Tag: food

Cooking with Nathan : San Pietro

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There’s not much left in the fishmonger’s at Palanca. My fault, I’d got up late, and midday on a Saturday morning is not the time for buying fish as they’re running down the stock.

I took a look around, but nothing is really grabbing my attention. But there’s always San Pietro (“John Dory”) something of a luxury fish in the UK but seemingly more common – and certainly cheaper – in this part of the world.

I only need two fillets but, as I said, the boys are trying to clear everything, and so I leave with three instead. That’s nearly half a kilo of fish.

Fried in breadcrumbs is always an option of course, but that seems a little unexciting for such a fine fish. Then I remember I’ve got a few pieces of salmon in the freezer that I was saving for a basic pasta sauce. I’ve probably got all the parts I need for a fish stew. And so, that evening, I set to work.

You know the drill by now : I mix us a brace of Spritz Nathans, and cook to Steely Dan’s “Can’t Buy a Thrill” as I’m doing a complete Dan relisten.

Ingredients (serves 3….yes, I know, there are only two of us)

One small onion

One fat clove of garlic

About a dozen small tomatoes

One medium-size potato

Pinch of saffron

Two fillets of San Pietro

Maybe 50g of salmon. More won’t hurt if you’ve got it.

Half a litre of chicken stock (you could probably get away with water, but stock is better if you have it)

Parsley if you’ve got it, some fresh chilli if you’d like, salt to taste

Method

Stick a pan on a low heat with a couple of tablespoons of olive oil.

Sweat the (finely diced) onions, and then halve and add the tomatoes. Cook them down. You can take as long as you like over this. When they’re nearly done, finely chop the garlic and add that as well.

Chop the potato into small-ish cubes and add to the pan along with a pinch of saffron. Give it all a good stir together and then add the stock. Cover and let it simmer for about 15 minutes, or until the potatoes will take the point of a knife.

In the meantime, chop your San Pietro and salmon into chunks. When the potatoes are done and the stew is about the right consistency (add a little water if you need to), add the fish to the pan – you don’t want them to be cooking for more than five minutes as they’ll overcook and start to fall apart, so go easy on the stirring. Season to taste.

And that’s pretty much it. Add parsley if you’ve got it, chilli if you’d like it. Some lightly toasted bread rubbed with olive oil and garlic would be nice; but the potatoes are there to add carbs and so it’s non-essential. Also I forgot. And didn’t have the right kind of bread anyway.

And that was Saturday. We managed about 2/3 of it. The rest, I thought, would do us for Sunday.

The trouble with that is that it left one spare fillet of San Pietro which I could probably do something with at a later date, but it’s a slightly annoying amount of fish to have left over. Also, reheating the stew risked the fish falling apart.

So what I did was kind of a variation on a fish chowder.

Ingredients (for two)

Remains of yesterday’s fish soup (you kept this in the fridge, didn’t you….please tell me you kept this in the fridge…)

One fillet of San Pietro

Dozen prawns (it was Sunday, so I went to Conad – they were perfectly good)

140g sweetcorn (or thereabouts- this just happened to be the size of the tin I had in)

Splash of milk

Parsley

Method

Blitz the existing soup in a blender or food processor.

Scrape it into a pan, and let it down with some milk

Add the sweetcorn, and cook it through until the consistency seems about right

Chop the remaining fillet of San Pietro and add it to the pan together with the prawns

Again, you don’t really want to give this much more than five minutes. Season to taste, and dress with parsley (I don’t think chilli would have worked in this case. Coriander might have been nice though?)

Toasted bread on the side if you’ve got it.

Straightforward cooking, probably reasonably healthy, and two fun meals to prepare. Doesn’t have to be San Pietro, I imagine any firm-fleshed white fish would be fine – cod, haddock, even monkfish if you’re pushing the boat out.

Happy eating, everyone!

What we didn’t eat on our holiday…

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So, we’re just back from a month in Sicily. We go there every year in August. But this time is different. It’s barely a month since we laid mum to rest. I’m tired. I’m stressed. I feel burned out. In short, I’m in need of a break.

Work on next year’s Nathan book is behind schedule, for obvious reasons, but Sicily gives me a chance to catch up. Write in the morning, join Caroline on the beach in the afternoon. After a few weeks I’m dragging it back on track and I can even admit to myself that, yes, I’m enjoying this and I think this book is going to work out.

Dinner in the evening varies between Sicilian street food or ice cream (because we’re old enough now to have an ice-cream and call it dinner). But there are also those nights of proper restaurants where we might just treat ourselves. Which, in this part of Sicily, basically means fish.

As a result, I’ve managed to eat my own bodyweight in grilled anchovies.

Let me explain. Grilled small fish – sardines, anchovies, whatever they may be – are just one of those things I could always eat. Forever. It’s my Death Row meal. Ideally with a big pile of crispy chips on the side. And I have eaten a *lot* of anchovies this holiday. And, tonight, I’m planning to do the same.

I ask the waiter if there are any Small Fish available. He nods, and says, of course.

Great. I’d like some small fish, grilled over charcoal, and a big pile of crispy chips please.

Of course, he nods. Then he frowns. One moment.

He heads off to investigate the fresh fish cabinet. He talks to the boss. Shaking of heads goes on and my heart sinks.

He returns. There are some small fish. But only a few. Not enough to make a proper dinner. Perhaps I might like something else?

I’m a bit thrown by this. In all honesty I hadn’t really consulted the menu as carefully as I might. But I did notice there was a modestly priced steak. And, given there’s a proper charcoal grill, I imagine that would be pretty good.

So I ask for the Bistecca.

His expression changes, becomes quizzical.

‘What, you don’t like fish?’

‘Er, yes, I do, but given you haven’t got any small fish – ‘

‘We have lots of fish!’

‘ – yes, but as you have a proper charcoal grill I thought maybe the steak – ‘

He shakes his head. ‘The steak is there only for small children who don’t like fish!’

‘Oh.’

‘We have ricciola. It is a beautiful fish.’

I know what a ricciola is. It’s an Amberjack. It is, indeed, a very fine fish.

I’m still kind of thinking I would *quite* like that steak. But I get the impression there’s not going to be a discussion here.

‘I’ll have the ricciola,’ I say.

He nods and smiles. ‘Excellent choice, sir.’ He pauses. ‘It is much better than the steak.’ As if I were in any doubt.

‘Could I still have the big pile of chips?’

‘Of course.’

Caroline, by this stage, is wiping tears away.

The ricciola arrives. It is indeed a splendid fish and the chargrilled flesh makes it all the more splendid. We then share a torta di cassata between us and I finish with a coffee and grappa, as Caroline has an amaro amara.

It has been an excellent meal and the ricciola a perfect recommendation. I shake hands with the waiter and tell him we’ll see him in a few days. As, indeed, we do. Only this time there really are small fish available…

A month passed. A month of writing and reading and eating and, simply, of just feeling happy. Honestly, I wasn’t quite ready to go home. But, at the end of the day, Sicily brought me back to a more healthy state of mind. I feel better for having been there.

I still wish I’d had that bloody steak though.

The Yule Ritual

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A Nathan Sutherland short story for Christmas

Everybody has their own Yule Ritual. When we’re kids it’s all about putting a glass of sherry out for Santa and a carrot for Rudolph. Or was it a carrot for Santa and a sherry for Rudolph? At any rate, the carrot was usually there in the morning and the sherry nowhere to be found. And then trying to sleep. The sound of mum going downstairs at an unholy hour of the morning to get the oven warmed up as the turkey – she kept a dossier – absolutely had to be in the oven before sunrise. The sound of her – I think I always knew it was her – putting down a pillowcase of presents at the foot of the bed together with one of dad’s old socks. The sock, I knew, wouldn’t contain anything more exciting than tangerines and, to be honest, they weren’t really the main event. But that was okay. It was part of the ritual. And I’m sure they did me good. I would keep my eyes closed and pretend to snore – this was back in the days when I actually had to pretend to snore – and I’d be aware of her presence on the threshold of my room. And then the door would gently shut, and the lights would dim. Both of us knew exactly what was going on, of course. But that was okay, too. It was part of the ritual.

   And then one day I realised I’d become older, but I had to keep it going. For mum’s sake more than mine. And we kept the pretence going for as long as possible. Until the ritual changed and became boozy Christmas Eves with friends, which always ended with rolling home on cold and frosty nights, keys fumbling in the lock, and exaggerated and always unsuccessful attempts to be quiet for fear of waking anyone up.

   And then the years creep up on you, and your friends have got older. And they have families now, and so they don’t want to do that anymore. And, perhaps, a Magical Christmas is now replaced with a “Quite Nice” Christmas.

   Then one day you wake up, and you’re in Venice now, and you have a wife and a mother-in-law and an unfriendly cat. But your best friend has a little girl and so, by proxy, the magic is back if only for a little while….

Dario and I had our thing. I always called it The Yule Ritual. He asked me why and I told him it was a Hawkwind thing. I remember his beer glass pausing, halfway to his lips. And then he smiled, and nodded, and never asked me again. Because, of course it was.

   We would go out to Mestre, to Toni’s bar on Corso del Popolo, on the twenty-third of December, and sit outside under the heaters. Originally that was so I could smoke. Then I quit, but we continued to sit outside anyway. Toni would bring us pints of Nastro Azzurro  – we were the only customers who drank pints and so he’d got the glasses in especially for us. Then there’d be slices of pizza, and we would pull our coats around us, shivering, as we watched people come and go. Office workers, clocking off for Christmas, having a final drink with their friends before heading home for the holidays. Desperate looking men in search of stores that remained open for last-minute shopping. Teenagers pretending to be cool, but all, secretly, excited about the holidays as the last little bit of magic hadn’t been extinguished yet. And families with small children who oohed and aahed at the lights, as even Mestre on a cold December’s night was not devoid of the Christmas spirit. Toni would join us when the customers had thinned out (strictly a small beer for him) and we’d raise our glasses and promise to see each other, same place, same time, next year. Then we’d make our way home, a little unsteadily, and keys would rattle in locks as we both tried not to make any noise, and Dario would tell Vally that I was a bad influence on him, and I’d tell Fede that Dario was a bad influence on me.

   It was what we did. It was the ritual. The Yule Ritual.

——————————————————

   ‘Sleeping again, tesoro?’

Federica. I hadn’t heard her come in.

   ‘Just resting my eyes, cara.’

   ‘Okay. Can you do that without snoring though?’

   I struggled to my feet, my back twinging from the effects of a little sleep on the sofa that had evidently turned into a big sleep.

   ‘I thought I’d find you hunting for presents.’

   ‘I don’t do that.’

   ‘Oh, you absolutely do. Don’t think I don’t know.’

   ‘Well, it’s a very Christmassy thing to do, isn’t it?’

    ‘Yes. When your six. I bet little Emily doesn’t do it.’

    ‘Oh, she does.’

    ‘And I bet you she doesn’t.’

    ‘And I say she does. I was round at Dario’s yesterday and – and – ‘ My voice trailed off.

    ‘Go on.’

    ‘We might have swapped notes on present hiding places.’

    ‘You told a six year old about the best places to hide Christmas presents?’

    ‘What can I say? I was being jovial uncle Nathan, that’s all?’ I gave her a hug and a kiss and changed the subject. ‘How’s Marta?’

   ‘Mamma is fine. Looking forward to Christmas with us. And she’s bought us an early present.’

   ‘That’s kind of her.’

   Fede rummaged in her handbag. ‘Well, it’s not really for us. It’s for Gramsci.’ She drew out a red and green velvet cat collar. ‘Isn’t this lovely? So thoughtful of her.’

   ‘Erm. Thoughtful. Yes.’

   ‘But there’s more. Look.’ She clicked a button on the top and lights flashed on and off as We wish you a Merry Christmas played in the background.

   ‘Wow.’

   ‘What do you think?’

   ‘I think it’s what every cat is looking for.’ I paused. ‘Actually, now I think about it, I think it’s what some cats might be looking for.’

   ‘Oh, he’ll love it.’

   ‘Do you mean that?’ I frowned.

   She shook her head. ‘No. But he hasn’t got to wear it for long. Just long enough for you to take a photo and send it to mamma.’

   ‘He’s never going to do that. Your mother’s met him, she knows what he’s like.’

   ‘I know. But she gets ever so sentimental about Christmas and so – ‘ she put her arms around me and kissed my cheek – ‘it would be ever so nice. Just a quick photo. She’d be so pleased. And I’ll forget about you hunting for presents’

   I sighed. ‘Okay. I’ll have a go.’

——————————————————

I winced at the sting of the antiseptic.

   ‘How is it?’

   ‘Not too bad. He seems to have missed all the major arteries.’

   ‘It’s a lovely photo though. He almost looks cute.’

   I looked at the photograph on Fede’s phone. Gramsci stared out at us with an expression that clearly said he would track down and kill anyone who dared to share it.

    ‘Yeah. I think almost is the operative word there.’ I dabbed at my hand again. ‘Ow.’

    ‘You’ll live.’ She patted my other hand and checked her watch. ‘Shouldn’t you be going? If you’re going to meet Dario for your thing.’

   ‘I should. I’ll have to step it out a bit.’

   ‘You’re not getting the vaporetto?’

   ‘I think I’d rather walk. See the lights, the decorations, all that sort of thing.’

   She smiled. ‘Look at you. I can hardly believe it’s the same man who’d discuss present-hunting strategies with a child. Will you be late?’

   ‘Wouldn’t think so. Even Toni doesn’t do lock-ins.’

   ‘Okay. Well, have a good time. I know it’s important to you both.’

   ‘We will. Big foaming beers are waiting!’

   ——————————————————

As a wise man almost said, the Venetians know how to keep Christmas well. There was the tree in Piazza San Marco, ice skating in San Polo, choral music in churches throughout the city and roast chestnuts really were sold in the streets. But best of all, it didn’t start until December. On the other hand, nobody had ever heard of Slade, but that seemed like an acceptable trade-off.

    I made my way down through Rialto, and then up through Strada Nova. It wasn’t the most direct route, but I wanted to see the lights on the palazzi on the Grand Canal and even Strada Nova, thronged with both visitors and locals, still had a little magic about it. I stopped to buy some roast chestnuts, remembered I didn’t really like them, and stuffed the bag into my pocket. At least they’d help to keep me warm.

   The Christmas lights lined the streets all the way up through Cannaregio and up through Lista di Spagna. The railway station looked as festive as it ever would and then, along with everyone else, I made my way uncertainly over the Calatrava bridge to Piazzale Roma, nervously testing each step for fear that frost would have turned each glass panel into a death trap.

   Dario was waiting at the bus stop, his breath steaming and stamping his feet to keep warm.

   ‘I thought you weren’t going to turn up for a moment there.’

   ‘Wouldn’t miss the ritual, Dario.’ I took out the packet. ‘Roast chestnut?’

   ‘Thanks man, but I don’t really like them.’

   ‘Oh.’ I put them away again.

   The bus hissed to a halt behind me, making me start.

   Dario chuckled. ‘The same as last year, then?’

   ‘The same as every year, Dario.’

   ‘Large beers? Pizza slices? Sitting outside under the heaters?’

   ‘Wouldn’t be Christmas without it.’

   ‘Oh, and that song you played for Emily?’

   ‘Slade? Merry Christmas Everbody? She doesn’t like it?’

   ‘Too much. She won’t stop singing it. It’s driving us mad. She’s memorised the words.’

   ‘But that’s good, isn’t it? She’ll be miles ahead of anyone in English lessons.’

   ‘Hmm, that’s true. Yeah, that is pretty cool.’

   ‘I could lend her a copy of the Jethro Tull Christmas Album if you like?’

   ‘Maybe when she’s in Big School?’ He got to his feet. ‘Here we go. This is our stop.’

   Immediately, we could tell that something was wrong. Festive lights were strung across Corso del Popolo. The streets were busy. And every single shop, bar and restaurant was festooned with decorations.

   All except one.

   Toni’s was closed. Not just closed, but boarded up. A sign pasted on the door announced that it was becoming a nail bar in the New Year and they wished all their potential new customers the compliments of the season.

    Dario looked at me, and then down at his nails. ‘I’m not sure we’re potential customers, vecio.’

   I looked at the sign again, and ran my fingertips over the rough surface of the boards. ‘Oh hell, Dario.’

   He shook his head. ‘I just didn’t know.’

   ‘Neither of us did.’

   ‘When did we last come out here, Nat?’

   ‘Last Christmas.’

   ‘And we never thought to check. We just thought it’d always be here.’

   I looked down at my shoes, and then into the streets. Happy, laughing people who gave neither us nor the bar a second glance.

   ‘So what do we do now?’

   I ran a hand through my hair, and then a shop on the other side of the road caught my eye.

   ‘Okay. I’ve got a plan.’

   ‘Uh-huh.’

   ‘There’s a mini-market over there. What if I go over there, pick us up a couple of beers and some paper cups and, well, we’ll recreate the experience as best we can.’

   Dario stared at me. ‘Have you genuinely gone mad, Nat?’

   I shrugged. ‘Best I can think of.’

   ‘Nat, it’s freezing. You want us to drink beer from a paper cup standing on the street in the middle of Mestre?’

   ‘No?’

   ‘No. Terrible plan. In fact that might be the worst plan ever from a man with a history of terrible plans.’

   I was about to argue, but then sighed and shook my head. ‘Ah, you’re right. I mean, there are people in Mestre drinking on the streets for real. Wouldn’t be right, would it?’

   He shook his head.

   ‘You got any ideas, Dario?’

   ‘One. It’s called not freezing to death. And it starts with going back to Venice.’

   I ran my fingers over the boards once more. ‘But Dario, this was our thing. This was our Christmas thing.’

   ‘And so we’ve got to find a new thing. That’s the way Christmas works.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Come on. Back to Venice.’

   ‘And where?’

   ‘Only one place to go, vecio. Come on.’

——————————————————

‘What is this Ed?’

    ‘It’s a glassful of Comfort and Joy, Nathan. It’s a Festive Negroni.’

    ‘What?’

    ‘Just a Negroni. But there’s some burnt orange, brown sugar, star anise and – ‘ he grinned – ‘here’s the magic touch.’ He slipped a cinnamon stick into each glass, and slid them across the bar.

    He must have seen the expression on my face. ‘What’s wrong?’

   I did my best to smile. ‘Nothing. It’s just that, well, I’m sure it’s very nice and very festive and full of good cheer but – ‘

   ‘But what?’

   ‘I think what Nathan is trying to say,’ said Dario, ‘is that he’s a bit of a Negroni purist.’

   Ed scowled. ‘Nathan, I’ve spent hours on the internet talking to bartenders all over the world about this. And no Mister Scrooge comes into the Magical Brazilians at Christmas and tells me they’re a Negroni purist, all right?’

   ‘Mister Scrooge? I’m Mister Scrooge?’

   ‘The guy in that film with the Muppets? Right now, that’s who you’re being.’

   ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll give it a go.’ I clinked glasses with Dario. ‘Buone Feste.’

   ‘Buone Feste, Nat. Buon Natale, Ed.’

   I took a sip, as did Dario. We looked at Ed.

   ‘What do you think?’

   ‘Fantastic!’

   ‘A masterpiece.’

   ‘You’re a genius, Ed.’

   ‘He is, isn’t he?’

   Ed looked at us both. ‘Really?’

   ‘Absolutely.’

   ‘Oh yes.’

    We smiled at each other. All of us, playing the game.

   ‘I mean, I could make you a regular one. If you’d prefer.’

   There was silence, but only for a moment.

   ‘That’d be great.’

   ‘Yeah, well maybe just make one up. And then we can compare them eh?’

    He smiled. ‘Okay. I can do that. Or maybe a hot spritz?’

   ‘Regular Negroni is fine.’

   ‘Oh yes. Don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

   Ed turned back to the optics behind the bar. Dario and I took another sip from our drinks, grimaced at each other, and then forced smiles onto our faces as a cold blast came from outside and a customer entered.

   ‘Sorry to gatecrash the party, everyone, but it seems I’m being Babbo Natale tonight.’ Fede stood there, a gift-wrapped box in her hands and a Santa Claus hat on her head. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Or should that be Mamma Natale. Although I’m not sure that’s even a thing. Ed, could you make me a Negroni?’

   ‘I tell you what,’ I said, ‘we can do better than that. Why don’t you have one of Ed’s Festive Negronis? In fact, why don’t you have mine?’

   Ed passed two regular Negronis across the bar. Fede smiled and picked one up. ‘Oh, that’s very kind, but that doesn’t seem very fair. I’ll just have one of these instead.’ She sipped at it, and her face lit up. ‘Ah, that’s what I needed. Now, just to establish ground rules. I’m not doing any of that Ho Ho Ho nonsense. And I’m not going to ask you if you’ve been good.’ She stared at me. ‘Especially you.’

   ‘Could I sit on your knee?,’ I suggested. The Festive Negroni must have been stronger than I thought.

   ‘Don’t push it.’

   I looked at the package in her hands. ‘Early present?’

   ‘I think it must be.’

   ‘I thought I’d found them all.’ Dario and I started to laugh, but then I saw the expression on her face and stopped.

   ‘It arrived a few weeks ago. There are still some hiding places you haven’t found.’

   ‘There are?’ I turned to Dario. ‘Damn, Emily’s let me down.’

   Fede sighed. ‘Anyway, you were supposed to get it today. It’s addressed to the two of you.’

   ‘Dario?’ I nodded at the package.

   He shook his head. ‘No. You should.’

   ‘No. Should definitely be you.’

   ‘Oh, let me.’ Fede rang a fingernail along the side of the box and tore off the wrapping paper. She looked inside and smiled.

   ‘Take a look.’

   Dario and I peered inside. Two large bottles of Nastro Azzurro. And two large beer glasses, of the type that no-one else in Mestre ever used.

   ‘There’s a card as well.’

   I tore it open. It was a postcard, not a Christmas card.  Azure blue seas and golden sands stretched away into the distance as Toni, resplendent in Hawaiian shirt and dark glasses beamed out at us.

   ‘Where is he?’, said Dario.

   ‘The Grenadines. I think. He says something about island hopping. He says he’s got a lock-up in Mestre full of stuff from the bar. And he thought we’d like to have these.’

   ‘Wow.’

   ‘He says he’s thinking about us. But mainly he’s thinking about cocktails and snorkelling. He says he’s enjoying it so much he’s going to go back next year.’

   And Dario smiled at me and rubbed his eyes, and reached over to hug me.

   ‘He’s got his own Yule Ritual now, vecio.’

In memory of dad, whose pint glass from the Old Kings Arms now rests in the drinks cabinet.

Nathan takes a well-deserved holiday next year, as we’re off to meet The Magus of Sicily in July. But, never fear, he’ll be back for Christmas next year and in a full-length novel in 2026.

My thanks to all of you for your support and, of course, to Hawkwind for the title.

And wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and a peaceful New Year.