DRIZZLE SHIZZLE

Lemon Drizzle Cake, BBC Good Food

Freshers, freshers everywhere , leaving not any drop to drink.  It’s “Welcome Week” and the little greenhorn are rife - pouring out of off-licences clutching their swall of special-offer Glen’s Vodka, sitting outside pubs during the day  and all the while looking like they quite literally can’t believe their luck. 

Meanwhile my walk to work is now littered with the plastic glass-debris of the Night Before and my lunchtimes are spent dodging excited young things hopped on the highs of Topshop student discount (twenty per cent!!) and possibly the after-effects of that Glen’s vodka.  Boo hiss.  Having left my heady student days on the other side of my twenties; and having learned from experience that theage-old adage “if you can’t beat them, join them” will only lead to catastrophe, I turned to cake for comfort.  And opted for the most delusional variety of guilt-free gluttony – baking.  Everyone knows that the efforts expended whilst baking negate any calories consumed (both during the baking process and in the aftermath).

I turned to an old friend and my one and only failsafe recipe – lemon drizzle cake as published by the BBC Good Food website (click here).  I have never fudged this recipe; and I have fudged many a recipe in my time. “My drizzle is the shizzle” I once announced to all and sundry (or rather to my numerous siblings).  Which bears witness to another age-old adage: “pride comes before a fall”. 

It started so well.  I followed Nigella’s top tip to bring all ingredients to room temperature and Jamie’s entreaty to have all equipment to hand. 

 

 

My mission was two-fold – to create one cake to gift (risky) and one for my family (much less risky, they’ll eat anything).  This, unfortunately for the shirkers amongst us, is not a simple matter of doubling the ingredients but requires two separate batches of batter.  I usually use a special tin for this particular recipe because I find the quantities so vast – one that I like to call “The Beast”.  The Beast (pictured here languishing in the oven) can be purchased at Ikea and will feed a small family. 

 

 

 

 

When using a normal-sized loaf tin, you will find that there is usually enough batter for a few cupcakes on the side.

 

 Method: I creamed my butter and sugar and beat in the eggs one at a time – whereupon I read the recipe that I have been using for four years – for the first time and noted that the eggs are actually to be mixed in.  I can only comment that I recommend a beating but I’ve never tried it any other way.  

The flour, lemon extract and lemon zest is then stirred in.  Having a preference for beating the living daylights out of any batter, I then tend to cream the entire mixture at top-speed for a couple of minutes with the idea that the end result will be all the lighter for it.  This recipe does not require baking soda!  The sharp-eyed will note that it’s prettily pictured with the rest of the ingredients above but it’s a red herring (I’m just a bit keen on baking powder).

The recipe states that the cake should then be baked in a preheated oven for 45 minutes – I ‘ve never known this cake to bake in less than an hour (and an hour and fifteen minutes for The Beast).  The cupcakes are a different matter and will take fifteen to twenty minutes as they’re only wee; which unfortunately makes them all the easier to devour in one mouthful.  

Once the cakes are safely parked in an oven pre-heated to 180 degrees Celsius;  the chef can sit down with a cup of tea watching the Great British Bake Off.  Usually.  For me, this is where the wheels came off.  It appears that both my abode and my cakes are the victims of a vicious confection-hating poltergeist.  When I had finished my cup of tea and my Mel and Sue-induced mirth had slightly subsided; I was horror-struck to see that the temperature of my oven had quietly surged to 245 degrees Celsius – hotter than the surface of the sun. 

The long and short of this is that The Beast took a bit of a battering (BOOM), the cupcakes look somewhat unleavened BUT somehow the gift cake was left unscathed.  It’s the miracle of Welcome Week.   

I was very tempted not to post all photos illustrating the Baking Disaster of 2013 but have concluded that honesty is the best policy.  I will postpone editing reality until something truly humiliating happens - I probably won’t have to wait too long. 

Recipe below – good luck!

Lemon Drizzle Cake

Ingredients

• 225g unsalted butter, softened
• 225g caster sugar
• 4 eggs
• finely grated zest 1 lemon
• 225g self-raising flour

 

For the drizzle topping

• juice 1½ lemons
• 85g caster sugar

 

Method

1. Heat oven to 180C/fan 160C/gas 4. Beat together 225g softened unsalted butter and 225g caster sugar until pale and creamy, then add 4 eggs, one at a time, slowly mixing through. Sift in 225g flour, then add the finely grated zest of 1 lemon and mix until well combined. Line a loaf tin (8 x 21cm) with greaseproof paper, then spoon in the mixture and level the top with a spoon.

2. Bake for 45-50 mins until a thin skewer inserted into the centre of the cake comes out clean. While the cake is cooling in its tin, mix together the juice of 1 1/2 lemons and 85g caster sugar to make the drizzle. Prick the warm cake all over with a skewer or fork, then pour over the drizzle – the juice will sink in and the sugar will form a lovely, crisp topping. Leave in the tin until completely cool, then remove and serve. Will keep in an airtight container for 3-4 days, or freeze for up to 1 month.

 

 

RUMBLE IN THE CRUMBLE

Rhubarb Café, Little Victoria Street, Belfast.  25^th September 2013

Lunch-time in Belfast city centre.  Twelve months have passed since my return to our fair city and I never fail to be foxed by the eternal question – “where to today”?  The problem lies not with a lack of eateries but rather with the plethora of options currently showcased by the capital.   Options that can prove bewildering to the sustenance-deprived and occasionally listless office-worker, leading us to plump for The Usual.  The Usual varies widely from person to person and can be anything from a ham sandwich to a vile-looking cottage cheese, celery and tuna mix followed by a protein bar (to be seen to be believed).  Anyone who works in an office or any communal place of work will attest to the dizzying distinction between one person’s “usual” and another’s.      

 

Today, Fate intervened and I received an invitation to lunch at Rhubarb Café in Little Victoria Street.  I had eaten there once, in the past few weeks actually, but admittedly prior to that I had always overlooked Rhubarb.  In terms of location it has the misfortune of competing with Ginger Bistro (amazing) and the reptile shop (creepily fascinating).  My meal, however, had been very pleasant and the restaurant is unlicensed (“Bring Your Own” is encouraged) - which led me to believe that I had perhaps been missing a trick.  And who turns down a free lunch?  
 

The restaurant seemed to be doing a brisk lunch-time trade.  We arrived and were welcomed and seated very quickly.  I had, as usual, scoped out the menu in advance and knew exactly what both I and my dining companion would be eating.  I opted for the “Salt and chill prawns with Asian-slaw and chilli mayonnaise” and my dining companion had the “Steak burger with cheddar, bacon, chunky chips and BBQ sauce”.  I honestly have yet to see a male resist a burger on a menu.  If someone has ever witnessed an exception to this rule, please tell me.  Really, seriously, please.

While we waited for our meal (which actually arrived very promptly) we were treated to the sounds and smells of cooking from the centrally-situated kitchen, which was a welcome addition to the cafe’s ambience.  The café hosts an interesting variety of clientele – certainly a larger cross-section than some other restaurants in town which tend to draw in professionals only and can represent a post-script to the meeting you’ve just fled.    

When my dish arrived I was arrested by the liberal serving of prawns – an immediately cheering sight and a rare surprise.  So much so, that I almost didn’t clock that the “Asian-slaw” was a rather loose interpretation and was probably more of a leaf-less salad.  It was slightly lacklustre and could have been jazzed up quite simply with a bit of dressing or a few more exotic (even Asian) ingredients.  Nonetheless the flavour of the prawns was superb.  The light coating of spiced batter complemented rather than overpowered the seafood; and the chilli mayonnaise was a tasty pairing.       

 

 

I’d love to comment on my dining companion’s meal.  Nevertheless not even on a single chip from his plate passed my lips.  As you can see, it looks enticing.  It smelt enticing as well.   The only testimonial I have is “Uh-huh.  Lovely”.  I will comment that I’m not sure that the portion size was quite as substantial as the picture suggests - which is borne out by the fact that we had to stop in a newsagents’ on the way back to the office for a packet of McCoys (and they weren’t for me).  Although, by way of full disclosure, I should point out that my dining companion once ate half of my lunch after polishing off his own.  

 

Rhubarb offers an excellent alternative to the common or garden city-centre lunch and has very recently branched out with a new outpost on Wellington Place, very close to Pure Running.   The menu is varied and adventurous, the service was both friendly and highly efficient and, with the bill coming to a grand total of £14.00 for two meals, the value for money was exceptional.

 Of course, everything offers exceptional value for money when it’s free.

 

A GAME OF TWO HALVES

Meeting at Menin Gate, The MAC Theatre.  21^st September 2013

I’m currently watching the X Factor.  Like many of us across the country, I can’t shake my fascination with it.  Nor The Voice.  Nor Come Dine with Me (on which I have a long-held and not-so-secret desire to appear).  I live my life to music, I love books and I’ve probably managed to sit through ten whole films in my lifetime - but from time to time, I suffer from the uncomfortable feeling that I’m suffering from a perilous cultural deficiency.  

This week, my dear madre threw me a rope by way of an invitation to accompany her to Meeting at Menin Gate at the MAC Theatre, a play by Martin Lynch.  By her own admission it would be heavy going.  Given that my mother’s holiday reading tends to consist of biographies of local politicians (“Man of War, Man of Peace” anyone?), this did not bode for a lightsome afternoon.  Nonetheless I accepted the invitation, took a deep breath and prepared to immerse myself in enough political commentary to erase the guilt of the entire season of this year’s X Factor.

The MAC Theatre is a significant enhancement to the ever-expanding Cathedral Quarter.  Its modern and distinctive architecture add to the vaguely European atmosphere of Saint Ann’s Square.  Before Saturday’s performance I’d visited the MAC on several occasions, for work rather than pleasure, and can confirm it bears out as a theatre even more convincingly than it wears its corporate mask. 

 

 

Meeting at Menin Gate is the third part of the “Ulster Trilogy” staged by Green Shoot Productions and directed by Matt Torney.  I had slight trepidation that as the final instalment of a series it would lack the punch of a single piece of standalone theatre - however my fears proved to be unfounded.

The lights go up on a bare set with the two lead characters Terry (James Doran) and Liz (Andrea Irvine) seated in two chairs facing out towards us, the audience.  The genius of both the unassuming set and understated beginning is that the audience is immediately invited into the action.  The first act bypasses the sense of disconnect that can often divide actors and an audience.  Terry is a reformed ex-Republican who was detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure for the murder of two soldiers serving in the British Army.  Liz, a Unionist whose father was a member of the RUC, hails from Hillsborough.  The pair convincingly represent two sides of the same coin and are instantly both recognisable and likeable.  They’re thrown together on a trip to Belgium and a love story begins to develop. 

Against the backdrop of this romance, we are cunningly shown brief snapshots of the Troubles as recalled by the characters’ individual flashbacks or narrated to the audience.  The play is also wickedly humourous – the most notable moments of levity being brought to the action by Marty Maguire and Maria Connolly with both playing a multitude of characters and bringing something fresh (and potentially scene-stealing) to each role.  Maguire’s most memorable contribution was as the Paul Weller-loving older brother of Liz’s youth, and Connolly’s as the foul-mouthed yet convincing Cara.

The play’s elegant title certainly lent itself to the simple beauty and subsequent tension of the first half and as we left for the interval on a “cliff-hanger”, I reflected that this was possibly the most emotionally-charged piece of political drama that I had seen since the Lyric staged Frank McGuinness’ “Observe the Sons of Ulster Marching Towards the Somme”. 

Nonetheless as the second half began, it became clear that we were watching a different play entirely.  The stage had been dressed realistically (rather than symbolically) and Liz and Terry were no longer facing us; but on their feet and absorbed in their own story.  At this point I should comment that, given the development of the plot, the significance of this was probably appropriate.   There was a noticeable departure from the familiar atmosphere created in the first half - the context being that Liz is forced to face a terrible truth about a traumatic childhood event that ultimately turns her relationship with Terry on its head.  Although initially disappointed that the earlier intimacy we had enjoyed had been lost, I settled in to enjoy the second act.   And then things took a turn for the surreal.     

The MAC Theatre’s listing for this play had warned that an audience should expect “strong language, moderate violence and partial nudity”.  Neither my mother nor I had a problem with any of the above.  Nonetheless we hadn’t anticipated how difficult it is not to laugh in a hushed theatre when a grown man is lying prone on the stage with his trousers and boxers around his ankles, being smacked with a piece of foam disguised as a wooden stake.  I could feel my most inappropriate and high-pitched giggle coming on (which was stifled in the nick of time).  I felt as though we had descended into theatre of the absurd - made even more shocking by the stark contrast with the elegantly-crafted first act. 

The second half continued largely along the same vein of rather unpersuasive and borderline puzzling low-level violence.  At no point was it gratuitous or in any way difficult to bear; but it did feel unconvincing.  Nonetheless the plot continued to develop throughout the second act and it became apparent that this was not a romance, nor a commentary on the differences between Republicans and Unionists, but rather a story of victim and perpetrator.  It was a tale of unresolved anger that documents the difficulties of moving on from the horrors of the Troubles and voices the impotency felt by those affected by “empty chairs at the dinner table”. 

Despite the interludes of violence leaving me somewhat incredulous, the message that I carried away from yesterday’s performance has stayed with me.  The theme of victims and perpetrators is not familiar to my generation.  We are the new wave and (mostly) ready to move on and start afresh.  The truth is that it cannot be any other way; nevertheless Meeting at Menin Gate is a poignant reminder that the aftershocks of our troubled history can still be felt by some.

DEEP BREATH ... FIRST POST.

The Potted Hen, Friday 20^th September 2013

Belfast was alight last night and the exhilaration surrounding the much publicised Culture Night was palpable.   I would love to say that I was culturally ahead of the curve on this and in the front row of any of the endless and variety of gigs and performances on offer – but instead I was cosily ensconced at a table on the upper floor of the Potted Hen, observing the action.   I didn’t even manage to venture round to St Ann’s Cathedral where my brother was playing as part of the City of Belfast Youth Orchestra. 

No, I was overlooking the crowds in St Ann’s Square with a delicious glass of Argentinian Malbec in hand (happy Friday). 

I’ve visited the Potted Hen a few times recently.  The food has always been of an excellent standard and the service bordering on the over-enthusiastic (which is exactly how I like it).  On Friday evening we were a party of seven and I was the first to arrive.  I was given a seat at the bar which was the ideal vantage point for observing the great and the good of Belfast enjoying their Friday night supper.  If appearances are anything to go by, the Potted Hen is managing a roaring trade which is a heartening sight in these gloomy recession-stricken times.  

 

Once the rest of the party arrived, we were seated and not one, not two, but three waiting staff, came over to take our drinks order.  It was time to apply ourselves to the serious business of choosing wine. There were three of us with a preference for red wine on Friday night and after a brief confab/debate with my more knowledgeable dining companion (he claimed first place at a blind tasting at Direct Wine Shipments, I’ve only ever come second) about the merits of an Argentinian Malbec over a Spanish Crianza, we opted for a bottle of each.  Everyone won.

The Potted Hen’s a la carte dinner menu showcases traditional dishes and current favourites with a twist.  I am a chronic menu-ditherer and therefore it was necessary to scope out the menu in advance for the sake of us all (see here to read it in mouth-watering detail).  After a few moments of compulsory last-minute agonising, I opted for the confit duck & smoked ham hock terrine to start.   Quite a few of my companions opted for a chicken and bacon salad and one plumped for the salt and chilli tiger prawns.  

After an impressively short wait given the number of customers in the restaurant, the delicious delicacies arrived and it was on.  Here I have a confession – I committed the cardinal sin of failing to take photographs of the food.  Beginner’s error and not to be repeated.  I will do my absolute utmost to describe our feast in all its glory to atone.  My terrine arrived in a generously sized ramekin with two hunks of grilled sourdough bread and a mango and cauliflower picallilli on the side.  The terrine itself was guiltily moreish – fairly coarse with chunks of ham hock throughout and a yellow coating of what seemed to be butter topping it off.  I never complain of “too much” but some of a more delicate disposition may find it quite a heavy starter.  No such fear here.  The sourdough bread was very flavoursome, satisfying chewy and an excellent accompaniment.  Unfortunately the same can’t be said for the partnering picallilli. I am a serious picallilli aficionado – especially when paired with anything pork-based – and this one just didn’t cut it.  It was under-seasoned and under-flavoured; and although it didn’t detract from the dish, it didn’t bring anything to the table (vile restaurant pun). 

I deviated from my usual “meat and seafood” rule and continued the porcine theme by electing for “slow braised pork cheeks with polenta chips and warm orange & fennel salad” for my main.  It was divine.  The two pork cheeks were served separately over the warm salad with the polenta chips on the side; all beautifully presented on a black slate tile.  I appreciate that pork cheeks may not be everyone’s bag ; the description alone was enough to put off some members of our party.  By way of assurance, when served in the Potted Hen they do not look like anything other than two delicious pieces of melt-in-your-mouth meat.  Which they were.  They were so tender that they fell apart at a touch (and I am now absolutely ravenous at the recollection).  The warm orange and fennel salad was tastily tangy with a hint of sweetness to cut through the richness provided by the meat.  I was slightly disappointed by the polenta chips which seemed to be overdone and verging on painfully crispy.  Nonetheless, the main was superb as a whole.

And it didn’t stop there.  Powerless to resist the puddings, we all succumbed – me, to the sticky toffee pudding (my Achilles heel ... admittedly, I am a girl of many Achilles heels).  The sticky toffee pudding also arrived on a trendy black slate, adorned with a rich sauce, honeycomb ice-cream and just enough grapes and raspberries to allow the optimists amongst us to fool ourselves that we were eating something healthy (ahem).  The pudding was served as a rectangular slice of cake – just enough to satisfy without pushing an enthusiastic diner over the edge.   Some of my companions had ordered a chocolate brownie which looked fantastic and was served with vanilla ice-cream – no fruit though, so I was the self-declared winner in the health stakes.    The cheeseboard looked spectacular and offered a generous variety of cheeses as well as portions.  A couple of our party had also ordered accompanying glasses of port which were served in dinkily sophisticated little glasses.

 

The service throughout the meal was faultless – extremely attentive and all waiting staff were more than capable of dealing with our larger-than-usual party of seven.  It complimented the accomplished food and served to enhance what was truly a memorable evening in a relaxed atmosphere - on one of the busiest nights that Belfast has seen for quite a while.  Long may it continue.