Intrepid Gourmet

Chicken noodle soup for body & soul

Where else could you catch a massive cold during the last week of June, if not in Britain? I blame it on my delicate Italian constitution, which didn't handle well the return to an uncharacteristically chilly and rainy London (even by British standards) after spending a long weekend in sweltering-hot Venice.

You can only grasp the concept of British resilience when you have to wait for ages for a cab outside Victoria station, shivering in the cold, wet London night. Just take look at returning British holidaymakers, queueing patiently in their flip flops and t-shirts, seemingly oblivious to the elements. Unlike me, I bet none of them caught even the glimpse of a cold.   

After stocking up on cold remedies and tissues, and while attempting to overcome my envy for the British immune system, I tried to research the latest findings on how to best tackle the illness that is still eluding the pharmaceutical industry. The results are not very encouraging. There's no conclusive proof that vitamin C, echinacea or zinc supplements work, for example. They may even be a waste of money, scientists say.

But there is hope on the horizon. A Swiss study has found that having sex can fight those nasty infection-causing viruses.  It turns out that during sexual intercourse, the number of phagocytes (the cells that ingest and destroy foreign microorganisms) tends to increase significantly. And - even better - the number of these cells almost doubles after orgasm.

Taken at face value, this sounds like the cold remedy from heaven. Who would sneeze at the thought of popping into the bedroom instead of the local Boots The Chemist to sort out that pesky cold? 

There is a catch, though. Do you really feel sexy with a runny nose, watery eyes, chapped lips and snotty tissues stuffed in your pockets? I don't. I'd rather rely on a tried-and-tested method like warming chicken soup to help restore my health and instead work on boosting my phagocyte levels once I am back in peak form.

After all, there's nothing easier or lazier than boiling a chicken with a couple of carrots, an onion and a good pinch of salt. It's also all you are likely to feel up to if you have a really nasty cold. But if it's a Friday evening and you are stuck at home feeling unwell, you might as well give yourself a special treat. This sunshine-coloured, soothing Korean chicken noodle soup doesn't require any esoteric ingredients from Asian shops.  Somyeon are the Korean equivalent of Japanese somen noodles, which can be found in even in the shabbiest corner shop these days. 

To continue the self-indulgent mood, you should also think of a soothing soundtrack to complement your soothing soup. Thanks to a lovely Venetian person (you are the best, thank you!) I have just discovered Feist's Let It Die album. It's just perfect as my sniffles remedy.

Janchi Guksu soup (serves one sickly person)

2 chicken thighs (or one chicken leg)

3 cloves garlic

1 small leek

peppercorns

200g somyeon (or somen) noodles

1 small carrot

1 small courgette

1 egg

vegetable oil

salt and pepper, to season

Place the chicken in a pot and pour water to just cover. Simmer with the garlic cloves, the leek and a few peppercorns for about 30 minutes, until the chicken is tender.

Remove the cooked chicken and shred the meat, discarding the skin and bones. Season with salt and pepper and leave aside. Julienne the carrot and courgette, then stir fry lightly in a little oil in a frying pan for two to three minutes. Leave aside.

Separate the egg and make two thin omelettes, one with the egg white and the other with the yolk. (Use a palette knife to turn the omelettes, it will make your life much easier.) Slice very thinly in the same size as the vegetable.

Cook the noodles in plenty of boiling water, according to the instructions on the packet. Drain and rinse in cold water.

Reheat the broth. Place the cooked noodles in a serving bowl, garnish with the seasoned chicken meat, vegetables and egg. Add the warm broth and some sesame oil - if you have it handy in your kitchen cupboard - for that authentic Korean touch.  Switch off your mobile phone and put on your favourite CD, letting the soup work its magic. Get well soon.   

    

Daddy's girl

Last week several British newspapers got rather carried away with the results of yet another scientific study. Apparently, women who enjoy a good relationship with their fathers are more likely to choose boyfriends and husbands who look like them.

I couldn't help being sceptical. First, because as part of my daily job I have to scan tens of scientific studies - some serious, some dodgy and some plain ridiculous. Then, because I am a glaring exception to this theory: the type of man I have mostly fallen for has been notable for his dark hair and dark eyes. Well, after all I grew up in Italy. 

Perhaps I haven't found yet someone with mesmerising green eyes, divine cheekbones a la Johnny Depp and a golden-brown mane like my father's. (If any of you match this description and are reading this, please don't hesitate to get in touch....) And, let's face it, I haven't yet found someone willing to spoil me rotten like him.

Whenever I am at home in Venice, at breakfast time there is always a warm, fragrant vanilla-cream doughnut just brought back from the neighbourhood bakery - courtesy of my father.

Called krapfen (sometimes Italianised as "kraf") these heavenly doughnuts are the favourite breakfast treat of Venetian early birds: their popularity is so huge that you should consider yourself lucky if you manage to find one after 7.30am. Like spritz, krapfen are a legacy of the Austrian domination in the 1800s, but have acquired a typical Venetian twist  by swapping the traditional jam filling of their relatives north of the Alps with luscious vanilla cream.         

Like several other too-good things, they unfortunately come with a downside: they happen to be calorific bombs. As a friend of mine says, you might as well spread them directly on your hips. Perhaps daddy should take notice that buying his little girl the Bianchi Dama Bianca bike she covets so much could help counteract the unwanted side effects of eating krapfen.... Happy father's day, papa'!

Krapfen (heavenly breakfast treat for six people)

You may not live in Venice or planning to visit soon, but that's not a good excuse to make do with a Krispy Kreme doughnut. Krapfen may be fiddly to prepare and will make your kitchen smell like a fish and chip shop, but the ultimate result (and calorie intake) is well worth the effort.

200ml milk

50g yeast

50g caster sugar

1 pinch of salt

500g plain flour

grated zest of half a lemon

1/4 teaspoon of vanilla extract

80g butter, melted

5 egg yolks

vegetable oil (for frying)

icing sugar

for the creme patissiere

1 litre milk

5 egg yolks

120g flour

200g caster sugar

1 pinch of salt

1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract

zest of half a lemon

First, make the creme patissiere. Boil the milk with the lemon zest, vanilla extract and salt. In the meantime, beat the eggs with the sugar in a bowl. Once the sugar has dissolved and the mixture turns an elegant pale yellow colour, add the flour. You will obtain a rather thick mixture, but don't worry: stir in into the milk, bringing back to the boil on low heat. Stirring constantly for a couple of minutes and take off the heat to cool. 

To make the dough, dissolve the yeast in the lukewarm milk, along with the sugar and salt and leave for 15 minutes. Pour into a large bowl and sift in the flour, stirring in the grated lemon zest, the vanilla extract, butter and egg yolks. 

Knead until you get a smooth dough ball. Cover with a kitchen towel and let rise for about two hours, preferably in a warm spot.  Once the dough has risen, roll it with a rolling pin to a thickness of about 2 centimetres and cut out disks of around 5 centimetres in diameter (I use a water glass for this). Don't throw away the leftover dough, but knead it and roll it again until you cannot get any more disks. Place the disks on a tray and let rise for about one hour. Heat the oil in a large pan to 170 degrees and drop a few disks at a time, frying until they turn golden brown on both sides. Let them rest on loads of paper towels.

Pour some of the creme patissiere into a piping bag, insert it into the side of each krapfen and fill generously. Once you have filled all krapfen, sprinkle with icing sugar and serve to people you are very fond of - I am sure they will love you back.

      

Unsuitable for vegetarians

A couple of years ago I was packed off to Lyon to interview a high-profile French chief executive - a man famous for being difficult and temperamental when in the company of journalists. The pressure to nail that interview was so great that it almost didn't occur to me that I was so lucky to visit France's gastronomical capital.

Instead, I spent most of the run-up to the meeting feeling eels move around inside my stomach, which wasn't too conducive to enjoying Lyon's delicacies.

That said, Lyon's specialities are not exactly for everyone. If you don't/can't eat pork or are vegetarian, perhaps you should stick to visiting the city's lovely patisseries (especially Voisin) because you'll likely to come across bacon even in salads. If you are a die hard carnivore, instead, you'll think you have died and gone to heaven. (Make sure you visit Les Halles market to stock up on charcuterie and cheese.) 

But back to my eels and the reason I had travelled to Lyon. I was finally summoned before the great (in both size and reputation) man, who had of course turned up with a retinue of courtiers - I counted at least five as we sat down. Soon I realised the interview was going nowhere. I asked about apples, he talked about oranges. I spoke English, he answered in French. I threw probing questions, he sulked at my impertinence.

I was close to cracking up. I was tired. Slumped in my chair, I began contemplating a career switch, perhaps translating software user guides - dull, but far less stressful.

As I spluttered my last-ditch question, the Sun King (let's call him so) demanded lunch, which turned out to be a plate of rosette - a typical dry-cured pork sausage with a coarse texture, but far from coarse flavour. He tucked into his rosette with gusto. He then remembered my existence and pushed the plate towards me. "Would you like some?" he smirked, expecting a polite, maybe embarrassed refusal.

But he hadn't figured out that I would polish off half his plate in a blink. By then I had enough of his antics. "Thank you, it's delicious!" I exclaimed.  After a moment of puzzlement, the Sun King burst into laughter and slapped me on the shoulder. "Ahahah, la petite anglaise!"

"Non," I defended myself, "Je suis une petite italienne!" As he discovered that I wasn't a gastronomically challenged rosbif, the Sun King decided we should become best friends and finally gave me an interview I could use. But his best gift was the discovery of rosette, which I never fail to bring back to London whenever I visit France.

If you cannot find it at your local French deli, I suggest you plan your next holiday in Lyon. Just don't bring along veggie friends or lovers.  But don't forget to bring back at least a box of coussins (chocolate confections made with cocoa, curacao liqueur and blanched almonds) to forgive your carnivore escapade. 

   

Home-made Prozac

London is not the easiest place to live. It's probably on a par with New York for the sheer number of psychopaths at large. One evening, after a relaxed meal out with a nice friend, I had to endure a barrage of expletives from a twentysomething who looked like he on the wrong trip - and I don't mean bus route. It's takes some mental strength trying to be zen-like and focusing on positive thoughts - such as the hazelnut mousse dessert I had earlier that evening at Gennaro Contaldo's Passione - while a guy with foam dribbling on his chin is spitting threats at you.   

Those are the times when I love to to shut the door of my flat firmly behind me, kick off my shoes and fix a mean Campari and soda to help myself relax. Nothing can soothe life's inevitable bitter moment like the bitterness of a Campari aperitif and lots of soda bubbles. In Italy, one can even buy it already-mixed in signature cone-shaped bottles, whose design dates back to the 1930s.

Just mix a tumbler of soda water, add around 30ml of Campari and top it off with an orange slice. But if you really want to treat yourself, and make the most of the last blood oranges of the season, you should make a kicky blood orange and Campari granita. It really works as home-made Prozac.

Blood orange and Campari granita

6 blood oranges

300ml water

100g caster sugar

100ml Campari

Wash the oranges under running water and pat dry with a kitchen towel. With a very sharp knife remove the peel, then juice the fruit. Boil the water with the sugar and orange peel for 10 minutes. Leave to cool to room temperature. Remove the peel, add the blood orange juice and Campari and pour into a plastic container, then transfer into a freezer. Stir every 30 minutes until slushy (due to the alcohol content it will not become rock solid). But be mindful not to overdose....

Tea for two

My love for travelling only comes second to that for chocolate. Not just the "getting there" or "being there" bits, but also the packing ritual, when I realise how much I managed to whittle down my belongings to the bare minimum. I still remember my 17-year old-self at Heathrow airport when I first travelled to Britain.  I turned up with a Samsonite suitcase the size of a large wardrobe in one hand and  - yes, I am ashamed - a matching beauty case in the other. In those salad days I still relied on the dubious advice of my mother, who is the kind of woman that likes to take the kitchen sink with her when she leaves home. 

But as the reality of modern travel dawned upon me, I quickly learned that hand luggage is the lifebuoy of the savvy traveller, and promptly ditched the beauty case. Nowadays I only dust off the oversize Samsonite when I travel to Venice, safe in the knowledge that I can't help stocking up on foodie goodies.

Usually, on work-related trips I take a small backpack or carry on with enough sample-sized toiletries and black clothes to look presentable in most circumstances.  Which may range from sitting on the floor during a crowded press conference to dinner a deux at the impossibly grand Hotel Crillon in Paris - in the same day.  Which is why last week I only needed to brush my hair and apply a smidgen of Ferrari-red lipstick as I rushed to an impromptu invitation to L'Obelisque, one of the two highly rated restaurants inside the venerable Crillon.      

The food, the wine and the company (which is not on the menu, I am afraid) were superb. Even more so the dessert I chose for both of us from a delectable selection by L'Obelisque pastry chef Christophe Felder: three doll-sized pots filled with vanilla, chocolate and taste-bud tickling tea custard.  My taste buds were so tickled that on my return to London I spent my lunch break sniffing teas at the Twinings shop on The Strand, looking for a variety of leaves that would help me recapture the taste of L'Obelisque's silky custard.  It turned out to be the musky aroma of Darjeeling tea. Don't use anything else in the recipe.    

Tea custard (serves four)

500ml whole milk

3 Darjeeling teabags

100g caster sugar

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 egg yolk

Reserve one tablespoon of milk and heat the remainder in a saucepan. Turn off the heat once the milk starts boiling and steep the teabags for about 10 minutes, until it turns the colour of cappuccino. In a bowl, whisk the sugar, cornstarch, egg yolk and the tablespoon of milk to obtain a smooth mixture. Remove the teabags, add the egg mixture to tea-flavoured milk and bring to the boil, stirring continuously. Boil for about five minutes until the mixture starts to thicken, then pour into four small bowls. Cool down to room temperature and refrigerate, preferably overnight.  Serve with a smug smile, mentioning to your guests that it's exactly like the eponymous dessert at L'Obelisque, if not better.