Iftar - the breaking of the Fast

During my recent short trip to Morocco I remember bitterly regretting not having organised a meal in an 'ordinary' family home (not that it's an easy task, but the world of couchsurfing stretching far). We were travelling during Ramadan; when the gruelling test of no eating or drinking (or sex..) is rewarded by the mini-feast of Iftat in the evening. Iftar happens just after the sunset, surrounded by your family, very much akin to our Christmas, and lasts good couple of hours. This is unless you are a single man and then you go to a nearby cafe. I was yearning to experience Iftour in a 'proper' home setting.

Harrira, dates and preserved lemons - a traditional Iftar.
Photo thanks to http://imazighennarif.blogspot.com

It was not until the very last evening, in the small mountain town of Azrou, that I realised that to experience Iftar we did not have to search for an idealic family environment. Finding a simple caf, packed with local Moroccans who for various reasons did not have home to go to, was a great way to see the ritual - and participate in it.

The preparation for the evening meal starts at about 3-4 o'clock in the afternoon when (mainly) women go out shopping for food at numerous markets. Single men go out to buy some ready-made provisions for their solitary evening meals at the market stalls. You can almost touch the anticipation in the air, it increases and speeds up as time approaches the long-awaited break-fast. The atmosphere thickens with people's hunger and smells of cooking.

Counting minutes before Iftour, the meal breaking the fast.

At around 6pm the air turns still, as if in anticipation for a storm. People's bloods starts to run slower, hearts slow down, everyone's eyes are on their watch. The prayer normally takes place about an hour or so before the Iftar, and so you see men leaving the mosques with solemn eyes, perhaps contemplating their spirituality, perhaps their rumbling stomachs. Those dining outside their homes - young unmarried men, businessmen in-between cities, some widowed women - find a place to eat long before the fast is broken. Putting together your meal in such public surroundings is as much of a ritual as making a 3 course meal at home, even if it only means shelling your egg, sprinkling cumin on it, or stirring hot harissa into your soup. You can almost count seconds by the flow of blood pressure running through your ears...

And then it happens, a loud whisper floats through and above the punters in the cafe - you can eat.

The humble Iftar offering: a boiled egg, dates and Chbakiyya.

The traditional Iftar meal almost always consists of Harirra, a thick soup of chickpeas, tomatoes, sometimes lamb and vermicelli. Guidebooks all claim that accompanying the soup with dates is authentic, perhaps, but I have not seen anyone eating their soup with dates. A splash of green olive oil, a chunk of flat bread is all the bowl of very hot soup needs.

Most people actually start off by a drink - a yoghurt drink sold in recycled plastic bottles by women from villages. Or just a can of coke. Then goes a hard-boiled egg, seasoned with cumin. Then the soup. The meal is finished by a glass of very sweet mint tea (which is made with black or green tea leaves by the way, not just hot water and herb) and Chbakiyya, a 'tressed' pastry - a coil of flaky pastry soaked in sugar syrup.

Finishing off the feast: mint tea and Chbakiyya.

..We started our break-fast together with the others in the cafe, but finished it later than others, enjoying the rare sense of feeling part of the proceedings, this quiet, almost sneaky sharing of the tradition that we would not normally be privy. Infiltration of a different kind.

The labyrynth of smells - fruit and veg market, Fez, Morocco

‘The smells’ – the unforgettable combination of cinnamon, rose water, cumin, dust and dung – disturbing and enticing at the same time.

‘The smells’ is what I tell people when asked why I fell in love with Morocco. If you are looking for dust-free streets and hassle-spared promenades, then Morocco may not be for you. But if you are turned on by the idea of snatching the last glimpses of the Middle Ages, go now and you’ll be forever haunted by the aroma of the leathery broad beans stewed with cumin and sold in shadowy corners; by the smell of old waters collected in the cobbled, no-wider-than-a-donkey’s-arse, streets; by just boiled potato sandwiches sold by a local gang of boys; by dusty but mind-blowingly delicate carpets; by the odour of freshly made leather goods, combined with intensely sugary mint tea poured from dizzy heights…

The streets of old Medina (Fez)

...We came back to Morocco almost five years after out initial olfactory affair with the place, choosing Fez, this ancient city with over 9000 streets hidden in its Medina, for a fleeting breather from London staleness.

The labyrinth of streets and smells

August is a low season in Morocco because of the unbearable heat (40C is normal). This year in addition it is the month of Ramadan, with its soul-testing fasting demands, making travelling a particular challenge. We decided to go on a whim, wanting to experience Morocco in its most uncomfortable.

But once landed, we were taken back by the smell of soil freshly impregnated with rain - the land felt fresh, enlivened. It was pleasant - too pleasant for those looking for the exotic 'otherness'. It was not until we reached the eerily empty walls of Medina (8pm is when everyone rests at home, having broken their fast, before 'hitting the town') that the memories - the smells - started to creep back in. No traveller can escape Fez Medina without getting lost. I wonder whether local inhabitants find their way by nose, as each corner, crook and cranny has its own smell, an olfactory labyrinth of a kind...

Souqs of Fez (and J with a yellow umbrella)

Fez Medina is broken down into sections, souqs, markets, each specialising in a particular trade, each with its unique combination of smells. Thus there is a spice souq, henna souq (now more famous for its pottery), tanneries with their revolting stench of leather treated with dung and chemical dies, the meat market with a whiff of coagulated blood and fresh innards…

Chicken on sale. Tesco 'fresh' carries a different meaning here

The fruit and veg market in the Western part of Medina is unsurprisingly most aromatic and fresh. Mid August is the time of figs - heavy, lilac ones and less sweet, lemony ones. All quite small compared to the perfect giants sold in London. Bursting with flavour quite literally, so ripen that they get slightly sticky on the outside. We couldn't hold ourselves and greedily bought a couple of kilos of each kind from a women who had just come down from a village in mountains.

Figs.

Some believe the ultimate Eden fruit was this aromatic, suggestive-looking fruit, rather than a cool and firm apple

Yellow melons are on the other hand a lot bigger - and needless to say so much more perfumed - than those sold in Green Lanes. We had the pale-green flesh cut up and served with warm bread for breakfast each morning.

Fruit and veg market in Fez

I have read odes to prickly pears which carry a semi-iconic status on Greek islands, but I had myself been disappointed in the past with their undistinguishable flavour. In Fez these hedgehogs of fruits are sold in big wooden carts, with the seller swiftly and miraculously transforming each fruit into a round pink softness, refreshing to no end and only a few un-prickly seeds to deal with. I can't say the prickly thing is my favourite fruit, but I see what those hot-blooded Greeks might like about them.

Prickly pears sold across Medina to clench thirst

Then there were huge pink onions everywhere, almost translucent in colour, sweeter than the standard white variety. We bought just one and brought it all the way to London, where I've been slicing it carefully and enjoying bit by bit with a tomato salad.

Pink onions and very red tomatoes

And of course - tomatoes. Real stuff, with a smell and colour, fully ripen. Most on sale in Fez were not of a particularly fancy variety, but the patience of a farmer who left the fruit on its vine for long enough makes the whole difference. Those who know me know that tomato is what I live for in culinary terms. I hunt them down and buy in bags every time I'm in a county with a suitable climate.

...We came back tired to our hotel, smiling silly, happily, minutes before another thunderstorm poured down, shutting down most aromas of the city, quietening the sounds....We sneaked in our bags of fruit and bread - eating or drinking is not allowed until darkness, remember - and had our mini feast. In bed. Divine. Blasphemous. All the better for it.

Lunch in riad: tomatoes, figs, bread

Pirita market - sweet thorns

Don’t I like contradictions…for those who’ve read my latest melancholic musings about the disappearance of the farmers’ markets in Estonia, here is a cheery note – the market ‘scene’ in Tallinn is far from dying.

Those little cutsey creatures (for I often think of these local bazaars, full of characters and beautifully obscure products, as living beings, say playful cats that both comfort you with their foodie murrrs and make you work by demanding time and effort) pop up here and there like early autumn mushrooms, quite spontaneously, randomly organised, but all the more charming for their teasing behaviour. I encountered one such market - a small cluster of wooden stalls that I had not come across before - in the seaside area of Tallinn, Pirita.

Convent of St Birgitta, Tallinn. photo thanks to Dennis@stromness

Pirita is a solemn stretch of sand, colour of melted ice-cream, framed by pine trees and prickly undergrowth (not many things I miss in my self-imposed migration, but these foresty beaches with cool waters, so shallow and calm that they look like antic mirrors). I paint a serene picture, but Pirita is also an intensely popular area of the capital for youngests to ‘hand out’, for families to bring their off-spring, for tourists to wonder off (Pirita was the place where the Olympic games of the 1980s took place, the water game part, so it is still full of yachts, sport 'complexes' and tanned young men running fast).

Estonian forrests by the sea

The tiny market was right by the side of the road, backed up by the imposing ruins of the medieval Birgitta monastery on one side, stylish houses on another, and a forest on the third.

I saw a little stall selling tiny local strawberries in self-made paper baskets, good bread, seasonal veg – not all from nearby talus, smallholdings, but perfection is boring. My heart jumped when I saw a whole stall dedicated to sea buckthorn - a little orange berry, that used to be prevalent throughout Northern Europe, but is now in real short supply in the UK, although still in abundance in Estonia.

All things sea buckthorny at a local market

A young man was selling jams, juices, nectars, what looked like pollen for sprinkling on cereal and lots of other creations – all made from this curiously sweet and tart berry, the flavour reminiscent of an apricot, but somehow…muddier, the texture more sticky. The flavour that makes you work, a reference to Marmite is difficult to avoid (those who watched the latest serious of the Great British Menu will recall the look of disgust on the judges faces, including – impossible, I know – Matthew Fort’s. The chef who dared to used it for his dessert was Nathan Outlaw in his sea buckthorn curd meringue).

I have tried sea buckthorn jam with cold cuts of pork, or on a toasted slice of rye bread with my morning brew, mixed with cottage cheese and almonds. With venison it would be delectable.

I am yet to try the juice though. I have a bottle of this clone-ish orange nectar in my cupboard, ready for the next party. I’m planning to mix it with something sparkling and lots of crushed ice, mint should go well.

Have any ideas for my sea buckthorn juice? Let me know, and I’ll report once tried.

A Tallinn market and its local fruits

Meet Alexander, a former 'designer-modelier', a navy officer and presently an artisan of all things pickled. Alexander is clearly a dandy with a keen eye for style - just look at his cap and artfully laid table of home-grown herbs and 'conservanty'. When asked to pose for a photo, he comfortably fell into a coquette-ish pose with a fleeting 'oh, I've been photographed sooo many times over the years!' . However, he quickly became all business when asked which adjika (hot Georgian paste) he would recommend (best is made with lots of corriander, 30 krones) or how to use large, green leaves laying in a sack (to pickle those little prickly cucumbers, 10 krones).

Alexander is a seller at Jaamaturg (a Train station market), one of Tallinn's final outposts of home-grown produce and, increasingly so, of far-flung cheap clothes and manufactured tomatoes. He is one of the few retirees selling goodies from their dachas to supplmenet their scarse pensions. Amongst the majority of stalls stuffed with goods bought in chilled warehouse, there are still a few old babushkas offering small, neat bundles of dill and plastic cups of wild strawberries. But Alexander sticks out for being a rare man with a display and attitude that brings a rare smile amongst the understandably defeated looks of women. Once these babushkas are gone, one fears there will be no more produce from allotments or the charm and knowledge that only seems to come to markets where people who grow or make stuff come to sell.

This is an irony that when in Britain farmers' markets are on the rise, with flocks of middle classes rushing to stock up on 'organic' goodies with 'provenance', paying over the odds for the privilage, here it is the underprivilaged - the retired, the unemployed - who still come to such markets (there are no more than a handful of them left in the whole of Tallinn). This is not to say that in Estonia there is no interest in grow your own or food with a story - just look at the heavily stacked shelves of bookstores, full of Estonian Jamies and Hughes* - but perhaps the speed with which these markets are dying out is greater than the birth rate of the 'real food' enthusiasts.

Jaamaturg is a particularly colourful market, as it is snugly sandwiched between the old Soviet train station - still very much in operation, but with only a few lines running East - and Kalamaja, a district of Tallinn full of wooden houses built in the 1930s, sleepy parks and drunks. Kalamaja literally means a house of fish, a place where freshly caught fish is processed, as in the past, and to some extent still now, fishing is a big industry in Estonia. Although these days the melancholic and beautiful but polluted Baltic sea can only provide with plentiful Baltic herring - a smaller variety of the Atlantic type. Most fish on sale in Jaamaturg comes frozen from Norway. One honourable exception perhaps is caviar made out of pressed seaweed: refreshingly tasty, pretty-looking and cheap, as well as an allowed substitute for a vegan. The one on the picture was produced in Russia, however several brands are made locally.

Kalamaja houses several docks and the main Tallinn harbour. As everywhere in the world the area around the train station is not for midnight walks, but as everywhere else, what starts off as an area of low rents and high criminal activity, ends up as a hippy land, adored by artists and those aspiring to be. Kalamaja in Tallinn is what Hoxton in London used to be some 10-20 years ago.

One hopes Jaamaturg will survive not despite but because of its quirky old-fashioness and low prices. The market seems such a fitting spectacle for Kalamaja: not a pretty, messy place where one can buy anything from old Soviet memorabilia, to that made-in-China Dior bag and Estonian perfumed strawberries. It is nevertheless chilled and well-ordered with characters, such as Alexander, abound. They call it a soul I believe.

p.s. well, hello again my dear readers. I am back, although not sure if anyone else is still around. a big warm hug to you anyway, even if you have no company..

A breather

My patient reader. please don't despair. the blog is on a sabbatical. blame anthropology. anthropology of food to be exact. the route that I have been foolish - and brave enough - to embark on is taking every moment of my spare, and not that spare time.

Some of the things to come: Florentine markets, Offaly offal affairs, Stories of Londonners, Anthropology of Food...

Mercato Centrale, Fiorenze

Guess what this is?

Mexican street markets - Guest post 1

Following the brilliant (if not entirely original) idea of a fellow pig trotter lover and blogger Ryan at Nose to Tail Eating at Home, I'm opening up my blog to guests. Have you been to a lovely little market? Have a story to tell about some curious food stuff? Would like to share your Madeleine memory? Or have a thing about all things Russians? Get in touch and I'd love to share your story with the rest of the world.

The first post comes from the wonderful fellow anthropologist-to-be Sofia Larrinua-Craxton and her website about 'all things food'. Sofia is Mexican - evidently - and teaches Mexican cuisine at Books for cooks in London, so she knows her chilli and her tortilla...

Mexian street markets...

Or 'el tianguis' as it is commonly known is the Nahuatl word for the various colourful markets which populate the streets of Mexico, here you can find all the things you need, thought you needed and things you would not even imagined existed but are sold, from wedding dresses to plants and baskets, these markets sell all kinds of stuff and it is lovely to see people buying all kinds of things.


A particularly nice thing to do is to buy fresh fruits and vegetables; courgette flowers, tomatillos, cactus leaves, ripe guavas, mamey fruit and avocados, sweet mangoes and juicy pineapples, all sit happily waiting to be tested, tasted and bought. For those who fancy a snack, just stop at any of the many street stalls, where you can taste a hand made quesadilla with fresh hot salsa or a 'tlacoyo' which is a tortilla filled with beans, usually made with blue corn and topped with a delicious salad of cactus leaves, tomatoes, coriander and crumbled cheese.



If in Mexico look for the classic green or pink canopies characteristic of these markets and delight in watching people offering their wares, haggling and buying. Try the various exotic fruits and vegetables and stop for some food. Don't forget to take a hand made bag or basket or better still buy it there. If you like Mexican cooking implements look for them at the stalls, you can get tortilla presses, lime squeezers and gorgeous enamel pots and pans at very good prices. Of course if you feel eccentric, you can always bargain for some silver jewellery, a banana plant, fake designer shoes or even a wedding dress, the choice is yours. Whatever your taste choices a 'tianguis' is really fun!

A mediaval chelly

Do you know what these brown creatures are?


These are medlars - plum-size, apple-like fruits that originated in Asia (and possibly South-Eastern Europe) that used to be very common on the tables of English royalty in the medieval times, but have almost disappeared since then and are virtually unknown to the great British public. Well, I was exquisitely pleased to discover these rare fruits at the Stoke Newington market last Saturday - I happened to know of the mysterious medlar from my visit to the National Collection of apples, pears and...medlars a few weeks back. I bought some, I cooked some and here I'm passing on the wisdom:)


The lovely lady selling medlars at the market grow lots of little known apples in her farm in Essex. She also makes cute bottles of jams and preserves and, occasionally, some medlar cheese (essentially, a paste, akin to Spanish Membrillo), but that day she didn't have any for sale, so I bought a bag of medlars with an intention to try and make some myself.


Medlars need to be bletted - that is, to be half-rotten, or soften by frost and/or long-ish rest - before cooking. I bought them already in that lovely, gooey state and proceeded to making a dish that is something in between a jelly and cheese:

Medlar jesse or chelly (do pass on the new word!):

You will only need caster sugar, lemon juice and some spicing in addition to your medlars.

How to:

Put medlars, as they are, no need to peel or clean, in a saucepan; cover with an inch of water or so; bring to the boil and simmer until they become soft and almost fall apart (some 10 minutes or so). You may need to add a bit more water if it evaporates too quickly.

Plonk this medlar porridge into a sieve (or ideally a jelly bag, which I don't have) and let the liquid to come out, by pressing gently on the cooked medlars. You will end up with dark-brown silky puree.

Weight the puree, and measure the same amount of water. Put both into a saucepan with a pitch of allsprice, cinnamon, clove - really, whatever spices you like (I'm thinking adding some liqueur or brandy might be nice, like Estonian Vana Tallinn...) and sugar (about 1/4 of sugar to the original weight of your medlars) and a couple of table spoons of lemon juice.

Simmer until set (about 5-10 minutes, but you may want to try the official method of checking whether your jelly is set by putting a little of it onto a chilled plate, let it rest for a minute and then move up the mixture with a spoon along the place surface - if it wrinkles, it's set - but to be honest, I didn't really bother).

Pour the mixture into a jar or a nice bowl and let it cool. The result smells like Christmas itself, and the combination of the tart and sweet flavours, and the grainy and honey-like texture is quite special.


The chelly can be sliced into thin wedges and eaten beautifully with some tart cheese and sourdough bread, or - like here - with spelt biscuits.

p.s. and for my Russian-speaking audience, medlar is mushmula germanskaya, apparently. anyone has ever heard of it back in the USSR??

Shrooms number 2 - Stoke Newington organic farmers market

Over the next week or so I'll be writing about the hero of the North London markets - Stoke Newington's farmers' market run by the remarkable community project 'Growing communities' . This is the only fully organic market in the country, which takes place every Sunday on the territory of William Patten school, on Stoke Newington Church street. Whether you 'believe' in organics on not, the fact that the organisers have managed to set up such a successful market whilst keeping to their rather strict requirements is something to take your hat off to. However, more on that later, and for now let's start our little tour with...Mushrooms.

Yes, after my first glorious attempt at shroom picking a few weeks back, I was ecstatic to encounter some of the same creatures at the market this Saturday.






The stall's name - 'Gourmet mushrooms' - doesn't really describe this modest little stall and its bear-like owner with a Tolstoy-esque beard and thick wintery coat. Let's just say I felt at home, back in my childhood, a fairytale feeling of being a little girl in a big, but wise and kind forest of birches, deep blankets of snow and perhaps even a hut on chicken feet not far away (oh, the surrealism of Russian fairytales)...

Doesn't matter that my own urban childhood was only partly like this, I happily got chatted to the fungi-king. the stall has a selection of cultivated (oyster, champignon) mushrooms and some wild varieties - a tiny bag of which set me back £2.50, but I felt the price was fair, I had a bag of magic forestness with me, the last breath of autumn before the winter closes in...


And this is my little treasure collection (from the left): wood ears (they do look exactly like little leathery pig ears! soak them for some 5 minutes before slicing finely for frying), deceivers - brittle and delicate and deceptively delicious, and blewits - apparently they are in a particular abundance 'once the leaves fall down'...


Voila! he result - a super quick and easy lunch - Wild mushrooms with sage and sourcream.

How to prepare:

- wipe your mushroom clean gently
- half if necessary (I like mine chunky)
- slice an onion and a bit of garlic
- fry the lot quickly in a bit of olive oil and butter
- add a few sage leaves and couple of table spoons of sourcream and perhaps some mustard
- toast a slice of sourdough and devour with a salad leave or two

Tip: melt some 'stinky' cheese on top of your sandwich. Arrigoni's Taleggio is sensational with wild mushrooms!

On conquering an eight-legged monster

Octopuses are generally sold dead, but you feel you struggle a powerful, living sea-creature when immersing its foot-long muscular body into a saucepan of boiling water. The way it curls, spasms and turns from milky-grey to crimson makes you feel both powerful and cruel; in awe of the nature, how it allowed you to evolve and develop skills to conquer such animal.

We spent blissful two days on the island of Vis, Croatia, totally occupied by this many-legged creature. The octopus adventure started with an early morning trip to a little local fish market - a quiet covered space right on the sea front, with a handful of fishermen carefully laying out their catch on the smooth, stone tables. Feeling just a tad self-conscious (predatory white shorts and large sun-glasses) I breathed in and walked in...The men weren't particularly bothered either way, probably not quite believing that a young laaaady like me (remember, Vis is a 'luxury' island, full of yachts and London priced restaurants) would actually dare to buy a whole fish and cook it in her rented apartments. Well, I went for the weirdest and most daring (and, yes, the most dear! although peanuts compared to the prices in near-by taverns). I didn't even see its size when buying - the wrinkley paunchy fisherman just pointed towards a blue plastic bag and grumbled 'this, octopus!'. I accepted the unspoken challenge, internally steadily telling myself that if it all goes pear-shaped, it's only about 15 quid down the drain. The man must have spotted an octupi novice in me and offered to clean the mollusc (for a fee). Thank God I said yes, because, firstly, I realised I'd bought two octopuses; and secondly, that the amount of ink that came out of the creatures would swamp our entire 'euro-furbished' kitchen! I left the cool market room feeling adventurous, if slightly terrified.

My next move was therefore wise - checking how to cook the inky, slimy thing (I wouldn't normally go into such preparations, relying on my general sense of cooking requirements). Unlike a tender little squid, octopuses need to be cooked for good (aa!) 2 hours before being fried or grilled (apparently, octopuses live for a lot longer than the squid for example, hence having time to toughen up. They die, by the way, within just a few weeks of conceiving their off-spring: endocrine secretions are the cause of genetically-programmed death). So, our dinner had to be improvised whilst we got to the task of 'tenderising' the octopus’s meat. We spent the whole evening in the sweet vapour of the cooking octopuses. The oven was electric, and so I just couldn't find the way to keep the temperature constantly low, so the monster just lied there, bathing in a pot of very hot water. Eventually, around midnight, we made a decision that the folk could 'easily go through the fresh', poured out the water and let the two leggies rest.

I dreamt all night of legs, suction cups, corals...

The morning felt like a Christmas day to me. I jumped out of bed, sprinting to the kitchen, as if expecting that something magical would have happened to the cooked molluscs! They just lied there sleepily, very tender pale pink colour all over with darker, almost indigo-coloured thin layer of skin on top. They looked beautiful and humble to me.

Our second octopus day started with a delicate operation of taking some of the darker skin off the octopuses together with various fatty tissues in between, carefully trying to keep all the succulent suction cups intact. I then sliced all the 16 legs in one inch pieces: half was kept for our grandiose lunch, another half was marinated with just some olive oil and lots of lemon (this was mainly from the smaller octopus, who we, quite rightly, expected to be tender). The main feast was prepared like this:

Octopus a la Vis

glugs of (Croatian of course) olive oil

sliced onion

crushed garlic

all the sliced octopus legs

cubes of boiled new potatoes (4-6 depending on their size)

juice of one squeezed lemon (and some rind if you like a bit of extra zing)

a few table spoons of white wine

lots of finely cut parsley

(chilly flakes would go very nicely here, but I didn't have them in my rented kitchen)

Sweat onions and garlic in some olive oil, until tender and just a little brown. Add the octopus and potatoes, fry on a gentle heat for a 2-3 minutes, add the wine, let it evaporate for a minute or so. Chuck all the parsley, and stew for a few more minutes with a little bit of water if necessary, so that the whole thing comes together in a glorious and messy pink-yellow-green stew.

Eat with more chilled, crisp white wine and chunks of fresh and crusty baguettes.

Our verdict? The sweet and slightly citrusy flavour of the octopuses is unforgettable: fresh, meaty and juicy; it felt like sucking and chewing on the essence of the Mediterranean. If only I’d insisted that the stove the previous evening did it job properly – the bigger mollusc definitively needed an extra half an hour in the pot, as we needed at least a couple more jaws to chew through all the legs (a surprisingly pleasant meaty chewing gum of the octopus I fact!). I know this because the smaller legged creature had just the right texture of chewiness and melt-in-your-mouth tenderness… Perhaps the octopuses did have its upper hand (leg?) on us at the end. We were equals in the fight. I take my hat off in respect and… sharpen my knifes in preparation.

On communist idiology and erotic fruits

I have come to a conclusion that one of the main criterion (let’s be honest, THE main criterion) in choosing my future place of residence ought to be its proximity to a good farmers’ market. And by ‘good’ I don’t mean a bijou type of a market, with a handful of artfully set up stalls of organic burgers and couscous with sun-dried tomatoes. I am after gluttony of shackled tables, all offering the same, all offering something different...

I have come back from a week in Croatia, you see. I am a new person, with a renewed belief that a (post) communist space, sea and sun can work together, even if the first few days you are in a haze of (seemingly) incompatible sensations - clean and luxurious sea, rude and haughty service, lightly (as opposed to Northern European 'cook to death' method) fish and vegetables, uninterrupted kind sun and a rumble of Slav sounds all around. I felt on the edge at first, not being able to put my finger on my feelings and the surroundings - a sense of displacement, disbelief and even envy that the hoards of Slavs managed to settle in this Adriatic paradise some many centuries ago - well done, bro! My predecessors in the not-so-far-away Ukraine chose steppes and sub-zero winters. The territory of Croatia was part of the Roman empire, and invaded by everyone from Turks to Venetians - the Italian influence is particularly strong here, with many local Serbo-Croatian dialects (a language so close to Russian that I could almost read newspapers) sounding positively Italianised - ciaos, sing-song rhythms and energetic gestures added to my overall Slav-Latin confusion. But it's Croatian markets (surprise-surprise) that made me feel if not at home then definitely homey.


The nearly orgasmic feeling of being able to just pop around a corner and have a selection of 10, 15, 30 little stalls all offering the same basic, beautiful, fully ripen products; all differently priced depending on their size and purpose (eat now or can for later); all having their customer and making a small but a buck. I aimlessly dreamed of organising guided tours here for the English farmers and producers, to show how selling the same product can still work in one market...

Unfortunately, we know well that the underlying structures of the markets in Britain are too different for us, on the Island, to even dream of having a market culture (things are changing, but the result is still uncertain). The Continent (and in my view ex-Communist countries in particular) still have masses of people with their allotments, growing a little bit of this and that, some for their own bellies, some to earn an extra coin. In Croatia it is a combination of a fertile land, mild climate and many years of Soviet food shortages that result in proliferation of markets. In the olden days growing your own was almost a necessity, even for the city dwellers. My own theory is that for many people under the Communist rule of no private property having an allotment meant having space for that Cosmo-induced 'me' time, freedom to have different conversations with your friends, creating something of your own, for yourself, getting away from the concrete reality of party-enforced limits. Perhaps it was all a lot more relaxed in Yugoslavia (I still remember my parents dreaming of a Czech 'garniture' - Yugoslavian furniture was highly desired for the unknown to me reasons), but things are clearly different here now. Even in food-phrensied countries like Italy and France markets are more professional than here it seems... But I'm transgressing away, here are the highlights of what you should try:

Figs - the freshness, light perfume and obvious eroticism of this large and squishy, lime-coloured fruit with its pale purple inside is unbeatable consumed with lashings of (local, lavender)honey and morsels of very mild (local, goat) cheese or just devoured as it is, lying Emperor-style by the sea, gazing leisurely at the surrounding female bodies.

Cherries - tiny, intensely sweet and sour jewels, the colour of a gypsy girl's eyes (and why not??), are surprisingly refreshing in the heat, especially when chilled and swallowed first thing in the morning after a thirst-inducing night. I kept dreaming of having them with peeps and all sunken in an almost-frozen vanilla ice-cream (note, NOT of local variety - overly-creamy and sugary - but hard and Italian, to sunk your teeth into).

Prošek - sweet dessert wine made out of dried grapes, syrupy in texture and blood-coloured. Highly recommend the kind produced in the isle of Vis (the island was closed to public until 1990's being a military post and the main hideout of Tito). Drink it cold after the abundant dinner of fish and molluscs; it gives energy and sweet dreams.

And of course, THE fish, on which just a bit later...

Gnawing on London bones

It was still dark and bitterly cold when we arrived in Canary Wharf two days before the New Year's eve celebrations. I had worked in Canary Wharf before for several long years, but have not been back in the area for over four years now. Lifting up my head to see the top of - until very recently - the tallest building in Europe, surrounded by gleaming beauty of otherworldly architecture, gave me the same sense of awe as some 10 years ago, when I arrived at newly opened Canary Wharf station for my job interview. I felt like I'd been miraculously transported to another country, somewhere very stylish, powerful and rich; somewhere like New York or Paris. It was difficult to imagine that only some 20 years ago the area of Canary Wharf (the site of the old West India Docks and Isle of Dogs) was an all-forgotten, derelict district of docks. What brought me here on this bitingly cold December morning, however, was something that would not make me a million before the age of 30, but would plunge me straight back into the years when the presence of the river was the raison d'etre for the activities in this area. Fish.

'We have a tradition that every 31 of December we go to...' - the phrase known to every Russian from the legendary 70s film on saunas, vodka and melodramatic soviet realities. Transported into the 21 century East London a few days before the New Year's eve, I realised this phrase should end with 'we go to a..fish market'. In fact, not just any old market, but the biggest and oldest fish market in the UK, located in Canary Wharf - the Billingsgate. The market has been in this area since the 16th century and is still bringing here everyone from a simple deli owner to celebrity chefs. Being mainly a wholesale market, it is also open to public; and at the end of December the market swells up with many Eastern Europeans coming down here to stock up for the all important New Year's eve dinner.

The market itself is unsurprisingly bright, all EU-approved white tiles and overcoats. There are nearly 100 traders here selling all possible types of fish in one big space. Apparently, about 60% of the fish here come from the UK seas, with 40% arriving from foreign waters. It may be that we arrived a bit too late for the proper trade (mere 7am instead of the expected 5am), but a lot of what we saw was entitled either Asian or Exotic. Natasha - my big fish loving friend (a big lover, not a big Natasha!:) - took a particular liking to a stall that had a lively crowd of the Chinese and Koreans around it. I am not able to list the fish they have on sale for the simple reason that the sellers themselves didn't know. After several attempts addressed to four people, we got a name of one fish (which was not the one on the left unfortunately, which I think should just be called a pointy sprat) - it was obviously a kind of place where people who knew came. We were not in the know, so we moved on.

Since better deals can be gotten by buying in bulk, we wanted to find a box of fish that is fairly versatile and inexpensive. Natasha laid her eye on a stall that was only selling sea bream in boxes for a tenner. It was almost the end of trading, so I was convinced we could bargain. We approached the stall holder, in our most pink-cheekily and eye-flatteringly, and asked to give us 6 pieces of fish for 10 quid, one more than was already in the box. The guy looked at us blankly and replied, how about 4 fish for £10. At first we thought he was joking, but soon realised that he was dead serious - he was not happy with us daring to bargain! piss off, we thought, and walked to the central part of the market where we could see another crowd of people.

I am far from being an expert in fish (my expertise starts and finishes with looking admiringly at the shiny fish eyes), but the fish we saw next was clearly of a higher rank: a pale white turbot, a bright red mullet, a fat and lustrous sea bass. Maybe I was also impressed with the quantities of fish on offer (limited) and the advice given by the seller (assertive, but friendly), which made me think immediately 'good stuff'. The charming stall holder with a reassuring American (don't ask why) accent told us about the difficulties in the sea over the last few days (the weather had been icy and windy), and explained why the fishermen may be reluctant to do deals (not much fish in winter generally). Natasha went on to question him about the fish with 'eggs' inside. The American didn't grasp what she was after at first, but eventually told us to come back in spring, when caviar is more likely to be found. The decadent Russian ways, eh? Natasha and I made a mental 'wyll by bahck'.

Having made another three circles around the market, and seeing how most stalls were already packing up, we settled on three bags of frozen seafood (for Natasha's famed paella), five individually sold sea basses and breams, and a bag of enormous raw prawns. I also bought three fresh cuttlefish from the mysterious Asian stall. I had never bought, let alone prepared, the cuttlefish, so was anticipating and slightly dreading the prospect of cleaning the fish to get rid of its ink. The de-inking operation would work well later, transforming the slimy things into cute and neat rings. But for now we needed breakfast.

The market has three cafs, proper East London joints with men having big mugs of PG tips with milk, scoffing economy Tesco toasts with mounts of baked beans, making loud, dirty, but innocent jokes. I loved the atmosphere the moment I walked in.

There were black and white pictures on the walls, big steaming kettles of water for drinks, a curious smell of baconfish (ie fried bacon and fried fish, smelled unanimously, eaten separately) and - something very rare and almost politically incorrect these days - a rumble of pure Cockney speak, with no additions of Eastern European voices. As you can imagine, Natasha and I were a hit.

We quickly made friends with several breakfasting fishermen, thanks to Natasha's long blond hair and me ordering a Kippers breakfast. One of our new friends, having fished out from Natasha that she was from St Petersbourg, proceeded to telling us that he had a neighbour from Tomsk, north of Russia, and that was the most important, and evidently the only, piece of information he had about Russia. Fair enough, we knew just as much about cockney London .

Back to my breakfast. Well, it was spectacularly awful. But those who think that I am a food snob (you know who you are!) will be glad to know that I loved every bit of my scarily bony fish, plasticy scrambled eggs, melting bread and sugary instant coffee. The atmosphere made the meal so right and memorable. I could really imagine myself some 50 years ago, having come back from the cold sea, all smelling of fish and ocean breeze, be ravenously hungry having got up at ungodly hour to earn the bacon (or fish?) for the family...

We came out of the market into the sunny winter morning. It was barely 9am, but the working day of the market and all its inhabitants was already over. Smelling unashamedly fishy, we went shopping into the fabulousness of Canary Wharf, which felt very decadent, almost revolutionary, remembering the years I had spend labouring away just a mile away from there. I then walked all the way to Limehouse,breathing in the sights and smells of nostalgic East London. It was a great way to celebrate the last few days of the year. I felt at one with the city, with my city, enjoying its newness and its oldness - and the exhilarating aroma of defrosting fish in my bag.