Mogg & Melzer, Delicatessen, Mitte

The hallway outside Mogg & MelzerI once attended a wedding where I was thoughtfully placed next to another woman with whom I had a lot in common. The two of us should have had a convivial evening. Instead we were like two positively charged magnets, repelling each other no matter how hard we  tried.

Equally confounding was my experience with Mogg & Melzer. A delicatessen in a former Jewish girls school, the hallway dressed in emerald-green tiles that go positively Wizard of Oz in hue when they catch the sun.  A place that serves a chicken liver creme brûlée.  What’s not to love?The space at Mogg & MelzerExcept I found the pastrami sandwich dry and didn’t touch the bland coleslaw.  The volume of the music was better suited to “I’m home alone packing up the flat” than a public space where people were trying to socialize.

That was 3 months ago.  I went back again this week.  And although I was irked that the solitary waitress was asking about my drink order before I had even taken off my coat (for the rest of the meal she would be mostly MIA) the two women in the corner were sharing a shakshuka that appeared to be delicious.Caesar salad, Mogg & MelzerThe menu reads really well.  I was torn between the golden beet & goats cheese salad (€6.50) and the Balsamic lentils, baked Crottin de Chavignol & wild herbs (€11).  (I’ll readily admit that when I read the descriptions, I imagined La Fromagerie calibre salads.) The menu at Mogg & MelzerI went for the lentils with the crottin. I received a plate with a stingy ladleful of lentils, doused in too much balsamic vinegar served on a papadum (?) . The wild herbs turned out to be a few leaves of bagged salad so generic they hardly needed a special mention on the menu. I forgot the lentils came with a crottin until I started to prod what looked like a mummified egg yolk perched on top.Lentils with goats cheese
That was the crottin? This crottin? And if it was the famous Crottin de Chavignol of the Loire Valley, how had its mottled exterior turned smooth and why exactly was it orange – instead of white or even white with blue?

Can I chalk up my lukewarm experience to a dud dish? Read more of this post

Big Stuff Smoked BBQ, Arte Sucre (Macarons) & More, Markthalle Neun, Kreuzberg

Big Stuff Smoked BBQSylee suggested we meet at Markthalle Neun on Saturday.  ”I’m obsessed with the place!” she enthused.

It’s evolved considerably since my last visit.  The USP’s of the stands are distinct from one another and reel the Markthalle Neun consumer mercilessly hook, line and sinker.The pulled pork sandwich At Big Stuff Smoked BBQ, there is a line of hungry punters wrapped around the corrugated shack, as tinny Charleston music blares from speakers located somewhere behind the chicken wire that makes up a big part of the shop.  The Italian girl at the cashier is wearing a flat cap, her sweater sleeves are pushed to the elbows exposing a full arms worth of shirt sleeves – she looks like she should be hitching a ride on the back of a Ford Model T truck circa 1920.  I inch ever closer to the guy with the black latex gloves pulling pork apart for the sandwiches.

Sadly for me, Big Stuff has had a good day and they have sold out of everything except the pulled pork sandwich, so I miss out on the matt aluminum tray loaded with mounds of sauerkraut and squirts of bbq sauce (€12 for the regular, €16 for the large).  I get the pulled pork sandwich (€5.50) and a side of smoked potato (€1).  It’s good.  Not shredded to the point of resembling candy floss the way I experienced at Pitt Cue in London but delicious in a less complicated way.  My mother has her sandwich with a glass of ale from Heiden PetersA beer from HeidenpetersI appreciate that the brains behind Markethalle Neun have been considerate enough to provide ample seating, with feisty coloured plastic chairs so I don’t have to scan the hall long before finding somewhere to sit.Mini macarons from Arte SucreLayla choses to get her sugar fix from Arte Sucre in the form of mini macarons (heaven preserve us from trending sweets: whoopie pies, cake pops, marshmallows – I mean you!). As I try to identify and retrieve the perennial coffee flavoured one, the French woman selling them begins to rattle off flavours: lemon, cassis, chocolate, mandarin mint…

Mandarin with mint? I think, intrigued as I immediately commandeer that flavour and take half a bite.  The other half I hand to Sylee.  ”These are good right?”.

Her eyes grow round. “Really good.” she agrees. I turn on my heel and return to Arte Sucre, this time to buy a pretty box of choux buns (6 for €7.80) to go with our excellent coffees from Kantine 9.

Choux pastry buns Read more of this post

Steckerlfisch & Co, At markets around Berlin

Steckerlfisch & CoThe chorizo sandwich at Brorough Market is something my husband and I used to regularly queue for.  The paprika laced smoke that wafted over our way stoked our appetites.  Waiting for my grilled mackerel to come off the grill at Steckerlfisch easily replicates and possibly even surmounts that happy anticipation. Knitted column hats

Put it this way; it’s the thing I was most looking forward to eating upon my return to Berlin.Mise en place at Steckerlfisch

There is trout, char and squid but it’s the mackerel I’m here for.  It’s flavourful flesh stands up effortlessly to strong flavours and it takes to any number of combinations as long as they too are robust.  It can take the smoke raising up from the coals, until its silver fresh turns to copper riddled with black blisters.  The guys at Steckerlfisch are generous with the salt and there is a shower of paprika besides.  When the fish is ready, it is ‘plated’ on some thick white paper.  With a sploge of seaweed by its tail, some coarsely chopped red onion, another blob of dill mayonnaise underneath the gills, horseradish, lemon wedges and a white semmel roll sporting smoky grill marks and making even me (not a lover of the semmel) to devour them hungrily.  The composition is one I might find in Layla’s drawings and that adds to the appeal.  Steckerlfisch mackerel
Read more of this post

Goodbye Dubai!

Goodbye Dubai

It’s been grand. Really it has.

When I left Berlin, post babies, in the middle of  winter (which I hear is still going on despite it being Spring now) and bout after bout of sickness – I was feeling low. I blamed it on motherhood. I blamed it on hormones. I blamed it on the weather. I blamed it on Berlin. I blamed it on whoever was in my line of vision at the time of blame attribution.Lunch at our favorite LebaneseTwo months of sun, help with the babies and friendly locals have done wonders. This morning I was speaking to someone about opening a shop with adorable baby clothing handmade in Burma.  A  little while later I sent an email off to a friend about travel plans. Anything seems possible, again.

I don’t know who those guys are by the way.  They simply walked up to us and asked to be photographed with the twins.

This is what the Middle East does so well.  Friendliness.  Hospitality.  Fun.  Irreverence.  Lots of silliness. The Lime Tree CafeIt’s why they can have places like Scoozi, a restaurant that serves Italian and Sushi.  Neither are particularly good-by the way but sometimes food is just food.  I eat the avocado maki and complain that the tempura is all uncooked carrots and onions until my husband tells me to pipe down because I am giving him indigestion.  He’s right sometimes it’s about having a good time, somewhere close to home, where the twins can sqwuak and flap like baby birds and liter the floor with breadsticks.Arabic breakfast at The Lime Tree Cafe Read more of this post

Peshwa, Maharastrian food, Karama – Dubai

Peshwa“Yemeni, Maharastrian or Malwani for lunch?” Arva asks me.
All of it! I want to say. Despite my palette being unable to conjure impressions of what any of that food will taste like. 1 hour of googling later and I still have no idea.
“I’ll leave it to you.” I answer.
She choses Maharastrian, a South Indian kitchen with an emphasis on vegetables and fish.

Kothimbir WadiWe are here specifically to try the Bombay duck, which is actually a fish that also goes by the name bummalo- you wouldn’t want to meet this fish walking home at night.  They don’t have it that day, Arva discoveres after chatting with the waiter in Urdu.  She orders the Kingfish instead, which comes in thin steaks, battered and fried with a coating of notascrunchyasitshouldbe semolina batter.  A small ceramic tub of tamarind sauce accompanies it.  And we can help ourselves to the tins of sliced onions, cheeks of the miniature lemons they eat here and a chutney.  I take a spoonful of the chutney and shove the whole thing in my mouth. And visibly recoil from the pungent pickle.

“Ah – you are just supposed to dip into it.” Arva explains.

I deploy a more cautious approach for the remainder of the dishes.

Pithla, bharli wangi, jack fruit 'salad'

The neatly lined up squares of gram flour fritters or Kothimbir Wadi are crunchy and hard to stop eating.

My favourite dish is Pithla; bright yellow, coloured by turmeric and chickpea flour and cooked to the consistency of smooth porridge. It’s riddled with mustard seeds – an indication, Arva tells me, that we are moving further South in Indian cooking. As it sits on the table and cools, a skin begins to form. I’m a big lover of skins be they on Romanian ciulama, cornflour thickened Spanish hot chocolate, custard and now Pithla.  I eat and eat – sigh (from pleasure and exertion) and eat some more.

“This is a kind of comfort food.” Avra smiles.

It certainly makes me feel better. Read more of this post

Frying Pan Adventures, Food Tour, Dubai

Avra serving Egyptian falafelI hesitate before booking Arva’s North African Food Safari because it’s in the evening and I can’t justify disrupting 3 children’s night-time routine just so I can eat for curiosity’s sake. Luckily for me, my husband has no such qualms and books the tour for me. (That’s one of the reasons I picked him- he may not be a house husband and he’s probably only changed 30 diapers in the 4 years and three children we’ve had together but he has a knack of recognizing that critical point where I need to be given a nudge or more likely a shove).

Delivery from Al AmoorI meet the group in the bachelor section of Deira. An odd collection of restaurants with garish signs which are interspersed at regular intervals by bustling barber shops. I feel like the only woman on earth, circling the restaurant waiting for the group to appear.

Arva counting down the top 10 spices in Moroccan foodThen I see the blur of movement that are Arva’s arms as she excitedly explains something to the two women in sensible walking shoes flanking her, oblivious to their surroundings as she draws them in with countless anecdotes.

We settle down to our first tasting. Crunchy brik stuffed with tuna and an egg, its yolk oozing out brightly as we cut into it. While we eat, she hands out her iPad so we can watch a video of a woman making warka pastry.

IMG_1729The tour is 350 AED (€73) for 4 hours.  I was expecting an informal evening, where Arva would show us her places and we would chat.  Instead it’s an extremely well-organized tour.  We are given a branded Frying Pan Adventures bottle cooler, wet wipes and a pamphlet of illustrated vocabulary words that we encounter during our eating adventure.  It doesn’t stop there, Arva peppers all her explanations of food with relevant historical facts.

At the Egyptian restaurant Al Amoor over a plate of fava falafel and koshari one of the women in the tour turns around and asks me if I am ok because I am very quiet.  I get even quieter.  Normally you can’t shut me up, I interrupt frequently and rarely realize in time to apologise but around Arva there is so much to learn that I even – wait for it – take out a pen and paper to jot down some notes.

IMG_1719At Tajeen Alfassi she asks to smell the Ras El Hanout and the men that work there start smiling. “They will always smile when you say Ras El Hanout because it used to contain Spanish Fly.” There is a murmur of laughter from the group. I open up my notebook and jot down Spanish Fly?.  (It’s an aphrodisiac)

IMG_1738We try Omani Halwa which is a rose scented sweet not unlike the gunge that sticks to your teeth after eating Jelly Beans.  At first I think, “No.” but it’s surprisingly moreish.  ”They eat it for weddings and funerals.” Arva tells us.  I eat it for dessert the next day with yogurt and the contrast of sweet room temperature stickiness with the cold sour yogurt – heaven – two better bedfellows never existed. Read more of this post

Aqua Park at the Atlantis, Dubai

My orange toes at AtlantisI got married in 2006, at the Dead Sea in Jordan. For the occasion, I bought a bikini that fit. One with proper breast support that prompted my husband’s friend (a self proclaimed expert) to declare them as fake all the girls in the Middle East get them, he expanded helpfully.  (Retrsopectively flattered but it’s been all downhill since those perky days.)

7 years and three kids later, I’ve got the same bathing suit. Layla on the other hand, I bought her a one piece from Mothercare just last week. Yesterday, when I announced I was going to take her to Atlantis Water Park she couldn’t find it. The taxi was waiting for us downstairs, the day passes were purchased so I figured I would buy one there and it would be on the expensive side. Turns out, as expensive as the one I bought in 2006.Layla's lunchShe stroked my leg affectionately while my credit card transaction went through.
“You have hairy legs mommy.”
“Hairy legs good in the Philippines” the eager sales woman smiled., ecstatic that she had shifted an overpriced bathing suit for a 4 year old.
(Now I know where to move to to finally be appreciated.) Layla wore her suit out but I made sure to take the cloth bag that was offered.  And the plastic zip lock envelope for her wet bathing suit.  I tried to take the shells that littered the counter in a bid to get my moneys worth but those were glued on…
The bathing suitInitially I was daunted by the idea of donning said bikini and exposing ‘the belly’ to the world. But that’s such a female affliction, the dual sword of being insecure about your body and the delusion that someone is actually taking the time to check you out and give you a score from 1 to 10 when they can just skip over you and look directly at the tens walking around. Read more of this post

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