Instead, it got summarily washed, peeled, chopped into roast-able pieces and popped in a hot oven along with some fennel and thyme. Given that it’s also known as the oyster plant, I was expecting my salsify to taste a little more, well,  bivalvian. Instead, its closest approximation is a cross between a parsnip and an artichoke heart – maybe. Or maybe it’s just one of those things you have to try for yourself.

It worked well with the fennel, though, and I could imagine serving it with a not-too-delicate white fish and a peppy, lemony sauce. I also think you could turn your salsify into soup and spruce it up with a drizzle of truffle oil. But unfortunately I haven’t actually done any of these things. Sorry. All my culinary creativity seems to be dominated by Hidden Kitchen experiments these days, and meanwhile the salsify season is quickly running out, so I thought I’d better post this sooner rather than later.

If any of you feel inspired to try out one of the suggestions above, or indeed any other salsify experiments, I’d love to hear your comments!

If you live in Amsterdam, it won’t have escaped your notice that we had local elections last week. Miraculously, I’m allowed to vote in these elections (I’m not allowed to vote in the national elections for some perverse reason, even though I pay Dutch taxes, own a Dutch flat and have a Dutch company registered with the Dutch Chamber of Commerce, but don’t get me started…). And in this case they seemed fairly important since, from 1st May, Amsterdam’s 14 stadsdelen will be whittled down to just seven. Which means that the culturally varied and diverse areas of Bos en Lommer, de Baarsjes, Oud West and Westerpark all become one conglomerate mass named simply ‘West’. Now, I’ve not met anyone – anyone – who thinks this is a good idea, so I’m assuming it must be some kind of cost-cutting exercise on the part of the government. Amsterdam may not be a large city, but each area has its identify, character and people who in turn have their own needs and demands.

But ok, I’m no politician, and how does this relate to food? Well, I’ve been taking a look at some of the eating establishment near where I live lately, and noticing that there’s something distinctly Westerparkian about them. They’re classy but not expensive, up-and-coming but not exclusive, and they draw their influences from a diverse mix of immigrant cultures.

On this occasion, I’m focusing on the Italian-influenced restaurants – and they’re all takeaway places. But not takeaways in the Domino’s-pizza-and-Maccy-D’s type way; I mean takeaway that you might eat when you’re not hungover, too.

Holy Ravioli's Thai-style prawn ravioli

With a name like Holy Ravioli, you’ve got to be good. Fortunately, they are. I’ve tried a couple of the ravioli (all made from fresh pasta, and filled on the premises in a little ravioli factory out the back) and they’re packed full of flavour and value. Some combinations are surprisingly innovative, too: prawns with Thai-curry sauce, bean sprouts and spring onions, for example. Or veal with sage, spinach and anchovy butter. Or something with truffle that I keep trying to order, which keeps elusively disappearing from the menu (or maybe they’re just trying to keep me coming back for more…). Kevin and Bart (the ravioli boys) also profile the work of local artists on the walls of the restaurant, which is good news for Amsterdam artists and collectors.

Lazagne's 'Capriccio': a taster of all three pasta dishes

Then there’s Lazagne, on the Frederik Hendrikplantsoen. The décor is kind of crazy in a scarlet-and-white-painted-flowers sort of way, but the lasagne chefs seem to know what they’re doing. The menu is simple, with meat lasagne, vegetarian lasagne and cannelloni, which change depending on the season. I tried all three, and the winner for me was the vegetarian pumpkin and artichoke lasagne, which is saying something since (as we know) I am no vege. I do, however, have a thing for artichokes. Weirdly, both lasagne dishes came with the tomato sauce on the top of, rather than in between, the pasta. I didn’t mind, and maybe I am being an ignorant Brit here, but it confused me a bit.

Finally, Pinsa’s pizzeria-cum-cookery-school serves pizza and pasta in the Spaarndammerbuurt. I’ve only tried the pizzas so far, and they’re not up to much. Their oven does not get hot enough, and they’re stingy on the toppings – including the basics like tomato sauce and cheese. It’s a shame because I want to support them, but after two mediocre experiences I’d go that bit further to La Perla or Da Portare Via to ensure quality.

Incidentally, all three places opened in the last year (give or take), proving that the area’s food scene is on the up and up. Which just goes to show: the government can take the Westerpark’s name from the Westerparkers, but they can’t take the Westerparker’s spirit from the Westerpark.

Cheese from the Savoie region

Saucisson of every variety imaginable

So, we’re 2300 metres above sea level (in Val Thorens – officially the highest ski resort in Europe) and the temperature’s around -10 degrees centigrade. And STILL the French manage to lay on a market twice a week, stuffed full of Savoyard goodies. Just had to share…

Spices: combined and basketed-up for maximum kitsch

Macarons: admittedly, not as good as those from La Maison Doree

A few weeks ago, I got in touch with the brains behind Amsterdam Spoke: an online magazine for Amsterdam’s would-be writers to profile their work – and to provide insider info on the city to boot. For the last few months, Spoke’s writing community has been congregating for meet-up drinks, dinners and creative events, so I went along to yesterday’s meeting to get to know some fellow writers (and – of course – to try out a new restaurant).

The venue was Humphrey’s: a super-central, multi-roomed eatery with an international menu. Given its location, you’d expect a lot of tourists, but you’d also expect prices to match. Humphrey’s offers three courses for €22.50, which is probably what attracted a group consisting of three writers and two amateur photographers, none of whom (I imagine) are exactly on JK Rowling’s salary.

Salmon, seaweed, wasabi

After considerable mixing up of drinks orders, we tucked into the entire loaf of bread speared to its board with a knife. To start, I had salmon that had been wrapped in seaweed sheets, breaded and deep fried, served with more seaweed (this time of the salad variety). The salmon was fresh and raw in the centre; its oiliness was given a welcome zing by the wasabi mayonnaise with which it was served. All in all, a good beginning.

Mixed grill: beef, chicken and pork with curry sauce

My mixed-grill main was less accomplished, with the skewer of chicken, pork and beef all having been grilled for seemingly the same length of time – which was slightly too long for the chicken and pork, and much too long for the beef. They were also dusted in dried herbs (sorry, pet hate) and served with a creamy curry sauce. A simple Hollandaise would’ve done the trick.

The tiramisu for dessert (of whose name we spent quite some minutes discussing the Italian meaning, in true pedantic writerly style) was strangely circular and served with a caramel sauce. It wasn’t the most authentic tiramisu I’ve ever eaten, but equally it wasn’t the worst, by a long shot.

Food aside, however (and I realise it’s rare that I put food aside), the true pleasure of the evening was in talking to a Scottish musician who’s writing a Celtic fairy myth, an American travel writer who’s just trawled the hotels of England for the perfect hideaway, a Polish painter who’s turning her hand to photography and an Israeli entrepreneur with a passion for fashion photos. Amsterdam – with its colourful, cosmopolitan, creative people – never fails to fascinate me.

Apparently ‘pekelharing’ is the term used to describe the saltiest preserved herring Dutch money can buy. Given that extremely salty preserved herrings don’t sound all that appetising, Firma (or Fa) Pekelhaaring is not an obvious name to give to an Italian restaurant. I was hoping the website might enlighten me with some history (say – the fact that the building used to be a herring factory, or something logical like that) but no such explanation was forthcoming, and I am too lazy to do the research (sorry).

Anyway, odd name aside, the Pekelhaaring really is rather gezellig in a converted schoolhouse-type way: basic wooden tables and chairs, walls made of holey plasterboard that you want to stick black plastic letters in, naked bulbs on ceiling wires, and even a shelving unit full of games and books for kids. (Luckily, when we were there, no children were present, which is good because I dislike the ritual screaming and running around that seems to accompany them – and the acoustics in this place would’ve made the screaming unbearable.)

Arancini

We ordered a bottle of Italian red that I’d never heard of, and some arancini and a salad to start. Well, I say ordered: it involved more giggling and blushing than actual speech. But who could blame us with a waiter that hot. I’m sorry – I always promise myself (and, more importantly, you) that I’m going to stop writing restaurant reviews that expound on the aesthetics of the staff. Surely this is not the point? But then again, there’s a reason you’re reading a blog and not – say – Iens, right? If you’ve made it this far (and I’m under no illusion here – I’m aware that the majority of users of this site simply look at the ratings and the contact details and no further) it’s probably because you want something more than a list of dishes, a price indication and a few qualitative adjectives. And if this is not the first review of mine you’ve read, you’ll know that ‘appropriate’ is not a word that generally applies. Suffice to say: lekker ding.

Duck, chicory and fig salad

Anyway, moving on to the next lekker ding: our arancini. Little balls of saffron risotto, breaded, fried and served with a creamy chilli dip. What’s not to like? Our salad consisted of duck confit, chicory, pecan nuts and figs. Now, I know figs aren’t in season, so I half expected them to be dried. But I swear the table next to ours ordered the prosciutto and mozzarella with figs and theirs were fresh. I found myself wanting to put my hand up in the air, screw up my face and whine, ‘but it’s not fair!’ (I didn’t.)

Next, we ordered the melanzane di parmigiana, which (in my opinion, and I realise that not everyone will share it) should involve aubergine layered up with tomato sauce and parmesan cheese, preferably in some kind of oven-able dish. In this case, the melanzane came halved, in boat shapes, and topped with the cheese. There was too much aubergine skin and not enough tomato and – well – for me, it just didn’t do what it said on the tin. Our other main course was porchetta with sausage and cavolo nero cabbage; the pork was too salty for me, but the sausage was fantastic.

Porchetta and sausage

Feeling fairly full by this stage, we opted for a scroppino for dessert. It was the perfect digestif. Dinner came to €35 each, which is not bad for two-and-a-half courses and more guy candy than you could shake a home-made sausage at.

Speaking of which, I was so enamoured with those sausages that I went back two days later to ask the kitchen where they buy them. They don’t. They make their own, and they fully understood the frustrations of an Englishwoman trying to find a good sausage in Holland. I am working on the chefs to persuade them to sell me some for spring Hidden Kitchen… (Incidentally, this is not a metaphor – I really am talking about the sausages. Gutted.)

When the waiter at Greetje brought us our menus, he asked whether we’d prefer English or Dutch. Since we didn’t mind, he brought both. I opened the English first, and was bemused to read that we could eat ‘kitchen maid’s sorrow soup’ to start, and either a ‘Rolling Bitch’ or something that involved a ‘pigeon’s hangover’ for dessert. It was a bit like being in China, where translations are capable of going so awry it’s easiest to ignore the menus altogether. So I consulted the Dutch version to see if this would help. It didn’t. Apparently the old word for schorseneren (or salsify) is indeed keukenmeidverdriet, while there really is a sweet custardy dish known as ‘duivenkater’. I was intrigued.

Beef terrine

Over a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from Tourraine in the Loire valley, I ordered the stewing beef terrine, wrapped in smoked beef and served with shallot mayonnaise and a herb salad. It tasted wonderful on its own, but I thought it would taste even better with bread, so I asked for some. The rustic brown and white bread arrived immediately with butter and something that I thought at the time was beef dripping but, with hindsight, could’ve been goose fat with tiny flecks of meat left in it. Either way, I could probably have skipped the next two courses and spent the rest of the evening (if not the rest of my life) grazing on bread dipped in beef/duck/goose/something-gorgeously-salty-and-meaty dripping. My god it was good.

Quail, duck livers, spinach and port sauce

Next I ate roasted quail with fresh duck livers, steamed spinach and a creamy port sauce. I sucked the flesh off the quail bones and nearly melted along with the almost-raw livers that slid over my palate. My girl-date (it being Valentine’s weekend, it was tricky to go out for dinner with any boys) reported similarly excellent fare. Smoked duck breast with onion compote  to start, followed by a puff-pastry pie filled with stewed beef, mash and red cabbage suffused with the wintry warmth of fragrant cloves. Totally old-fashioned comfort food. Incidentally, the restaurant is named after the owner’s mother. Greetje was clearly a very good cook.

Smoked duck with onion compote

There were about five options for desserts on the menu, but clearly we had only two choices: the Rolling Bitch or the pigeon’s hangover. We plumped for the latter, and were served a traditional bread pudding (a little like the English bread-and-butter pudding but drier) with a quenelle of whipped cream and a small glass of the pigeon’s hangover, which was like a thicker version of crème anglaise. Pleasant if rather stodgy.

Bread pudding with 'pigeon's hangover'

Dinner came to €60 each, including a tip, which I handed over very happily. If I had one complaint, it was that the bread (and what bread!) did not come automatically, so I’m very glad I asked. Having said that, since it was both obviously already prepared and not added to our bill at the end, it may have just been omitted in error.

I’m always moaning about service, so – correspondingly – when it’s good I feel it deserves a special mention. The waiters at Greetje were smiling, attentive, friendly and generous – though not in the least obsequious. A real pleasure to talk to. Something my dad always insisted on when he ran restaurants was that – whatever the time – every table should be laid and re-laid as though ready for more customers; not a glass should be cleared, and definitely not a chair stacked on a table, until the last person had left. By midnight, we realised we were the last people in Greetje, though I noticed that every other table was freshly laid and no one hurried us to leave, although I have no doubt they were tired and wanted to go home. It may be one small step for the restaurant business, but it’s one giant leap for service in Amsterdam.

Cherry, bison grass and vanilla vodka

So last night I cracked open the cherry vodka whilst entertaining the genius idea of inventing a new dessert I had ambitiously titled: ‘Cherry Vodka Sabayon Espuma’. I had visions of a palely pink, fluffy, foamy, sweet and slightly almond-y concoction. What I got was a light-brown sludge that tasted like cherry-flavoured mayonnaise. Which just goes to show that even people who think about food 24/7 are perfectly capable of screwing things up. And that, when it comes to vodka, do as the Poles do: down it, frozen, from shot glasses.

But what else did I learn from my Polish adventure? Well, their drinking habits rival those of the Brits – which is no surprise, given the temperatures in which they have to survive. I tried hot beer with raspberry syrup, cinnamon and cloves, which sort of looked like a beer cappuccino but reminded me in taste of a cross between mulled wine and snakebite & black.

Hot beer

Next day, I sampled the obligatory borscht, or beetroot soup, which was suitably warming but came with a disturbingly slimy mushroom in it, which put me off a bit. (For anyone who doesn’t know this already, I have a Problem with mushrooms. They are the last remaining ingredient which, no matter how hard I try, I simply cannot grow to tolerate. As you can imagine, set menus in autumn are a nightmare.)

Borscht: beetroot soup

But the culinary highlight of my trip to Krakow has to be Pierogi: made from dough with the consistency of dumplings, they are shaped into little crescents and filled with various mixtures, like ravioli. Mine came with three different fillings: bacon and spinach, potato and cheese, and minced pork and beef. You can order them either boiled or fried (I went for the latter) and – if I were ever to make them myself – I might top them with some caramelized onions or herb butter.

Pierogi

I’m not sure that I ever will make them myself, mind you, because they look time consuming and complicated. But if anyone knows of a Polish shop in Amsterdam, I may well pick some up. And for dessert? Onto my next experiment – this time with vanilla vodka and ice cream…

Aperitif: Lillet with a twist of orange rind (for which idea and the Vermouth-style tipple itself we have Marius, one of my favourite restaurants, to thank)

Amuse bouche: Jerusalem artichoke, orange and truffle oil soup

Starter: Roasted garlic, mascarpone and thyme risotto with a toasted almond crumb (served, and cooked, with Italian Pinot Grigio, Sartori)

Vegetarian main: Spiced carrot, butternut squash and goat’s cheese tartlets (care of my can’t-live-without Ottolenghi cookbook) with a fennel, grape and winter postelein salad (served with a French Chinon)

Meat main: Roast venison with a sweet, red wine jus and a ratatouille of winter vegetables (served with a German Pinot Noir from Laufener Altenberg)

Palate cleanser: Calvados, cider and cinnamon espuma

Dessert: ‘Torta alla Gianduia’ – a gorgeous Nigella Lawson recipe for chocolate-hazelnut torte (served with the obligatory Frangelico)

Menu planning for the spring events is well under way, so looking forward to seeing some of you there in April!

Still, on the plus side, there’s a trip to Krakow to look forward to (expect reviews of cherry vodka and – well, whatever one eats with cherry vodka!), an evening at the ballet and… and Vacherin Mont d’Or cheese. I swear it’s sent by the Goddess of Winter to make all this cold, dark, sleeting misery that bit more bearable.

It’s made in the Alps on the Swiss-French border, only in the winter months, and preserved in a wooden box lined with pine bark. The good stuff is unpasteurised, and carries the Apellation d’Origine Contrôlée label, which means it comes from a specific region and is made using a specific process – much like wine. You can eat it ‘neat’, as it were: at room temperature, with bread. Or – like I did for the first time this year – you can bake it in the oven with a clove or two of garlic and a glass of white wine for about half an hour, till it’s melted to the texture of thick cream… And you don’t even need a fondue kit.

To buy a box from the Noordermarkt will set you back about a tenner. But head down to the cheese stall on the Ten Katestraat market on the corner where it meets the Kinkerstraat and you can pick up a box for a fiver. I went a bit nuts and bought three. And then I wonder why I’m skint…

So, this V-Day, eschew the flowers and Hallmark cards and Valentine menus; invite a mate over and dip into five well-spent euros’ worth of winter luxury… better than a dozen red roses any day.

Restaurant websites: User feedback indicated that people wanted to navigate to a restaurant’s website directly from the review. Now, everywhere you see a little link called ‘website‘, that should be possible. Assuming that a restaurant has a website and I could find it, it’s there for your linking pleasure…

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