Bléchamel sauce

I am a fan of French cuisine, truly, though admittedly I tend to shy away from the creamier concoctions of Mornay and Hollandaise sauces. What I am not a fan of, and find it is one of the common ingredients of British "Italian" cooking, is Béchamel sauce. It is used in addition to red sauce to make lasagne or, gasp, eggplant parmigiana. What is this all about, white sauce as a layer? Gobsmacked, I tell you.

But wait, Jamie Oliver does it! Nigella Lawson does it! Delia does it!

Mario Batali does not. Emeril Lagasse does (he calls it Manly Man Lasagne). Martha Stewart sticks with the traditional red. My brother David  never put a white sauce in his . . . OK, he’s not Italian, but anyone I have known with an Italian background, at least when I’ve been in the kitchen with them, has not made a roux a layer.

Flour, milk, butter . . . red sauce? Well, this just didn’t seem to be right. I Googled it and found that northern Italians tend to use the béchamel whereas the southern Italians prefer ricotta. I think I am a Southern belle, then!

(Can you even buy Béchamel in a jar in New Jersey? I can’t recall having ever seen it.)

Poor Tim. He came home excited to make me eggplant (aubergine) parmigiana, one of my favourite meals. There’s a place in Harrison, New Jersey, called Nino’s that is for me makes one of the best—thinly-sliced eggplant, red sauce, a bit of cheese and no hint of Béchamel. Every time I go back to New Jersey I find myself there, usually ordering just that.

Out came the ingredients Tim purchased, and lo and behold a jar of Dolmio appeared. I wasn’t kind; I reminded Tim that I don’t like white sauce and would not have it used for my eggplant parmigiana. I was perhaps a bit strong. The Dolmio went into the cupboard.

There was also some mince (aka chop meat) produced. OK, so, I wouldn’t combine the two, but I could see this was starting to be more like moussaka . . . which is what Tim had in his mind. I was dreaming of Nino’s version, a side of whole wheat pasta and a salad with balsamic vinaigrette.

The compromise, in the end, was quite good—eggplant sliced skin-on, brushed with olive oil and grilled, then layered in a dish with a bit of cheese and red sauce, no Béchamel. The side was whole wheat spaghetti and we did use the mince so it was a la Bolognese, and the same sauce was used to layer the eggplant though straining the sauce so there was little meat with the eggplant (it was all we had at the time).

I had the leftovers for dinner one evening when Tim was away. The flavours melded nicely and the eggplant was delicious, not all that far off the mark from Mr Nino. Things can only get better!

Like if You Love Your Neighbourhood

My London, my true London home, is not the one that flashes in people’s minds when they think of the city: I don’t turn the corner and see Westminster Abbey or Buckingham Palace. It’s also a bit of a trek to catch a glimpse of the London Eye, and Madam Tussauds is a fair jaunt down the Euston Road that takes up to an hour by car; even though it’s only four miles, the traffic can be terrible. And the closest I’ve come to see the Queen, soon to be our longest running monarch, was actually on the Isle of Wight!

Terraced houses in "the north."

No, my London is my wonderful neighbourhood “north.” Not far, mind you, from the centre of tourist activity; four miles and I’ll be sitting in a sidewalk café in Covent Garden watching the buskers perform operettas. In 3.5 miles I could be looking at the Magna Carta or handwritten Beatles lyrics in the British Library. In just a tick over two miles I can be at the Silicon Roundabout—London’s  new innovation hub. And if I were the sporting type I live just over a mile from Emirates Stadium; on most nights when Arsenal plays at home we can hear the shouts from our front porch.

Along the New River Walk

Oh, and the canal is just a short one-mile walk to see the narrow boats emitting puffs of smoke from their fuel stoves on chilly mornings. You can stroll for six miles from one end to the other, and trust me, we have. Even closer is the New River Walk, an aqueduct originally meant to bring water from Hertfordshire to the local well and just 15 minutes away, a wonderful oasis that I simply love to stroll through to get to one of my favourite neighbourhood pubs, The Marquess Tavern.

The Marquess at the foot of the New River Walk.

Another favourite walk is to Clissold Park, and there in under 10 minutes. We often circle the park and slow down to peer at the goats or the fallow deer kept there to the delight of many small children (and a few adults). In the summer the park is brimming with runners, prams, and foot and paw traffic that usually means the walk is more leisurely than active, but what great people-watching! (Walking there often leads to a conversation, had dozens of times, about getting a dog.)

The other evening I convinced Tim (as it was the last day of my extended weekend) to pop into the Rose and Crown, directly across from Stoke Newington Town Hall where we were married, for a glass of something cold after our stroll down Stoke Newington Church street. 

One of the many shops along Church Street.

The road is filled with tea shops, cafes, garden shops, and lovely independent stores selling books, clothes, gadgets, etc. (It has its share of real estate agents, too.) The street has a slight grungy edge to it—the road is narrow along with the shops, and it’s usually crowded and I’d say it’s not actually pretty, but it’s close to  home and it’s wonderful for its diversity. Oh, and the best part of making that journey—the Whole Foods Market!

My Whole Foods.

Our pause at the Rose and Crown meant that we ran into a local artist who we’d recently seen selling his art from a table just outside one of the entrances at Clissold Park and whom we had purchased some cards from; he happens to be a friend of a good friend, we found out by chatting with him, and Tim recognised him immediately at the pub. Stokie is full of artists—many of the shops display works by the locals which you can buy right off the walls—and Alex kindly invited us to a private view of five artists’ works next weekend. How’s that for neighbourhood hospitality!

The Rose and Crown.

The other morning I had to pop out to get some milk, and as I was heading down the stairs I had this moment of absolute joy living in my neighbourhood. It was not a warm day, but it wasn’t cold either and the air had that lovely smell of fresh-baked bread, in fact from the shop I was heading to, and it was quiet and pretty, and I fell in love all over again.

When you come to my London, well, I’ve got a few things to show you!

Deer at Clissold Park.