. Two days of Indian food tends to do that to you. And we all know nothing tastes good when you are full.

But my scallop starter was delicious. They were plump, they weren't sliced in half, there was five of them, and they came on a bed of buttery caramelised onions and mushrooms. They were good.

My rocket salad was not overdressed, the rocket stalks were not old, Nashi pears are lost on me but what the heck, it was till good. Now here comes the bit that does it for me.

Now, if there is anything that will sway my mind about anything or make me do things I don't want to do, it is creme brulee. Here, the creme brulee is good. It's not the best I have tasted but as good creme brulee is so hard to come by around here, I'll take it! It's unadulterated for a start, the sugar is freshly burnt and not done earlier and stuck in a fridge. Only thing is, and I will be booed for still liking this creme brulee despite it, is that they could have at least used fresh vanilla bean - they wasn't a black spot in sight. But it was still very good.

The other desserts were good too - the usual ganache-filled flourless chocolate cake with ice cream and I was so pleasantly surprised to see a chocolate torte on the menu.

Not French? I thought it was. My father stuffed himself with frogs' legs and braised wagyu cheeks. Someone else had lamb shank (which I was told by an auntie at dinner can never be found on menus in France - perhaps only in country inns that she never patrons?). There were freshly baked rolls, Mediterranean pastas and much, much more.

And I loved the little details everywhere - dainty, painted porcelain door handles in the loos.

We all left with full tummies and a rare sense of fulfillment. Not sheer overstuffed bliss that you would get stepping out of Overseas for example, but a satiated feeling of an evening well spent.

So the answer to good food is this: it's good company. Dine with people you don't want to or worse, don't like, and you will choke on butter, find the watery vinegry and the tofu steak tough. Dine with friends and laugh and everthing tastes good. Even if it isn't in real life. But then you wouldn't realise, so it's all still very, very good.

Neighbours

In the past, I have blogged sceptically about those who live next door. However, the longer I stay in terraced suburbia, the more I've come to learn that friendly neighbours are not only nice to have around, they are quite indespensible. Cocktails in the afternoons, water games in the evenings with the kids and casual pot lucks late into the night.

We indulged in the latter a few weeks back in my house and one of the many neighbours who descended on my home with their families brought these fruit tarts.

Sitting prettily waiting to be served, I thought these tarts (no pun intended at all) resembled us, in our identical homes.

Loh Hei!

Oh, I just can't stay away! Not from blogging and certainly not from the buffet table. I'm suffering from post-CNY aches (heart, belly, ego) and guess what, Chap Goh Mei is still nowhere in sight. Maybe that's because I can't see very far beyond my protruding belly.

At the end of the day, no matter how much we diet, how much we hang on as tight as we can to a regime of discipline and holding back from reaching out for that last piece of quivering char siu, come any festival, any excuse, and we're like hogs let loose on an apple farm.

So much for all those months of vinegered canned tuna and wilted lettuce.

In the last few moths ('cos really, CNY began in Decemeber) alongside the winter festival of Xmas where I stuffed myself through several turkeys, and drank like a fish through the obligatory New Year binges and went on holiday in the food capital of the world (no not KL, the other one - Sydney) where I dairy-ed myself silly and then waddled back home with more than just overweight baggage for the spring festival of CNY in all its porky lardy splendour. So in actual fact, I've eaten my way through a whole season and really, if you could see me now, you would understand the undertone of angst in my post.

My appetite is satiated for the moment but the thin girl stuck inside just can't push through the fat!

The food fanatic is back guys, and just as hungry as before. Good to see you all again.

Hey, don't go!

I love my blog, I really do.

But I have just discovered what food blogs ought to really look like and quite frankly, I'm bowled over.

I am planning a total revamp.

But alas, work has hit the fan and is sprinkling a steady drizzle of responsibility on my shoulders.

But please, don't go away for long. I just need to clear my time, invest in a some 'equipment' and post away!

Meanwhile, the research never ends.

Watch this space.

Peace out.

Pigged Out

Despite what my blog entries might lead anyone to think (this one included), it's not always about the pork. I do enjoy my salads and because I am always on some diet or other, they do feature quite alot as a staple. Just wanted to make that clear in ligt of my growing reputation out there as a pork-feeding hog.

Now that's done, I can continue with the swine stories.

The week's bingeing culminated in a showdown in Hakka restaurant - I cannot think of more appropriate a venue - where a bunch of Hakkas (and half-breed me), came together to do what we do best. Eat pork and talk about how good our food is.

My grandmother's old friend is vegetarian so we had three dishes of vegetables which were excellent because they were fried in lard. Then of course, we ordered the obligatory mooi choy kow yoke, perfectly plonked on a slice of oil-soaked lettuce with 'lean' meat intermittently laced with layers of lusciously silky fat. The Hakka yong tow foo was good too but then again how can you complain about pork-stuffed tofu that is deep fried so that it is crispy on the outside and juicy - yes juicy - inside? We also had beef brisket soup with radish which everyone complained was too salty but I found perfectly flavoursome - nothing like an OD of salt to bring out the natural flavours. And oh yes, rice! Copious amounts of rice on the weekend! A

And you know, I actually thought there wasn't enough variety to feed on. My chopsticks kept hovering in the air, like a hungry eagle, ready to swoop down at the sight of something that flickered an interest. I had to contend with fruit instead - what a waste of time! Disappointed, I finished off the plate of peanuts.

I write this as I finish off my salad of tuna and avocado in a sesame, soy and cider vinegar. Some would argue that it makes a poor substitute to the Sunday Hakka feast but you know, I love food in its entirety. A salad may not be as sexy as a spare rib but there is flavour and pleasure in consuming it also. I am yours truly, the true Miss Piggy.