Nova Clutch

4th of July, the Anti Macy's

As most Americans turned their heads and hearts to the heavens this 4th of July weekend, I set my gaze downwards to enjoy bursts of color and spectacular displays put on by mother nature rather than those provided by Macy's (no offense Natasha). Attempting to escape the melodic phrases of "God Bless America" for those of crickets and birds, I walked through the fields and forests that grace our friend's farm Pennsylvania farm Saturday afternoon. Exercising my right to bear arms and to shoot everything in sight, I captured and brought home the bounty of the day. On bent knee or in prone position I would seek out the unknown, the unusual and unsuspecting. Some that fell within my sights were well camouflaged, some were in sharp contrast to their surroundings, easy targets for my eager trigger finger. Breathe in, focus, focus, shoot! I got one, two, three! What a country, one nation, under foot. What an opportunity to leave the synthesized noise and plastic distractions of our adopted life behind to consider and reflect upon what this nation was really founded upon; a natural world of beauty and wonder, void of light beer, computer generated fantasy, right wings, left wings, cheese filled hot dogs, manmade gods and manmade fireworks.

OAPs by Hanoi Lake

One of the things I love most about traveling is seeing things that you not only have never heard of, but things that have never entered your brain before, things that make you stop and stare with your mouth open.

We saw one of those events at the main lake in Hanoi, Vietnam. Having got off the night train at 5am we had until much later in the day to check in to our hotel. I suggested going down to Hoan Kiem lake in the center of Hanoi to see if the OAP myth was true or not (OAPS= Old Aged Pensioners in Brit-speak).

The lore was that the city's wrinklier folks congregate around the lake at the break of dawn to exercise together. And it's no joke. An overwhelming number of, I'm guessing, septuagenarians, gather and play badminton, do Tai Chi, massage each other, self-flagellate–you name it– and then vanish, to who knows where. I normally contain myself like a proper English person, showing no emotion when I see surprising sights. This time I stared so hard at the people playing badminton on the street that they gestured at us to come and play with them. We looked at them, looked at each other, shrugged, and threw our backpacks down, ready to take on the auroral OAPs. Needless to say we lost, quite badly, but had a fantastic time doing it. We had picked our luggage off the sidewalk again by 7am.

A weekend in upstate New York

I had a blissful Memorial Day with the people I call my good friends – you know these guys, some of these guys, some of them. Amongst just sitting in the glorious sunshine and reading, we saw Indiana Jones, walked around an architectural masterpiece, played Scrabble, hiked to Doodletown and went to Millbrook Diner.

It was a wonderful long weekend filled with silly amounts of eating and a fair amount of cocktail dabbling. Melissa made smooth mint juleps, Cindy potent scorpinos, Jenn kickass lychee/mint martinis and I herby pink grapefruit/rosemary martinis. Hence the fact that I really can't talk about it, I can just show you pictures. Words just don't do it justice.

Chocolates from À la Mère de Famille

More presents! We're so spoiled. Our dear friends Jenn and Tom got us two brilliant presents from their recent trip to Paris. Here's the first.

À la Mère de famille was founded in 1761 and is the oldest confectioner's in France. It sounds like the ultimate candy store, complete with old world sweet shop magic. There's something so evocative about that moment when Charlie Bucket steps into the candy store, his eyes raised to the ceiling filled with jars upon jars of cavity-inducing goodness. I can just imagine Jenn's little girl's reaction when she walked in, and I'm sure that is what mine would have been too.

Even though we didn't go, we were lucky to have this amazing box of chocolates brought back for us. Dusted in just the right amount of cocoa, these surprising little logs are filled with a slightly wafer-like noisette filling that we cannot stop eating. Contrary to the fact that I have an interminable sweet tooth, I don't normally eat chocolates like this. The empty box is testament to the fact that these are no ordinary chocolates.

La Mère de Famille has five locations around Paris. Store image from La Mère de Famille.

Blank matryoshka dolls

We picked up these little dolls at a Izmailovsky Market in Russia, on a whim because, you know, when in Russia and all that. It's really an obligation. We had picked some blank, unpainted matryoshka dolls a few years ago for our little friend Zo at Shelf in London and I had always wished we had got some for ourselves.

So this time we bought not one but two sets of dolls. The regular matryoshka shape was exactly what we expected, five nesting dolls. We only realized that the little stubby one we bought had not five but nine dolls – and the big one is only three and a half inches tall to begin with! I know it's probably going to be dusting hell but having them all laid out makes me smile.

Izmailovsky Market, Moscow

Our friend Kate insisted that we based our trip to fall over a weekend in Moscow a) so that we could have a night out with the billionaires and b) so that we could go to Izmailovsky Market. I know which option drew my attention.

It was a great time of year to go – cold, but not painfully so, with sunlight bouncing off the shiny lacquer that is ubiquitous in Russia. It's just a fascinatingly rich place to look at; matryoshka dolls of every ilk (Lenin, Putin, Eminem, you name it), furs, stuffed animals, crazy antiques that you aren't allowed to take out of the country, guns, bullets...and this was the one place where people were genuinely excited to meet foreigners. Probably because we may buy something. Michael even had someone sing Snopp Dogg at him. Yikes.

We also had probably the best food of our whole trip in the market. And it didn't cost $200! Puffy flatbread with grilled pork, cooked perfectly with hot sauce. And thank God we had it just before we got on the plane, as I can't really attest to the strengths of Aeroflot cuisine.

An army of caterpillars, a murder of crows...

A superfluity of nuns? Who knew? Who even thought about what a group of nuns was?

We hadn't, until Friday when we were walking around Cold Spring on the Hudson on Friday night. A whole gaggle of nuns, bursting with excitement because they were going to Yankee Stadium. No, it wasn't the game they were excited about, it was the Pope. My bad.

We also saw a few other things in Cold Spring and Garrison this weekend. And we did the Breakneck Ridge hike, which I probably wouldn't have chosen had I read the rest of the description. Although, to any normal person, the name "Breakneck Ridge" would have been enough of a clue. This was serious rock climbing, but hey, it made us beautifully tired for the rest of the weekend.

Eliseevskiy, the best food market in the world.

Quite a bold statement, I'm aware. But I just think it might be. This place puts Dean & Deluca to shame.

Michael and I are the kind of travelers that go to see the sights, yes, but we also go and see things that other tourists may not. One of our favorite things, as designers, is to go to local supermarkets. We went to a few in Russia, but were more fascinated by the lurid colors of borscht and the wonder that is cyrillic typography than anything else.

Until we went to Eliseevskiy. This place is insane. It looks like a Tsar palace that they sell food in. Gone are the visions of Russians waiting in line for a loaf of bread. Oh no. Here they have mangosteens (we don't have those in the US yet!), fresh tamarind, even longans from Vietnam! Sure, you'll pay $80 for a small package of them, but hey, it's not the price, it's the fact that you can.

Photographs from http://eliseevskiy.ru/, because we were too scared of the Russians to take any photos.

Vietnam Re-appropriates, Reuses and Recycles

Recently Natasha and I have been talking a lot about that thing everyone else is talking about – personal responsibility in the face of global warming, carbon footprints and the trashing of our Mother Earth. Each and every time we get into this conversation we remind ourselves of what we saw and experienced in Vietnam over our winter break. As our Mekong Delta guide Mr. Hai told and demonstrated to us, the Vietnamese don't waste anything. As we in the progressive and civilized Western world wave our banners and create awareness while climbing aboard the green washed bandwagon, the Vietnamese quietly do what they do best, re-appropriate, reuse and recycle.

Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of examples of poor ecological practices in Vietnam such as burning leaves and garbage in the early morning, garbage that includes plastic and god knows what else. But in Vietnam there is a rich tradition of conservation that stems from necessity as much as it does for respect and knowledge of the land. Good lord, I may be smelling a series of posts on this subject! Oh the pressure.

Anyway, here is just a small example of what I am talking about. Like the English used to wrap fish 'n' chips in old newspaper, the Vietnamese won't hesitate to wrap their street food in any old paper they find lying around. Of course this type of reuse wouldn't fly in the United States of Purell, where everything is sealed and sanitized for your protection. But in practice, there is nothing that soaks up the oil of deep fried corn and sweet potato fritters of Hanoi like an old receipt or page from a magazine. At the end of the day you can even use the oil drenched paper as a torch as you find your way to the outhouse.

Zenit football in St. Petersburg

Ah, once again we are upon the weekend. And any man worth his weight in blood, sweat and tears is gearing up for a weekend of football and nail biting match results of their favorite leagues. Although I have been told by Natasha's father that I am now too old to play the beautiful game, I hope to find myself involved in some pick-up games at the rather lovely artificial pitch at Cadman Plaza this Saturday morning. Although I find it to be a tremendous and competitive workout, it is a rather civil and gentlemanly affair compared to the lion's den that we where thrown into two weekends in St. Petersburg. Yes, the St. Petersburg in Russia.

To further my Russian birthday surprise, Natasha and Kate arrange for us to see last year's Russian premier league's champions Zenit go up against their much hated rival, Moscow's Spartak. It was no easy feat to procure four tickets in a city of eight million when the stadium can only hold 20,000 vodka fueled fans on opening day of a new season. But thankfully Kate's coworker, and our new friend, Andrey was up to the task. We don't know how he did it, but when asked, he just cracked a half grin, tilted his head to towards his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. Enough said.

Over the years I have heard people go on about how a particular basketball arena's fans screaming and jeering create a "sixth man" that crushes a visiting team's hope and spirt. I have witnessed the rowdiness of Yankee Stadium's "Bleacher Bums" harassing poser Yankee fans during the playoffs as harshly as they would a visiting Red Sox fan during the regular season. I have heard the pagan and base club chants of the English Premiership. And we have all seen American football's overweight, half-naked fans painted in team colors being escorted from the stadium after a few too many Bud Lights. But none of this was able to prepare myself for my day with Zenit.

After making our way though a 2 kilometer perimeter alcohol-free zone of police, militia and other uniformed and well protected, baton wielding peacemakers we found ourselves in a Russian line* to the one entrance of this moated stadium. After three more check points, ticket checks and frisks from stone-faced and muted guards we found our way up to our seats. With Natasha and Kate layered and covered from head to toe, we followed St. Petersburg native Andrey who was sporting a tee-shirt and Members Only type jacket on this cold, but sunny day.

We found ourselves seated about 20 yards from the visiting Spartak fan section, a pulsating, groaning mass of red, white and black flanked by helmeted riot police and at the ready. No, this was not Giants stadium where you could give a good old ribbing to the Dallas fan sitting next to you. This was war. And as with war of old, there were beating drums, battle cries and giant flags waving under an ominous and amassing storm front. But the corralled Spartak section seemed no match for the blue and white sea of Zenit fans that engulfed them. But then again, football matches are won and lost on the pitch.

Although this was opening day the pitch was grass bare, and a muddy mess. This is St. Petersburg in March after all, and as history has shown us, the people of this city are more hardened and determined than any the world has known before. And today's battle was no different. It was a skillfully played match where hustle and determination won balls and opportunities for the Zenit side. Half-time found us at nil, nil and in our own fight for hot dogs and candy. The hot dog, although covered in mustard, ketchup and thousand islands dressing, did little to put itself in league with a New York dirty-water-dog. However, the second half of the match would provide the fireworks that our snacks could not deliver.

As the second half began, so did the mayhem in the stadium as we started to see smoke bombs and flares light up at the far end of the stadium. All in all it looked like a commando operation or tragic railway accident that threatened a nearby town with toxic fumes. Natasha, Kate and I looked at each other as the stadium erupted with cheers. Play continued as the visiting fans showed what they were packing while the security forces looked on. As Andrey was to explain to us first-timers, this was all in line with normalcy, and the security forces had to give a little so the people could blow off some steam.

As the Zenit dominated game drew to a close, Spartak found themselves the lucky recipients of a 0-0 tie. A solemn procession of blue and white brought us around the stadium, through the still silent security forces and over the moat as Spartak supporters remained in the stadium for an escort to their awaiting busses. All in all an amazing experience to be remembered.

After a 2-0 win over Moscow last week, and an upcoming match against second place Rubin this week, I think that I will be following this talented Zenit team throughout the season. All the best to you and your team Andrey, thank you so much. I hope the next few weeks find you back on the pitch yourself.

* There is no such thing as a line in Russia as we found out.

Vietnamese Coffee

I am obsessed. This is the only time, apart from when I make dulce de leche, that I buy condensed milk. I know, it sounds disgusting, but you have to try before you baulk.

Vietnamese coffee is knock-you-over strong. Without the sweet condensed milk, it may well give you a seizure. Condensed milk is put in a glass, and the filter on top. You pour half a cup of coffee into the top of the filter, and pour hot water on top and it drips down onto the milk. We bought this beautiful silver coffee filter (don't worry, we bought the everyday aluminium ones from the supermarket too) and I am obsessed with it as an object. We got it from a shop just near our hotel in the Church Street area of Hanoi called Mosaique. It's one of the few places that actually have some decent things in Hanoi (and not just knocked off crap), and it's set in a beautiful old town house, not unlike Felissimo in New York.

Mosaique is at 22 Nha Tho St, Church Street area, Hanoi, Vietnam

A giant stick of cinnamon

It happened because Michael and I were walking around a market in the far North of Vietnam, and had retreated into the dry goods section of the market in fear of seeing another dog head for sale. We found some interesting things in our place of retreat, mainly strange dried medicinal goods. There were bags of dried lizards (named only "medicine" when I asked) that I considered buying for a second but realized a) I didn't really have a use for them and b) that might prove a problem with immigration considering what else I was bringing into the country. I opted for this giant stick of cinnamon instead, which cost me all of a dollar and with which I may make a big vat of mulled wine or cider.

I photographed this with a regular cinnamon stick by its side so there's a sense of how massive this thing actually is!

Coconut candy from the Mekong Delta

The towns of the Mekong Delta were not quite what I expected. They weren't small towns with a slow, bucolic pace. This was developing industry, smoke-ridden, motorbike-riding commerce. Luckily for us – because we live in smoke-ridden industry and see a power plant from our window – we managed to get into a sleepier part of the Mekong.

When our guide told us we were going to a coconut candy factory I bristled a little and had visions of an industry for the foreigners, and tourism by rote. What we actually found was a small hut on the banks of the Mekong, replete with the hulling of coconuts and the manufacture of candy by hand by a whole family.

They use only older coconuts – young ones are the green coconuts you drink the water from – and the older ones are the fibrous, brown coconuts with harder flesh. This is then caramelized and spun over a fire. Then the gooey mess is spread over some rubber and pushed by hand into wooden slats to create a uniform shape and size. Once it has cooled it is then cut by hand into pieces, wrapped with homemade rice paper and then in paper.

The result is candy that I have been eating everyday, and I don't normally eat candy. But this is not overly sweet with a very satisfying chewiness, and the most wonderful caramel-like smoky flavor, that comes from cooking it over an open flame. I can't stop eating them, and unfortunately when they're gone, it's going to be quite impossible to get more. Unless of course, I go back to the Mekong.

La Casa Grande Tobacco Company, Arthur Avenue

One of the highlights of going to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx is watching the cigar rollers at La Casa Grande Tobacco Company, just inside the covered market. We stood captive for what seemed like an eternity watching the rolling of the cigars. One of the gentlemen puffed on a cigar whilst making them, a testament to his skill. The leaves are cut by what looks like a rounder version of man's first tool and rolled and pressed right in front of you. And I can personally attest to the fact that they are beautifully fresh like the rest of the food at Arthur Avenue, but this time I did resist buying a lot. I don't have a humidor, and I didn't want the cigars to dry out before I had a chance to smoke them. The Company is so proud of their accomplished cigar rollers, that you can hire them to come to events and roll cigars for you. Now that would be a good birthday present.

3 things to do off I-95

It's a long way from New York to Nantucket, especially when you take the slow ferry and not the fast one. And on the way is a lot of crap, but there are a few gems that stand out. Here's what we think you should do:

1) Take a detour off the detestible I-95 into Westport, Connecticut and go to the best doughnut shop. Ever. Crispy, soft-centered lovely goodness is making me a bit weepy just thinking about it. They were still warm when we picked them up last Sunday on a chilly but sunny morning, bleary-eyed because we had left Brooklyn at 7am. Take the trip from New York, just for the doughnuts, it's worth it, particularly for the sublime honey-glazed.
Coffee an' Donut Shop, 343 Main Street, Westport CT 06880. 203 227 3808

2) Stop in at New Haven, Connecticut to get some famous pizza. All the lauded places are in one place, Wooster Street just off Olive. We tried to go to Sally's to have some of their famously vinegary pizza, but they were still closed for the summer (at the end of September) so we went to Frank Pepe's instead. At 9pm on a Sunday night it was tough to get through all the people milling around outside the door and the Italian music playing from across the street really made it feel like you're in a movie. Inside, haggard-looking waitresses briskly ploughed pizza cutters through steaming pies and three men made the pizzas with a head-spinning rapid-fire system in their coal-fired oven. Going by the New York Times's advice, we went for the special which is way too much to ever put on a pizza. Bacon, pepperoni, sausage, onions, peppers and mushrooms made the pizza slightly soggy, but didn't disguise a very good, ashy, smokey crust. They make it when you order it, so if you are stopping off while enroute somewhere, call and order 20 minutes ahead.

Frank Pepe, 157 Wooster Street, New Haven CT. 203 865 5762

3) Lastly, if you're going this way, drop into Newport and have a gander at the mansions . They're huge, impressive and amazingly, merely summer homes. The most famous is The Breakers, a former Vanderbilt summer "cottage" and it's so ridiculously big, you could probably house all the inhabitants of Luxembourg in it. There's also an amazing cliff walk around some of the mansions that really makes you feel like smoking a cigar whilst drinking a Pimm's. We didn't have time, but I suggest you do that.

Folio Bag from Labour and Wait

Sometimes there are those things that you don't want to tell anyone about (let along blog) because you want to keep it a secret, you don't want anyone else to know about it. If you tell people, soon the press would have their hands on it and it will be ruined forever. I felt that way about this but it was outed anyway.

Sweetu, Karen and I felt this way about Labour and Wait for a long time. Labour and Wait is the kind of shop that you feel only you know about, even though it is just a stone's throw from London's famous Brick Lane, the environs for the likes of Gilbert and George. Why did we think that we were the only ones that fell in love with their bristle brushes and enamel milk pots?

Because we weren't. What did Timeout London vote as the best shop in London last year? Not DSM, or Smythson, nor Steinberg and Tolkien. No, their favorite shop was our favorite shop. Shock that a) we actually agreed with the press and b) our beloved shop was also beloved to many, many others led to confusion. On the one hand, we were so pleased that the little shop that could, did, but on the other...well, people would go to it! The tiny shop would be inundated with not passersby, but destinationists that read about it in a magazine. That's success for you.

I have a few things from Labour and Wait (which I will dutifully post in good time) and have been prevented by Michael from bringing back a broom from there from London to New York. But what I am lusting after right now is this folio bag. It looks like it would perfectly enclose a MacBook Pro and seem like you were going fishing at the same time. A better choice than the Jack Spade that Michael keeps toting around, mainly because you won't see 10 other people carrying it down Mercer Street when you're going for a meeting. Sigh, I wish London's favorite shop were over here...

Eating at a butcher's table in Île de Ré

It's easy to dream of a blissfully bucolic life where a family eats around a table together for every meal, on a thick scrubbed down wooden table, with perhaps a dog or a cat milling around feet hoping for gastronomic detritus. The reality is that people have demanding jobs, they live in an apartment and not a farmhouse, and they just don't have time to roast the dinner for a few hours when they get home bedraggled from work.

The family I stayed with seemed to make this dream happen. Perhaps they don't do it every day, and it was for mine and Karen's benefit. I didn't ask, I wanted to keep the idealistic vision in my head that this was life everyday. Each day Karen and I would cycle back from our day's activities (beach, small village or market perusing) and be seated at the solid wooden table, promptly at 3pm. A never-ending array of food would greet us, typically beginning with patés, marinaded seafood with bread, then a course of meat (pork chops, steak, roasted chicken) with vegetables, then a cheese course and then dessert. By the end of it, we were quite ready for a siesta, but toughed it out and went to the beach or to a bar. The bar was never really a good idea though, because lunches were accompanied by an apéritif, too many glasses of rosé, and differing digestifs. And we did need the digestif to cut through some of that food.

I don't know if I've done it justice, but here are a few photos of some of the amazing meals we had at Michel's table. And just to make you feel a little bit better, he is a butcher, and has all this meat, and some of the cooked food, at his disposal everyday. But to even put together meals like this twice a day takes some serious dedication to the most splendid of rituals.

Fishing for oysters in Île de Ré

Oysters are a little like cashews. You know vaguely where they come from, but not really. Sure, I knew that they came from the sea, but I didn't really know how they grew.

When Vincent suggested that we go and fish for oysters I couldn't have been there fast enough. Imagining it, I expected it to be somewhat like berry picking; you go with your basket to get weighed at a counter like when we went to Schmidt's Berry Farm. I was wrong. We walked through an old abandoned canoe storage space onto a beach with an oyster reef. There was no counter. This wasn't a farm maintained by an organization. This was the beach, and you can go and pick how ever many oysters you want, at no charge, whenever you want. I felt a little sheepish, that my sense of capitalism has so permeated my brain that I just assumed you would have to pay for the privilege of spending hours with sharp objects on slippery shores.

Armed with baskets and dangerous looking oyster knives, we gingerly walked onto the reef. I say gingerly because it was extremely slippery, and as the temperatures were an unseasonable 18°C, we didn't fancy slipping into the cold Atlantic. Looking at the rocks below me, I wasn't sure how you could really tell what was an oyster and what was, well, just rock. And it was difficult to, but after a while I started to acclimatize. And I realized how many oysters there actually were.

Hundreds of oysters littered the rocks, embedded and not ready to give up their grip without a fight. Or least, considerable obstinacy. Vincent showed us how to wedge the tip of the knife between the oyster and the rock – easier said than done, sometimes there is no in-between an oyster and the rock – and gently lever the knife to pry the oyster away from its craggy home. We set about this, intermittently hearing expletives come from Karen's part of the reef, as she broke open oyster after oyster. If you break them you have to eat them, as they wouldn't have lasted the short journey home. So Vincent and I slurped the broken ones right from the rocks (Karen wasn't having any unless she had vinaigrette, and there was a surprising dearth of vinaigrette on the reef). I wasn't much more adept at easing the oysters into the baskets than Karen, but was strangely satisfied when I did. Slowly, our baskets began to fill up, and by the end of an hour or so of back-breaking prying, we had two full baskets full of what looked like rocks. We walked up the beach and were home to start opening them up by 10am, and we had seen no one else yet.

Wild oysters like this are notoriously difficult to open. That was a job for Vincent, leaving him shouting "merde!" at the various debris in the sink, with the task of opening more than 5 dozen oysters ahead of him. Karen made her vinaigrette and that morning I developed quite a taste for oysters au naturel. Île de Ré's oysters were some of the creamiest tasting that I have had, and I'm still dreaming about them now.

Salt from Île de Ré

Ever since Michael read the Salt book, he's an expert on the subject. If someone even mentions a word beginning with sal–, he's there in a flash with a "did you know?" So I knew when I brought him back some Fleur de Sel from Île de Ré, he would be able to give me a brief history of salt making in France. He was also appalled that I hadn't been to the salt works. I had eating to do and only four days, so it hadn't been a priority. Not bothering with the "gros sel", the larger salt that is more for cooking than finishing, I lugged back bags of the lighter finishing salt for him. And he immediately plucked one of our beefsteak tomatoes off the vine to embark upon a taste test with the Rétais salt and our beloved Maldon. Maldon finished off the winner for both of us, but the the Île de Ré salt has a more pungent, salty flavor that worked well with the tomatoes.

The family I stayed with had a beautiful salt cellar and after a little search, I found one at the La Flotte market. It is made in France from porcelain and is perfect for a little fleur de sel, or Maldon, whichever takes your fancy. It's making a regular appearance at our table.

The markets of Île de Ré

A defining feature of Île de Ré is its markets. At first glance they are not quite as picturesque as you would expect them to be in an island like this one, but give them a second chance. The markets look as though they are just for tourists, but this is where the locals shop too. La Flotte is the most famous of the bunch and is a gourmand's delight.

I left La Flotte with my arms full with Opinel knives, fresh almonds, bulots, an apple loaf, sumac and Île de Ré's famous miniature melons, trying to resist buying the array of saucissons (we were staying with a butcher) and oysters (we were to go and harvest oysters at the end of the week). This was the first time that I had seen fresh almonds, and they have the fuzziness and texture of peach skins, the nuts inside being very clean and slightly raw tasting, and they are much softer than the shop bought nuts that I am used to. The array of seafood at the island's markets is amazing, with oysters aplenty, lobsters, crabs, crayfish, langoustines and plenty more shellfish. We took our goodies home and our French hosts showed us how to cook the wonderful bulots.

Bulots mayonnaise

Karen and I had greedily bought the whole stock of bulots from a seafood stand at La Flotte market in Île de Ré, hoping that our French friend Vincent would know what to do with them. Luckily he, and the family we were staying with, knew exactly what to do.

Bulots are like whelks – I assumed they were just normal snails when I saw them on the stand – and are a firm French favorite. If I lived there they would be one of mine too. You clean the bulots by soaking them in cold water. Then you put some more water in a pan with seasonings – such as a bay leaf, fresh herbs, salt, onion – and let them boil away. The pan was brought to the table, along with some crusty bread and a quick mayonnaise that was whipped up with some olive oil and egg yolks. It's as simple as that. You dig the meat out with a small metal escargot fork, discarding the operculum and give it a good dollop of sunny mayonnaise. Chewy heaven in a shell.

My trip to Île de Ré

My friend Karen has been talking about Île de Ré
since her first trip there about five years ago. Sentences full of superlatives from someone that rarely gets excited about anything piqued my interest. Stories of cobbled streets, bike riding and copious amounts of oysters concretized it.

I was going to be in London anyway, so the opportunity for a cheeky little trip to a French fishing island seemed to fit in perfectly. Was it going to be as idyllic as Karen had been telling me these five years past? The research I did seemed to liken Île de Ré to the Hamptons and this was not something that was appealling to me. Alex scoffed it was an "it" place, one that you know about from The Times that attracts Londoners and Parisiens alike. And it does. But the beautiful thing about Île de Ré is that it doesn't matter. It's a very small island, and most people get around by bicycle. None of the fastidious American cycling here – it's easy cycling, barefoot or in flip flops on flat plains of land, through picturesque cycle paths, cars deferring to a cyclist's presence like I have never seen. The city folks tend to stay in the larger village of St-Martin-de-Ré with their yachts. And the rest of the island is for the rest of us.

Île de Ré is famed for its salt, potatoes and oysters (which was music to my ears) and is resplendant with its own micro-climate and pine tree-studded forests. You can cycle from end to end quite easily, getting lost because you can never be too far off track, harvest your own oysters, amble through the island's many markets or simply dawdle on the beach. Although basking in the glow of attention from travel aficionados, the island's development is strictly controlled, and crumbly cobbled streets lie aside white-washed cottages adorned with wooden shutters, that are painted with the leftover paint from the fishing boats.

But the most important thing you will do is eat. Impossibly fresh lobsters and oysters, creamy local potatoes and as the region is technically still within Charentes, Cognac and Pineau. Yes, you can eat oysters at one of the many outdoor cafés in St Martin in the harbor, but harvesting your own oysters early morning, or ambling through the food markets buying fresh produce or pastries and charcuterie is a more fun way to go.

In the next few posts, I will be collating my myriad photos from Île de Ré to give a little insight of my stay on the island of ferns.

A weekend in New Tripoli

A lot of my friends like food as much as I do. It's one of the things that bind us together. But I've been to dinner parties where the level of food competition and ardour is so persistent that it turns a regular meal into an ordeal. And I don't like that. Our weekend in New Tripoli was full of people that like to eat, and we certainly cooked a lot, but it was extremely easy and natural. And I liked that.

Out little trip was to our friends' friends' farmhouse in New Tripoli, Pennsylvania. We went up there because Darren had planted some grape vines on their land and needed some strong backs and weak minds to help with some vine labor. Michael obliged, I picked gooseberries as I have a strong mind and a weak back. But the wonderful thing about the weekend was that although it was food-centric, it was completely relaxed and easy.

On Saturday morning we woke to wonderful homemade scones with jam made from fruit they grow on the farm. We then went over to Hartman's Butcher to get provisions for dinner as they close at 12pm. The steaks we had that night (pictured) were probably the best I have ever had home-cooked. Ridiculously thick and juicy, thoroughly marbled and unbelievably flavorful, there's a reason why they are so good. Hartman handpicks the cows, brings them to the store, slaughters them himself and cuts up the steaks right there. This is extremely fresh meat, and Lord, does it make a difference. We also got some of his homemade hot dogs which we are going to try out another night.

While the boys were shovelling rocks around the base of the vines, the girls tended to the gender-specific (and to us, far more pleasurable) task of baking a cherry pie. I had seen the cover of Gourmet magazine with their "best cherry pie" boast, and had decided it would be a good idea to tackle it. On the way back from Hartman's we stopped in at Schmidt's Berry Farm where we picked 7lbs of blueberries each and some sour cherries for that cherry pie.

I have to say the cherry pie recipe was flawless. If you follow it exactly you will get a slightly unwieldy dough, but if you persist it really is worth the work. The filling has ground tapioca in it which stops the cherries from becoming soupy, the filling is not too sweet and the pastry held up well to the shape but was still wonderfully crumbly. I particularly liked the mini-heart shaped one we made, I know, how quaint.

After all of that manual labor, we all jumped into the hot tub starting with prosecco, two bottles of Girard Sauvignon Blanc and a bottle of rosé. Needless to say we were somewhat wobbly when we got out of the hot tub into the kitchen. We ate the stupendous steaks with a phenomenal brunello and a Cabernet Sauvignon from St Supery in Rutherford, because we hadn't drunk quite enough yet. It was a rather indulgent end to a wonderful weekend.

Daytrip to the North Fork Table and Inn

There are days when things don't go so well. And you wallow in all the different incarnations your life could take – a different career, partner, country. And then there are those days where you can't believe that this is your life, the things you get to do and the people you get to do them with.

Saturday was one of those days. It was so idyllic it was quite sickening. I promise there is no candy-coating here, it really was that good.

We started off with egg sandwiches and iced coffees (it's 30°C here in NYC at night for all you Europeans reading this) from the corner deli and trundled off in Jen and Tom's car to the highway. We were there in no time, and sipping wine at 11am at Jamesport winery (although the wines we went there for, Pinot Noir and white port were not available). In lieu, Cinq was not bad and the Cabernet Franc (which tends to be one of the few red wines that do well in Long Island) wasn't either. Their late harvest Riesling is also rather nice (don't look at the sugar content, it will put you off) but at $44.95 a bottle, you can get better for the money. I mean, four of those and you've got yourself a Chateau d'Yquem.