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Chronicles of an Italian ordering a (chiken tikka) Domino's

Chronicles of an Italian ordering a (chiken tikka) Domino’s

One of the things I am most interested about, when it comes to food, is authenticity and food purism – because it’s this over-used, prosaic notion, and ultimately little more than a fabricated concept, a made-up law enforced by self-appointed keyboard vigilantes (have you ever seen the Italians mad at food page?)

I studied linguistics. Something professors of linguistics will do their best to…

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Mentaiko spaghetti

I have spoken before about the pain, the suffering of the self-imposed food puritanism and rigidity that comes with being Italian, in a world of teriyaki chicken pizzas and hot-dog stuffed crusts and canned ravioli.

Of course, there is a danger with a food culture that it’s as romanticised as the Italian one. It’s easy to succumb to a specific kind of snobbery, forgetting that, you know, Italy is…

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Where to eat in Seville

Where to eat in Seville

Of course, this should really be called: where I ate in Seville, rather than where to eat in Seville. I have not, by all means, tried all (or most) restaurants in the colourful, sun-dappled city and determined with scientific rigour the best restaurants in Seville. Nor have I spent a particular long time here (four glorious days). I have however received recommendations from websites and guides…

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Lao Cafe, London - a review

Lao Cafe, London – a review

It’s cute. Pale blue, with a stripped-down industrial-chic interior, a colourful mural, wooden benches in shades of brown and pastels. I first came across it in a review in Good Food magazine, which praised it for its authenticity, the punch of all things spicy and fermented, the use of ingredients like ant eggs and bugs, which may put off some eaters. To me, it’s just one of my favourite places…

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Apollo Banana Leaf, London - a review

Apollo Banana Leaf, London – a review

I’d never even had Indian food until I was twenty years old. Chinese, that I would have quite often, in large restaurants with bronze etchings on the wall and rotating trays on tables. Pineapple chicken, fatty dumplings, deep-fried Nutella to finish. I discovered Japanese food when I was sixteen, at first sceptical, then taken aback by the soft texture of the sticky rice, finally in love via my…

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What I ate in Japan - Part 2

What I ate in Japan – Part 2

The Ryokan dinner After a spectacular rope-way trip over a volcanic valley, overlooking a bare mountain with thick steam rising from the surface, we made our way to our ryokan in Hakone, in the lush Japanese countryside. A traditional hotel, with tatami floor and sliding doors, the hotel also had a beautiful onsen (a natural thermal pool by a river, enveloped by nature) and a very gorgeous dinner…

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What I ate in Japan - part 1

What I ate in Japan – part 1

Not to blow my own horn, but I am normally quite good at planning where to eat on holiday. I study guidebooks, blogs, websites; I plan itineraries around this fried fish joint in Malaga or that Souvlaki place in Rhodes. I go back home comforted by the thought that yet again, I have eaten and drunk everything worth eating and drinking. Of course, in a city like Tokyo, this is impossible. Not only…

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Butterbeer at Warner Bros Studio

As a child, I was very fascinated by the food in Harry Potter because it all seemed so alien to me: the decadent stews, the soups, butter as a side, dense cakes made of dried fruit, the grand potatoey-ness of it all. For years I thought “watercress” was a kind of meat because its Italian name was so unfamiliar.

There is a cafe in the Studios, but it serves the most generic cafe food you can think of. It also serves Butterbeer and charges you an extra £3 for the pleasure of having your drink in a cheap-looking plastic tankard. The drink itself is a slightly sickly cream soda with an inoffensive whipped marshmallow fluff topping made to look like a shiny, unrealistic head.

As an adult, what I like the most about fictional Butterbeer is that it has inebriating powers – i.e., it was alcoholic and drunk by teens, in true British spirit. This version also could have used some whiskey.

Maltby Street Market

I love Maltby St Market; but I hate it, too. The absurd choice of dishes and cuisines throws me in a panic and I always order something I don’t really want and then second-guess my decision-making skills. This visit was no exception.

Tartiflette seemed like a good idea (mounts of potatoes, ham and Reblochon – what could go wrong) but it really doesn’t possess the magical comforting abilities I ached for when it’s 18 degrees on a grey September day. It needed snow to work.

My second choice, the fish finger sandwich at Shoal Food was a perfect concoction of crispy chunks of fish, all flaky and delicate inside, in a shiny, sturdy bun. I love any fish finger sandwich (yes, even the orange-coloured supermarket fish fingers with Lurpack spread and the whitest plastic bread) but this one was genuinely delicious, especially washed down with my favourite Negroni in the whole world at Little Bird Gin.

I could not part without trying an ice cream sandwich from Happy Endings, “the Malty One”; it was a wonderful little thing of creamy, nutty malt ice cream, snugly hugged by chewy oat cookies with a slightly salty edge. Chocolate was involved, too.

Good Egg, Stoke Newington

Stoke Newington is like this pretty village where everything looks boutiquey and made to be photogenic, and it maybe has the highest concentrations of restaurants you have to queue for (probably not true, but it feels like that when you’re hungry and will have to wait for forty endless minutes to get your hands on some labna).

The Good Egg serves Israeli food in a busy, buzzy restaurant. For breakfast, they serve smaller plates, or larger options (pittas, whitefish bagels and the likes). We had melty eggs with everything seasoning (onion, garlic, sesame, caraway seeds and probably something else, but the sesame really did most of the work); perfect, tangy, silky labna delicately dressed with tiny greens; fluffy pitta with olive oil; sharp, smoky aubergine marinated in nutty tahini; airy whipped feta with the ripest jammiest black fig on top. Everything is balanced, tangy, creamy, honey-sweet, feta-salty. By the time I was done, I was ready to queue all over again.

Mangal 2, Dalston

When I moved to Berlin, Turkish restaurants were the biggest surprise for me. Before then, my only experience of Turkish food were late night Doner kebabs – deliciously fatty, salty, doused in chilli sauce. But in Berlin, Turkish restaurants were lovely places that offered generous portions of hummus, thin sheets of Turkish bread, grills piled high, diminutive glasses of fruity tea and wobbly baked rice pudding – they were something else entirely.

There’s a stretch of the A10 where the smell of car fumes is miraculously covered by the aroma of grilled meat from the many Turkish cafes and restaurants, mainly specialising in wood-fired food. Mangal 2, with its unassuming decor, is among them. Inside, Alex and I shared lamb kofte, our arms crossing while attempting to mop up the yoghurt dip, the sheer pleasure of conviviality in the interactiveness of a dip.

We had hummus, coarse and creamy, adorned by a single black olive, dark and sticky like a prune, and an aubergine dip which was a roller-coaster of smokiness, pungent garlic, and cooling mint. Then there was smoky charred lamb kofte on a pile of bread, tomato sauce and yoghurt, served with a generous amount of rice. All of this with Turkish bread, so reminiscent of pizza bianca to me, still warm from the oven and slightly charred in places. It’s the sort of place you’ll want to go time and time again – its reliability the perfect accompaniment to a date, a catch-up with a friend you haven’t seen in a while, meeting your parents. Or a takeaway to be eaten in front of the TV. Stranger Things is coming back soon, after all.

What I ate in September – a round-up Butterbeer at Warner Bros Studio As a child, I was very fascinated by the food in Harry Potter because it all seemed so alien to me: the decadent stews, the soups, butter as a side, dense cakes made of dried fruit, the grand potatoey-ness of it all.

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Bun House, London: a review (not)

Bun House, London: a review (not)

This is not a review. I repeat: this is not a review. It’s more of an invite to go and have a look (taste) yourself. There are several reasons why this is not an actual review. When I visited Bun Tea House, a few months ago, they had just opened. The bar downstairs was still closed and they did not have an alcohol licence yet (but the beer list looked very interesting). Most of their pickles were…

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Palatino, London - a review

Palatino, London – a review

You know that joke, ask an Italian where the best food is and they’ll tell you to eat at their grandmother’s? Well, that’s not entirely inaccurate. I have such ridiculously high standards when it comes to Italian food that I genuinely feel bad for every Italian restaurant I go to. If the food isn’t prepared the way my grandmother would or doesn’t taste as nice as that little restaurant I stumbled…

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A review of Hangmee, Berlin

A review of Hangmee, Berlin

If there is one thing Berlin has that London so miserably lacks is space. Berlin seems to have buckets of space. Its peaceful, quiet Allees, lined by rows of trees, are so spacious that if you were to open your arms, as if to hug an imaginary friend, you probably would not cause an accident that would later be featured on BBC News. And I believe that all this space, the simple ability to walk…

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Electric Elephant Café, London

Electric Elephant Café, London

Imagine this: you’re tired. You’re hungover. The world is too loud, the light too bright and the air too warm and heavy for you to even think about leaving the house. And someone brings you a cup of tea, builder’s tea, with maybe too much milk, some sugar still sitting at the bottom, the last few sips much sweeter than the ones before. And then they make you toast. Just plain toast, from sliced…

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Instagram food fatigue

A good 80% of my Instagram feed is food. There are the odd bits of fashion, peaceful landscapes, beauty gurus showing off their freebies. I don’t really follow celebrities whose feed turns into publicity when a new film is out (but Dawn Porter is the best); any stranger who takes lots of pictures is an unwelcome addition in my feed because why would I be interested in a stream of unfamiliar…

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2016 Food highlights, pt. 2

2016 Food highlights, pt. 2

Here is part 2 of my year in food: – Food at Som Saa because it was genuinely one of the best I have ever eaten. Ever. I was so keen and so worried about the legendary queue that I was the first one to show up – an hour before they even started serving food. They do luckily have a bar where you can knock down cocktails while you wait in trepidation. The whole-fried seabass, evil eyes and all, was…

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2016 food highlights, pt. 1

2016 food highlights, pt. 1

New Year’s day. Time to try out that new smoothie maker you got for Christmas. Have you been to the gym yet? Me neither. But yes, definitely tomorrow. Definitely. Kale juice? Before I get into New Year’s resolutions, I have taken the chance to reflect on the food highlights of my year, every meal a part of a story, forever weaved with conversations, views, trips, IKEA furniture building sessions.…

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Queen of Sheba, London

Queen of Sheba, London

Most of my meals are eaten at my desk, straight from the Tupperware, its cover gently dipping in the middle, battered by too many runs in the microwave. Others are eaten cold from the fridge, the TV on, a book with yellowed pages in the other hand; many are gobbled down as quickly as possible, like my morning porridge, perched on a chair, staring at the clock with the same intensity of a film…

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Pasta with ricotta cream and purple sprouting broccoli

Pasta with ricotta cream and purple sprouting broccoli

October is a strange month. The vivid, bright colours of summer seem to fade like an old picture, memories of warmth and drinks in the park melting away like the last gelato of the season. Under relentless rain and rare sunny days, we forget the feeling of stepping into clear water, of sand in the sheets, of walking barefoot. Drinking ice-cold lemonade on a balcony is a memory that seems to…