One size fits all

There's always that Moment: the awkward instant when you and your friend have almost finished your shared slice of cake, and only one mouthful remains. Of course, neither of you wants to appear a glutton, so although you might know everything about each other, from how you really feel about your in-laws to what actually happened between you and Brad from accounts when your company went on conference, all of a sudden it's as if you've been invited to sup at Buckingham Palace.

"You have it," she'll say.

Your cake fork will, reflexively, make a move towards it, but you'll catch yourself just in time. "Oooh no," you'll trill. "I couldn't possibly." (Yes, I could, you are thinking. I could and I want to.")

"Well, I really shouldn't. I've already broken my Banting this week." Now comes the cliffhanger, a moment soaked in suspense: will she, won't she? Things could go either way, but unfortunately it's "Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound."

And then she takes what was rightfully yours.

Thankfully, this was not the problem I had when I had coffee at Zaris Espresso Bar earlier this week, because I went with my sister - and she knows that I do not believe sharing is caring. Anathema, hideous, less for me, heartwrenching, yes but caring - no. For instance, she was once with me when we were mulling over whether to buy a slice of pecan pie to take home - well, she was mulling, I was paying. She finally went with no - then instantly had non-buyer's remorse. She tried to ask for a bite from mine, but I forestalled her by licking the entire slice, twice over. My husband has also seen this side of me. The first time we celebrated his birthday together, I took him to Circle, then one of Greenside's best restaurants. Since we are both dessert addicts, this was the highlight of the meal, and both of us was worried that by deciding on one thing, we'd be missing out - it was a tremendously tempting menu. "I know," he said. "We'll both order different things, eat half and then swap." Which we did. Well, at least he did. I still remember his look of anticipation as he slid his plate over to mine, thinking I would do the same - and how it melted into confusion when I carried on eating both my own and his servings. Perhaps he'd only ever been to restaurants with girls who declared themselves stuffed after one leaf of lettuce, or maybe he's one of those people who thinks they deserve special treatment on their birthday. Either way, he was shocked, but I was happy.

But back to Zaris. My sister and I did indeed share cake - pecan, as it turns out and it was magic. Not cloyingly sweet, as pecan pie can be, yet deliciously crumbly and buttery, with some unexpected macadamias adding extra crunch. Also, there was no fighting over who got the last mouthful because I  knocked her fork out the way and told her she was having a fat day.

The coffee was excellent too, but what I really loved about this place was that everything was R20. Coffee, cake, sandwiches - everything. It was kind of like stepping into a time machine: if Blur had been playing on the sound system, I really would have been convinced that I was back in the 90s, and R20 for a sandwich was the norm instead of something worth blogging about.

It's a great concept, I think, and only one of the things that made me really take a shine to this place. I also loved the decor - all soothing minty green with copper geometric lights - and the quirky touches, like the love locks for sale (so you're on 4th Ave Parkhurst instead of overlooking the Seine - does it really matter?) and the bag of coffee grounds the owner gave each of us to perk up our roses.

Another must for my coffice mornings.

Green eggs and...

A couple of things sprang to mind when I heard that an all day breakfast spot, specialising in egg dishes, was opening in Melville.

The first was that a few years ago, while researching an article I was writing on creme brulee, I learnt that a chef's hat reputedly has 100 folds, representing the one hundred ways there are to prepare an egg (it's knowledge of trivia like this which I believe makes me an outstanding dinner party guest).

The second was my deep regret that, when I was honeymooning in Israel, we never got to try Tel Aviv's famous 24-hour breakfast restaurant, Dr Shakshuka. Actually, this is one of several things I would change about my honeymoon if I could. I would also have stopped gushing to every single customs official that I saw that I had just arrived in my spiritual homeland, because for some reason this identified me as a security threat. When on honeymoon, it is not romantic to be dragged into the special searching office to have your dirty clothes honeycombed by eagle-eyed security personnel who seem impervious to young love. It reached the point where my husband begged me to stop greeting everyone with a Shalom, I'm Jewish too - but I think he was just embarrassed because I was acting like those African-Americans who disembark from their SAA flight and start kissing Cape Town's soil while singing "Halleluja, I've come home".

But I digress...Obviously, checking out Pablo Eggs Go Bar was the remedy to my Israeli oversight. I have been soooo egg-cited to try it (sorry - couldn't resist) - and yesterday was finally my day.

First of all, I loved the decor. For a while, I have had a major art deco crush, so the whole look of the place had massive appeal for me - how I wished I was swishing in with a fox stole draped from my shoulders, a cigarette holder dangling from my gloved fingers and Cole Porter jaunting jazzily in the background.

On the plus side, being a product of the twenty-first century meant that I could attack my green shakshuka with a gusto and lack of elegance no self-respecting woman of the '30s would have displayed. Which is good, because I literally could not help making one of those embarrassing foodgasm sounds - you know, mmmmmmmyuuuummm mmmm- when I took my first bite. That mouthful burst with a pop of flavour that meant I couldn't get the second forkful in fast enough. The dish was a play on regular shakshuka (think comfortingly rich tomato stew fragrant with smoky paprika, a cayenne bite and cumin for warmth): green shakshuka has a spinach base and is served on a satisfyingly chewy cushion of lavash bread, with hummus and Israeli salad on the side. The lavash was toothsomely carby: if you would rather undergo a week's worth of colonic irrigations than turn Banting, this is undoubtedly your dream food. The eggs were perfectly done, and what I loved most was that every mouthful tasted a little different: one was chili-sharp, the next was garlicky, the next was bitter-fresh with parsely.

Also nice is the great workstation setup for people who want to coffice. And, of course, the fact that you can have breakfast for dinner.

The only drawback is that, at R100 for my dish, I think it's a little pricey - but well worth the splurge.

Let me eat cake

I was always more of a summer person - until I spent this January, which I spent schivtzing under a 37 degree sun, with a hungry newborn pressed to me around the clock. With sweat seeping into my skin folds in prickly trickles, I fantasised about those winter mornings that are so cold your nose hurts when you breathe in; about the special smell of a Highveld night in June; about sheets that send a chilly jolt down your legs when you dare move out of your warm spot in bed...

Happily, autumn is more than living up to my expectations. I really love this time of year - there's something incredibly wonderful about a change of season. I suppose because, most of the time, we soldier on in a world that's focused more on cell phones than sunsets, but when the world shifts into a new season, nature asserts herself in a way that can't be ignored. Maybe it's the crispness of the air or the brightness of the sky, maybe it's the coppery boldness of the leaves, but there's something about autumn that makes it feel as if you're standing on the brink, about to take a step into something wonderful.

And, it is also a marvelous season to eat cake. Cold afternoons call for cozy comfort, and there's nowhere better to answer this need than in a cafe. So, earlier this week, Leya (my three-year-old) and I traipsed off to Oregano, a tiny spot in Linden I've been wanting to try for ages.

Oregano isn't actually a restaurant or cafe; it's home to a catering company, but it does have one or two tables inside and - most importantly - a table laden with exquisite pattiserie. It's a place made for lingering over cappuccino while you pick off the last crumbs from your plate with your finger.

Choosing our treats of the day wasn't easy: it was a tug of war between milk tart (my favourite), brownies (also my favourite), caramel cheesecake (baked on a brownie base, drizzled with caramel and sprinkled with caramel popcorn) and cinnamon buns.

Eventually, I went for a cinnamon bun, and I certainly wasn't disappointed: crackly with sugar on top with loads of sticky goo in between the whorls of buttery dough, I was licking my fingers with each bite. Leya chose a gingerbread man, which was a bit of a disappointment to me - I was really hoping she'd go with a brownie and we could 'share' (ie I would pass her the odd bite). But, as she said, we can go back "every day" to try something new (proving that a) even at such a young age, she totally shares my food philosophies - I couldn't be more proud if she had started reciting the table of elements in French, backwards, and b) all the cake I ate while pregnant with her has probably turned her into a ganache fiend).

Although Oregano doesn't do breakfasts or lunches, there were some great-looking savoury pies on offer, as well as truly beautiful breads.

Definitely a place I'll be returning to.

www.oreganocatering.co.za

Five reasons why Motherland is my favourite coffice

When I was single and new to freelancing, I had a specific vision of what my work day would entail. I would rise - note: not wake, rise, as in greeting the brand new day with a Sealy Posturpedic style stretch, looking grateful and excited for the day - then indulge in some yogic-style stretches before heading to my sunlit courtyard for an exquisitely brewed coffee which would naturally infuse my body and mind with inspiration, with every sip. Then it would be time for a few hours of work, before I shut down the laptop and prepared a small feast.

The reality is somewhat different. I wake in an ammonia-scented pool (night-time toilet training is not progressing so well, which wouldn't be a problem if my three-year old acknowleged that she had her own bedroom), with the six-month old's foot in my mouth (it's as if she felt left out, being the only family member not in the bed). The wee-smell does battle with the stench of the dog's blanket issuing from their basket, which works better than smelling salts for a fainting Victorian heroine. It's not a gentle awakening, but it does serve to boot me out of bed - anything to get some fresh air. Then it's a series of Groundhog Day arguments with the toddler ('no, you can't watch a movie now. No, you can't have chocolate now. No, you can't wear a snowsuit today. Because it's 30 degrees outside and not snowing. I don't know - we live in Johannesburg and it never snows. Also you don't own a snowsuit....Because if you don't brush your teeth they will fall out...') and struggles with the baby to get her fed, clothed and nappied. I was surprised to learn that a six-month-old can have the strength of a rottweiler on Red Bull. Note there is no time for Zen-type inspiration in this scenario...and, if I were to open a laptop, it would be swiftly appropriated by the toddler who would insist that she had her own, pressing deadline to attend to (which would, in all probability, involve spilling milk on my keyboard and then pulling faces at herself on YouCam).

Hence my search for the perfect coffice, which I believe I have found in Motherland. Here's what I love about it:

1. The coffee. The coffee, the coffee. Obviously. A coffee shop is only as good as it's brew, and I really really love the full-flavoured blend here.

2. It being Jo'burg, and Jo'burg being small, you can always find someone you know to have a chin wag with. This alleviates that guilty feeling you get when you are supposed to be working but aren't - because, after all, you are actually here to work, and this is just a small diversion to clear your mind and make room for extra creativity. It's necessary. Think of it as a mental palate cleanser.

3. Almost everyone else here is for a meeting or to work on a freelance project, which creates a 'we're all in this together' vibe,

4. The background chatter, which makes a refreshing break from the isolated silence of a freelancer's life.

5. Free wi-fi! (After all, freelancing can be a tough gig.)

6. Fournos is just a quick stroll away. Which means that Jo'burg's best spanakopita and croissants are
within easy reach.

Egte regte

The first time I ever tried melkkos was at Veldskool. The camp itself holds no great memories - unsurprising, since we spent a week waking at 4.30am to the sound of a heavily accented oom, like an Afrikaans Sean Connery, braying "Good morrrrrning sleeping beauuuuties" over the intercom, before heading to the bathroom for an icy shower in a cubicle without a door. Nights, for some reason, were spent in a chilly hall singing 'Right Here Waiting' over and over and over and over - to this day, I cannot hear Richard Marx's crooning without having a little shiver.

I did like the melkkos, though - so when people started talking about the Bergbron Plaaskombuis, with its hearty boerekos, I was superkeen to try it out.

We headed there yesterday and, yup, it ticked all boxes. The restaurant looks like a house that's wandered down from Prince Albert, complete with steel windmills, old stove and wraparound stoep - a very inviting set up for a kuier. 

The menu is traditional all the way: you can't have toasted sandwiches, but jaffels are no problem. And although you might want a roll to dunk in your butternut soup, you'll get a roosterbrood instead, We had decided to get a bowl of melkkos for the table, while I opted for a tongue-stingingly hot boerewors, red pepper and tomato stew, and my husband - buoyed by memories of his grandmother's cooking - went for tomato bredie. My daughter ordered platkoekies, and was rewarded with a thick stack of crumpets soaking up pools of golden syrup like sponges.

This isn't fancy food at all; it's more like what your mom would serve on a chilly night (or, one imagines, what Oom Schalk's wife would hand out to the men after nagmaal. But it is robustly tasty, and a refreshing change when you're looking for something other than your usual bistro with its three versions of Eggs Benedict.

There are loads of little touches that made it really special - like the way you get a welcome mug of homemade ginger beer as soon as you sit down, and the open kitchen where you can watch your food being made. It's also got a kid's playground (godsend) and the staff are fantastic.

The great ice cream off

Ice cream has certainly come a long way. During my 1980s childhood, the best you could hope for was a vanilla soft serve, sometimes made more glamorous with the addition of a Flake 99. When Vienetta hit the scene, things got really exciting: I remember chipping away at the little concertina folds with my spoon, wishing the moment would last forever. If you were really, really lucky, you got a Carvel cake for your birthday, complete with crumby chocolate bits in the middle and thick icing on top. otherwise, you were doomed to Little Red Schoolhouse on Friday nights - an ice cream which, disturbingly, was the colour of red setters. Fitting, because the taste was more akin to a wet dog or towel left too long in the laundry than chocolate.

Somewhere between then and now, however, ice cream joined the ranks of beer, coffee and bread; a food item which is no longer fondly associated with sticky hands and hot days at the coast, but which now bears the proud label of Artisinal. It's Something To Be Taken Seriously. Eliza Doolittle's metamorphosis could hardly be more complete.

That's probably because, in recent years. we've seen homemade ice cream make its way out of the food markets and onto menus and, ultimately, into stores. there's Pete's Super Natural Ice Cream, Wicked Cream and The Creamery, as well as the guy who, to my mind, started this frosty revolution: Paul, of Paul's Homemade Ice Cream. 

I admire Paul as much as an entrepreneur as an ice cream maker - it's no small feat to go from scooping cookie dough sandwiches at a market to owning two eponymous stores. But I'm not surprised. For a girl raised on Little Red Schoolhouse, PHIC is just - well, let me just say that I can't believe both of them could be considered the same substance.

Because I love PHIC so much, I hit on a brilliant idea: every week, my eldest daughter and I go on a mommy daughter date to Rosebank, our nearest PHIC outlet. See how this works - I get to be a loving mom AND spoil myself at the same time. She always has whichever chocolate variation is available, and I sample almost every flavour. This is one situation where being extremely indecisive is an asset: one of the things I love most about PHIC is that the flavours change all the time, so while you might be disappointed not to find your favourite, you are equally likely to discover a new best-of-all-time. I started out in love with Nutella and roasted banana, then fell for Vietnamese coffee. Since then, some of the goodies I've gone for are chai, cookie butter (not surprisingly, one of my best), peppermint crisp tart and dark chocolate. It's always hard to make a choice, though, because the flavours are like something dreamed up in a Wonka kitchen.

That said, I like to give every ice cream parlous a fair chance - so, when I saw that the question 'Where can you get the best ice cream in Joburg?', asked on the Facebook group Jozi Restaurants, was frequently answered with "BBQ Workshop", I knew I had to give it a bash.

Don't be misled by the name - although these guys are apparently famous for their smoky souvlaki type dishes, it's definitely an ice cream heaven. My daughter stuck to her usual (with no ordinary chocolate available, she had to 'make do' with Fererro Rocher), but I branched out with grapefruit - and it was so good that I coudn't help but let out an "oh wow" when I tasted it. It had the refreshing tartness of sorbet, but the satisfying smooth creaminess of ice cream - and it was pure deliciousness. The watermelon had a similar freshness, and the Snickers was a no-brainer for fans of peanuts and caramel.

My final verdict? BBQ Workshop, you were an amazing fling and I will always remember you - but PHIC's imaginative flavours come out tops for me. 

The Beautiful Damned

Joburg Ballet's rendition of Giselle is the third performance of this magnificent ballet that I have watched; but this is the first time I have left the theatre feeling as if it is my own heart that has broken.

In case you don't know the story, Giselle is a village girl so fair and lovely she attracts the attention of both a count and a poor woodsman. The count pretends to be of lowly birth so that he can court Giselle, and she falls in love with him, little suspecting his nobility or that he is, in fact, already betrothed. The huntsman outs him, however, and the resulting shock slays Giselle. The next time we see her, she has joined a band of ghosts called the Wilis - girls who were jilted before their wedding day. They wreak their revenge by forcing any man they encounter to dance until his death. This is the fate that befalls the huntsman, but when the Wilis turn their fury on the count, Giselle protects him.

So far, so twee. The storyline is always secondary in a ballet, isn't it? You watch more to marvel at the amazing feats the human body is capable of accomplishing. Like most people, that's what I love about ballet - the stark dichotomy of floating grace and the resolute discipline it takes to create this illusion. This evening, though, I realised (after many years of  watching ballet) that, just as water has three forms, so too does the ballerina's steel: it has the ability to transmute from mental rigour to physical beauty, and then pure, raw emotion.

Watching the doomed ghost girls, I was, of course, transfixed by timing and placement so perfect it would have soothed any acute obsessive compulsive - but, more than that, I found myself wondering what had caused their molten passion to turn into diamond hard vengeance. Watching the dance between the two main characters reminded me of the very first time your heart knows and understands absence.

And that made me think about why it is we have things like ballet - because, in a world like ours, it;s easy to dismiss these tutus as frothy and frivolous. But they're not - they have the ability to make us feel connected and human. And there's little more serious than that.

Giselle runs at the Joburg Theatre until 17 April.
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The classic for people who don't like classics

I'm addicted to reading. I feel like every cheesy Internet meme about loving books was created with me in mind; I can't browse in Exclusives because, when by the time I've made a list of all the novels I need to read, I am in the grips of a full-blown panic attack.

All the same, much as I feel ashamed to admit it, I have never clicked with the classics. I have friends who make a point of re-reading Jane Austen every year because, they say, her words are infused with beauty. I, on the other hand, feel like her words are bricks in a maze. I experience the same emotion when I watch anything to do with the CIA (now, who would have thought Jane Austen would have anything in common with spies?) - somewhere along the line, I miss a vital point and end up feeling stupid and frustrated.

So I almost hesitated when I saw Jo Baker's Longbourne. It was something of a conundrum: on the one hand, my sincere wish that I had been born into a time of corsets and cads makes me a sucker for anything set later than the 1950's; on the other, the cover's description of the book being Pride and Prejudice revisited was a little offputting.

How glad I am I listened to the first voice in my head. Longbourne looks at life with the Bennetts from the point of view of someone who had to handwash all those party frocks and create all those elaborate hairstyles. Seen from that perspective, Darcy isn't a dashing gentleman at all; but the reason for yet another tedious chore.

Baker writes with empathy and insight - so it's that rare find, a book that's not just a great story, but a magnificent piece of writing, too. In fact, her crafted sentences are the main reason this is such a joy. Not a single word is wasted; she writes with the confidence of a dancer doing intricate steps, yet knowing them so well she no longer needs to watch her feet,

This is a must read. Just make sure you have nothing lined up on your calendar. 

Dinner with a difference

One of the very best lessons my sister taught me is that every moment in your life deserves to be an occasion. I love that: it's the sentiment that makes you say 'no thank you' to a cup of instant, and instead fill your home with the warm roasted aroma of percolating coffee. It's what makes you get out your prettiest teapot and set it outside, along with a dainty teacup and a rusk, when there are no guests; only you. And it's the kind of thinking that makes pop up experiences like Suyen Thornhill's Chez Fong so memorable.

Suyenn was born to host Chez Fong. It's not her first venture as a pop up restaurateur; she was part of the Kitchen Space duo, and, like its predecessor, it's a one-night-only evening of pop-in-your-mouth flavours. There are quite a few things that make it different, though. The first is the venue: forget bsitro strips or shopping malls; Chez Fong is hosted in one of those old Houghton homes where you can imagine Colonel Mustard laying into poor Miss Scarlet with a candlestick (silver, from the art deco, of course).

So far, so unusual. The next noteworthy feature of the night is that there are no menus. In fact, even Suyen is unsure of what she's going to be serving until the day before. The only thing that you know for certain to expect is a fusion of tastes, mostly from Asia, but with notes from a few surprise cuisines making their appearance.

And the part which, to me, takes the evening to a whole new level: you get to watch Suyen make the whole meal in front of you. If you're addicted to MasterChef, this is for you. It's kind of like watching a kitchen ballet, as Suyen tosses onions into a pot and chops veggies with the kind of unthinking grace that people cultivate only if they are really, really good at something. Am I making it sound like some kind of stuffy theatre of cooking? I hope not - because Suyen is so funny and relaxed that it feels like being in your best friend's kitchen as she whips together dinner after that second glass of wine convinces you it would be so much more fun to stay a bit later than to go home,

As for the food: it's very, very special. Suyen has a way of mixing things up. Tender Peking duck gets a Thai twist when it's presented in a Vietnamese springroll; Spain gets a look in with crispy croquettes oozing with bechamel-drenched crabmeat, and forget sorbet as a palate cleanser: frozen grapes in a shot of vodka will take your breath away. Also on the menu:yellow curry fishcakes served with Suyen's marula sweet chilli dipping sauce; sweet potato noodles with shitake mushrooms; sesame-crusted salmon; a tongue-tinglingly fresh beef salad of mango, red onion, endamame beans and cucumber and a satisfyingly rich banoffee pie.

What could be better than a non-stop stream of food, all of it so very different to anything you've tasted before?

Keep an eye on Chez Fong's Facebook page to find out when the next pop up will be.

Blisscuit

I love grocery shopping. There's something about all those ingredients, waiting to be turned into something delicious. Even the detergents are hopeful and exciting, with their promise of fresh-smelling clothes and stain-free countertops. If you think about it, the weekly grocery shop is a shot at renewal; kind of like New Years (a chance to get healthy, more organised, etc) without as much weight riding on it.

I especially enjoy browsing the grocery aisles overseas. All those products with their unfamiliar packaging, so exotically enticing...if only our exchange rate were a little more favourable, I wouldn't still be wondering about the chai-flavoured yoghurt in Italy. And if I was even half as fluent in Spanish as my three-year-old, I wouldn't have made the mistake of taking a giant bite of mouth-gumming butter, thinking it was cheese (in fairness, my visit to Argentina took place pre-Dora).

Such absorbed do I become in my scrutiny of international products that, in Spain, a kindly local mistook my curiosity about the chocolates on display in a vending machine for rabid hunger, and generously pressed some euros into my palm. That was the same holiday a shopkeeper demanded to search my backpack, thinking that I had lifted some watches, so the message is clear: I'm obviously not a glamorous traveller.

So it's just as well that there are secret spots where you can buy foreign delicacies without having to leave Jo'burg. One of these is Van Gaalen Kaasmakerij, where apart from a cheese tasting room and restaurant, you'll also find a deli full of Dutch goodies.

That's where I stumbled across my new favourite thing: cookie butter. If you can't quite get excited by the thought of mashed up Maries, be assured that this is nothing like the dry paste you're imagining. Rather, it's a blend of Dutch speculoos biscuits with condensed milk and oils (look, no one pretended this was a health food) that is at once creamy and slightly crunchy, ginger-ish and cinamonny and completely delectable. I've read that, in Europe, it's often used in confectionery. Some websites suggest that you use it as a dip for apple wedges or pretzels, but I like to wait until my kids are asleep and my husband is out (because no matter what anyone says, sharing isn't all it's cut out to be), getting a spoon and eating it out the jar. Judge not until you have sampled cookie butter for yourself: it's the kind of thing that's going to make winter a whole lot more bearable.

In case you can't make it out to Hartebeespoort to buy your own jar, I've tracked down this recipe  from LifeHacker. 

The best, best, best cake I have ever eaten

I love cake. Obviously. Well, not obviously, I suppose - there are people who are left stone cold by baked goods, although they are as comprehensible to me as a trigonometry lesson given in Urdu.

Think about it: cake is at the centre of every celebration. Your earliest birthday parties weren't about the guest list and whether you should invite Kirsty because even though you get on really well you've only kind of just met at the school gate and she might think it's a bit weird and then what if that makes it all awkward. No. It was about the great reveal, the moment the cake was brought out in all its candle-flaming glory and you would get to stand in the place of honour, brandishing the knife (a big moment for any child), screaming when you made the first cut and reached the bottom of the foil-wrapped tray, and, when some candles remained alight in spite of your diligent huffing and puffing, being teased about your boyfriends. 

Cakes were a really big deal in my family. We'd pour over the Australian Women's Weekly for months before a birthday, agonising over the selection of the cake. Should it be a hat cake, with a hat theme to match? But what about the gorgeous hedgehog cake, or the treasure chest? Eventually, a choice would be made. And then the wait would begin...

We'd wake up eye-achingly early on the big day, and start the first order of business: hunting for our presents. This is a tradition I have started in my own family, and my heart squinches every time my little girl trips over her tongue in her excitement to find the next gift, asking if she's hot or cold. I can't wait until my baby is old enough to join in the fun. I imagine how my mother must have felt the same way - and, also, the pride and excitement she must have experienced when, presents all accounted for, it was time for the next Big Moment: seeing The Cake. We'd run up to the dining room, where the Hotray would bear its important burden. There'd be a minute of breath-held suspension, and then admiration for the icing and sponge creation waiting for us. I have vivid memories of my mother bent over the kitchen counter, cutting sponge into shapes and sticking them together with strawberry jam, ever faithful to the recipe illustration.

The significance of cake didn't diminish as I grew up. When I went away to university, my favourite home-coming moment was always when my mother handed over the apple crumble she'd baked just for me. It was a cinnamon sweet welcome; an "I love you" spelled with butter and sugar - and, even today, the taste of apple crumble is so much to me than a carby comfort and delicious delight. It's happiness. 

My mother's baking is still my favourite, but I'm not averse to giving everyone a fair chance. And that's how I came to meet my new favourite cake: The Whippet Cake, from the eponymous Linden cafe. 

I have to admit that at least half of my enjoyment came from my surrounds. I love Linden: I love its neighbourly feel and the way it doesn't have restaurants, it has institutions. Of course, The Whippet is very much one of those. For good reason: although, while cofficing there last week, I didn't order any savouries, every round mouthful of cappucino gave me one of those moments that makes you pause and go 'mm'. And then, of course, there was the cake: layers of milk tart and  lemon condensed milk, by turns giving your tongue a spicy warmth and a tart pucker. It's fragrant with cinnamon and creamy with condensed milk, and if you're someone who can never decide which baked treat you want to indulge in, this one is for you. 

I'm not going to stop there, though. The Whippet also make a cake with layers and layers of crepes, interrupted by creamy slatherings of Nutella. I can't wait to try it. Watch this space...