Part 7 (2/2)

Tana turned to me. T am worried about taking you to my house. It's not at all fancy.' I made an exaggerated gesture of examining myself in the mirror, then turned to her and replied, 'I think it will be just fine. As far as I can tell, I have not suddenly turned into the Queen Mother.' Tana let out what I soon began to recognize as her trademark laugh, deep, rich and genuine. Any ice there may have been still to be broken was smashed to smithereens.

Her house was, as I suspected, warm and welcoming. More than that, it was a home, with a large garden, beautiful views towards the hills and littered with toys discarded by her irrepressible grandson Logan. For the next few days Tana made her home my home. As we pottered around the kitchen preparing food for Thanksgiving, with Louis Prima as our soundtrack, her husband. Bob, kept me topped up with wine and beer and Logan gave me regular updates on the fierce battles between the plastic figurines of knights and superheroes he was overseeing in the yard.

On my first night we enjoyed the simplest supper imaginable: roast chicken and mashed potatoes. Logan threw a tea towel over his small arm, bowed deeply in waiterly fas.h.i.+on and served up a dollop of potato to each of us as Bob carved the chicken into big 163.

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r slices. It tasted as good as anything I had eaten for a long ti and I said so, not caring how silly that might sound.

'It is because you are eating it with family', Bob said, was right.

I had eight hours of uninterrupted sleep that night for thel time since my return from Brazil. So by the time Bob car collect me the next morning, I was up and busy tapping awa my computer. Tana too had been up since the early hours, fusi^j over her turkey, making her signature devilled eggs and get up to her elbows in stuffmg.

'I don't think the turkey is going to cook in time,' she wa 'the oven isn't working properly.'

The oven was, of course, working properly, and the bird, looked like it was doing splendidly, turning to a glistenir bronze colour as it cooked. I did what any self-respecting ma would do in such a situation when there is so much to be done: ] opened a bottle of wine, poured myself a large gla.s.s, despite th fact it was barely ii a.m., and sat back in a comfortable chair t<y watch=”” the=”” fun.=”” of=”” course,=”” when=”” called=”” upon,=”” i=”” did=”” a=”” little=”” bit=”” i=”” chopping=”” here=”” and=”” a=”” little=”” bit=”” of=”” mixing=”” there.=”” but=”” for=”” the=”” mc=”” part=”” i=”” just=”” sat,=”” drank,=”” stole=”” devilled=”” eggs=”” when=”” no=”” one=”” was=”” looking=”” and=”” enjoyed=”” the=””></y>< p=””>

When the turkey emerged from the oven, it did Tana credit^ gorgeous golden-coloured fowl with crispy skin, juices bubblir away merrily just under the surface. Tana had roasted the bird on j top of its giblets to add extra flavour to the gravy and now went

to toss them in the bin.

'What the h.e.l.l are you doing?' I squealed in a high-pitche voice that would have troubled the neighbourhood dog 'They're the best bits.' She did not look convinced but reprieve the innards from their garbage bin dungeon and put them on a

plate for Bob and me to nibble on while she got everything ready to transport over to the location of our supper.

We loaded up the car, and we headed over to her friend's! home to fmd about thirty other people were there ahead of us, already sipping champagne and laying out plates on a long table. Xhe amount of food was staggering: our bird was soon joined on the table by another. They sat next to mounds of salads, pristine white mashed potatoes, creamy dips, cheeses, smoked hams, sauces, cakes and pies. It was what my father calls 'a three-Zantac nieal' and I was ready to dive straight in.

Before the meal, however, our host, Laura, took the opportunity to propose a toast, giving thanks for all the people who were there: friends, family and even the bald, half-Welsh, half-Bengali in the corner trying to pull a bit of skin off the turkey without anyone noticing. It would have been easy, being a stranger among such obviously close friends, to feel intimidated and uncomfortable, but that was never going to be allowed to happen and I was immediately part of this extended family.

It was a uniquely Santa Cruz occasion. Everybody seemed to be related to everybody else in some labyrinthine way that I never quite got to the bottom of The women all referred to each other as 'G.o.ddesses', without any hint of irony that I could detect, and at the end of the meal guitars appeared and people began to sing songs that I suspect were about b.u.t.terflies or saving whales.

Tana was entirely in her element, making sure that everyone had enough to eat and drink, taking photographs, punctuating conversations with that laugh of hers and, at the end of the evening, gathering a group to sing a gentle lullaby that sent Logan to sleep before Bob carried him out to the car for the trip home. In the middle of it all I sucked on the bone of a turkey wing and made a promise to myself that, if at all possible, I would return to Santa Cruz for Thanksgiving every year, even if they didn't want me.

Some things in this life are, as I said, a matter of trust. I had had no idea what to expect before I arrived, but I had loved niy first Thanksgiving. I had eaten delicious home-cooked food and made a host of new friends. Best of all, I had met an extraordinary woman called Tana Buder, whose strengths and I.

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weaknesses, pa.s.sions and prejudices, successes and failing' dealt with more honestly than just about anyone else's I ever met. A truly human being and my new friend - that ' definitely worth giving thanks for.

I spent my last couple of days in Berkeley, a short drive from Santa Cruz. Thanks to the efforts of local resident ai my good friend Alexandra Eisler, I had been able to secu reservation at one of the USA's most famous restaurants, Q Panisse, and also the company of two dining companions for evening.

In the late 1980s, when I first began to eat out regularly, a reservation at a well-known restaurant would fill me with ner and excitement. My very first visit to London's legendary taurant Le Gavroche was preceded by three nights of slei tossing and turning as I thought about the meal to come, a si of unrest I had last experienced when I got tickets to see Clash in 1979. My mother was less sanguine about me going see Joe Strummer and the boys, primarily because I had sent to buy tickets and she had spent over four hours dressed in a thi fur coat standing among a Mohican-wearing mob.

Inevitably, as I dined out more often, levels of anticip; died down, dampened by as many bad meals as good. By 2007 would have taken something pretty special on the dining fi to give me the s.h.i.+vers of my youth. A reservation at Chez Pani did, however, give me a genuine thrill. It is an iconic restau; and, since Alice Waters opened its doors in 1971, it has becoi one of the must-visit restaurants on any food traveller's itine in California.

I had something else to look forward to first, however, Alexandra invited me for a pre-supper supper with her and family at their house, not far from the restaurant. There had bd an oil slick in the Bay area not long before my visit and, beca of that, crab-fis.h.i.+ng in the area had been suspended. So Toi Alexandra's uncle, had driven down from the upper reaches Northern California with an icebox stuffed to capacity wil freshly for us to boiled beauties, which were soon piled on the table ready attack. With a sprinkle of Meyer lemon juice, some warm bread and mayonnaise to dip the flesh into, they did not 1 St long- Just as I was sucking the sweet meat from a claw, which I am not proud to admit I may have stolen from the plate of Alexandra's seven-year-old daughter, she told me it was probably time for her to give me a lift to the restaurant.

jVly companions for the evening were already waiting for me and looking forward to the meal as much as I was. I had been fortunate enough to be given a tour of the kitchen that morning by one of the pastry chefs and saw the ingredients for our supper. This served only to raise the level of expectation again.

After all that antic.i.p.ation, it is a shame to have to say that the meal was not just a disappointment but shamefully bad. Chez Panisse bases its meals on a set menu. You get what you are given, which means the success of your meal depends on two things: the quality of ingredients and the quality of the execution. The ingredients had looked good enough when I saw them being delivered earlier in the day, so heaven can only guess what they did to them in the kitchen. My heart went out to a plate of leeks, beets and pancetta that looked as though Jackson Pollock had puked on the plate.

It was followed by lamb smothered in a sauce so salty I could feel my blood pressure rise as I took my first bite and vegetables so mushy I wanted to look in the kitchen and see if my old school dinner lady had been flown in especially for the occasion. With a desultory cheese course and a bland dessert, our meal at Chez Panisse came to an end as we each handed over $ no with almost as little enthusiasm as had been shown in the service.

It was a disappointing end to the trip, but after one of my companions dropped me ofl” at the motel, I began to make my notes. Berkeley may not have come up with the goods on this trip, the memorable crab dinner aside, but I had definitely had an unforgettable two months on the road with more food than it should have been possible and was probably sensible to eat.

I had been to four countries, over twenty cities. I ha friends and made many new ones. I had experienced the home charms of Texas and New Orleans and the urban Manhattan. I had experienced the outstanding hospitality , West Coast and the frightening indifference of Brazil.

I was heading back to the UK now, to spend Christmas' my family and to have a much-needed break. I had another (q^ teen or more countries to visit, but they would have to go sc to match the tastes and memories I had experienced so far, < G.o.d=”” bless=”” the=””>

23.

Three Men and a Still.

'Of course I am not b.l.o.o.d.y all right, I am throwing up blood. In which universe is that considered being all right?'

Admittedly I was not at my best as I was driven in the early hours of the morning, across the island of Islay to its tiny Accident & Emergency department but, looking back, I was being more than a little harsh on my new friend, John Glaser. Even if the fact that I had spent the last few hours emptying my guts should have given him an inkling that all was not tickety-boo with me tummy-wise.

I am getting ahead of myself.

It was the half-way point of my journey, and I was knackered. I had gained about lo lb in weight, and my bones had started to give a rather alarming 'crack' when 1 heaved Big Red onto my shoulders each morning. I had expected to be tired, but not to be quite so weary-to-my-bones exhausted.

As soon as I got back from California, my body rebelled. Before the journey I was always an early riser, up by six o'clock. Now I found it hard to get out of bed before midday. My body needed rest, and I allowed myself the luxury of s...o...b..ng out, waking up whenever I wanted, walking around my apartment unshaven, dressed only in a pair of sweatpants I found at the bottom of the laundry basket and flopping on the sofa to watch daytime TV, almost inevitably left tuned to the cookery channel.

I was shaken from my torpor a week or so later by the arrival of flight tickets for the next stage of the journey, to South-East Asia and India. I had to get back to work. There was accommodation eat my globe to be booked and people to contact. I had another four countries to visit, and all that gorging was not going to organil itself. Before I headed out on the next four-month leg of the trip, however, I had planned a few short trips closer to home.

Of all the people with whom I came into contact on the Eat My Globe trip, it seems strange that one of my favourites should have been not only one of the first people I met after announcing my resignation at work but also one who lives across town from me rather than across the world. A quietly spoken but intensely pa.s.sionate American, John Glaser is, with his company Compa.s.s, Box, by stealth turning the arcane world of Scotch whisky on its head. I first met him when I wandered into my favourite in search of a Martini and found him in the middle of a tastinl with my friend the c.o.c.ktail guru Nick Strangeway.

I was invited to join in and soon found myself sticking nose into John's business as we sampled a range of his whisln with names like 'Oak Cross' and 'The Peat Monster'. These John explained, were pure malts - blends of whiskies made from combining only single-malt whisky, as opposed to the malt and grain mixes of what are known as 'blended whiskies'. It can confusing stuff, but John's enthusiasm to debunk the mythic nature of Scotch is catching, and we were going to get on whenl he announced 'Making whisky is like making p.o.r.nography.! Both need good wood.'

John invited me to visit him at his offices so he could expla more about his company and what he was doing. It turned out 1 be a hugely enjoyable day, and at the end of my time with him, as we sat over a meal in the leafy courtyard of a local restaurant, John suggested that I should add Scotland to my itinerary, so I could see the sauce at source, as it were.

A couple of days later an e-mail popped up in my inbox, filled with lots of useful information and lots of useful contacts. Half-way through the e-mail was a line that said, 'Kilchoman - brand new distillery on Islay. Running a weekly whisky-making : academy.'

This was perfect. Islay was home to my favourite whiskies, renowned for the dense taste of peat cutting through an almost soapy sniell after it has been cut with a little water. It is unmistakable, and countless Majumdar meals have come to their natural conclusion with the gentle sigh of a stopper being pulled from a bottle of Laphroaig or Lagavulin.

I was soon booked on the Kilchoman course in December, days after I returned from the USA, and was thrilled to find out that both John and Nick had sculpted time from their hectic schedules to join me for the week. Thus it was that the three of us were to be found standing in the still room of Kilchoman on a cold December morning, the day after a rather frightening short hop from London via Glasgow to Islay's tiny airport.

Before we started work, there was obviously the important matter of a cup of tea to be had as we sat with the owner, Anthony Wills, and master distiller Malcolm Rennie. Anthony created the distillery in 2005 to sit alongside the other seven world-famous names on the island. Given that the spirit needs to age in barrels for at least three years before it can be called whisky, and given that it needs even more than that to take on the distinctive hue from its oak barrel containers, their first release would not be available until at least 2010. We would be helping to make the 'new spirit', a sort of'proto-scotch' that is the result of the second part of the distillation process just before barrelling.

The process itself sounds simple but is a painstaking combination of short bursts of action coupled with long hours of watching and waiting for the end-result - a bit like having a baby, I imagine. Being a man of little patience, the watching and waiting would drive me around the bend, but it appeared not to bother Malcolm and his colleague Gavin in the slightest as they filled their time with endless cups of tea, slices of cake and amiable bickering. Once called into action, though, it was a different matter, and they soon had us hard at work.

Putting it simply (now listen carefully, this is an expert talking, I have a certificate to prove it and everything), whisky is made when barley is malted (heated to create extra starck steeped in water three times (to create moisture and start ger nation), dried (to stop germination), in the case of Islay wh over peat, mashed to produce a week beer-like liquid, and i distilled twice, the second time to produce the fme, pure that is then barrelled to age into Scotch whisky. Simple in theory but allowing for endless variations, which give every distillery it own unique characteristics.

Malcolm and Gavin took great delight in giving us all choice, back-breaking tasks to do. Prime among these was sh elling the grain from the malting floor to the mash tun, a job that took the three of us the best part of a morning and resulted in frayed tempers, aching backs and the creation of some very imaginative swear words as we got in each other's way and : erally created havoc. At the end of our morning's labour, the 1 professionals came in to see if our efforts pa.s.sed muster.

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