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...