Books for Cooks
Do not commit the meta-sin of judging this bookshop by its façade. The quaint exterior belies a treasure gastronomic in magnitude. Eating is believing.
We set out early: 11:40 am. We walk up to the welcoming red shopfront, and push open the door in anticipation. As usual, we're greeted by a room jampackfull of people and books. The place simply oozes character and charm. Books fill the shelves, shelves line the walls and overhead beams. The slender, bespectacled shopkeeper, head down, looks above the rim of her glasses, and gives a wry smile. She knows the eight of us are here for one reason alone. And it isn't to read about anything.
The Demonstration Kitchen is where the action is. As we walk through the shop, the smells waft from the back. The kitchen is absolutely tiny. The eight of us quickly stake out our territory. Everyday, the kitchen produces a set menu from a couple of selected books that take their place on the counter on a "now playing" book stand. Other customers are mainly women with too much time on their hands, filling their time until their afternoon bookclub meet. The two chefs behind the counter do it all. They seem to have just about
finished preparation as we turn up. So they offer a smile, and point us to a couple of tables in the corner. One steps out from behind the counter, and asks us if we're having all three courses. I nod at her with a wide-eyed grin that only a schoolboy in a candy store can pull off. A few of us also ask for a glass of wine. They only serve one kind; the Frenchman on my left assures me of its pedigree.
Today's menu:
Pea & mint soup with cherry tomato focaccia (freshly baked. That's right!),
Overnight shoulder mutton,
Cake selection: Blueberry sour cheesecake, almond something, citrus something, and
CHOCOLATE, all displayed on cake stands.
Let me allay your concerns now. This is a tiny bookshop with a small kitchen, but servings are generous. The soup nearly takes it out of me. I wonder if I'll even be able to finish the main course. Swiftly, a chef pops back out from behind the counter to take our empty dishes. The mutton arrives. The chef tells us that it's been cooking for the last 9 hours. It takes about 15 minutes to devour. I start to feel the struggle. All that passes when the chef comes back with a glint in her eye. "Dessert?" Feeling instantly peckish again, my hand shoots up when she announces "Chocolate cake?" A few others choose the other offerings. Fools.
A
ll said and done, the food came to a wallet-friendly £7. Glass of wine was £3 (that's the standard price, but we bought a bottle, reducing it to £1.50 each). I notice as we leave that there are more people in the queue than there are places to eat. Suckahs. The early bird catches the worm.
Payment is made at the till at the front of the store. Of course, this will tempt you to finger through the wordy morsels lining the shelves. There is your standard selection: french, italian, mediterranean, vegetarian, fish. A few books from the celebrity chef du jour can be seen. Jamie Oliver is so last year; Gordon Ramsey makes a prominent appearance. By the till is some quirkier material. I find among them a short, hard back book with a cartoon about women and the meaning of chocolate. I won't give away the ending, but it's a deep story about a bar of chocolate trying to fulfill its destiny.
To eat at Books for Cooks is to have gourmet food
thrust upon every sense. Understatement of th
e month: I can't wait till nex
t time I e
at there.
It's hard not to find a good deal on something tasty down Portobello Market on the weekend; every vendor is screaming the price of their wares at the top of their voices as I walk by the stalls.
I buy myself 10 stuffed vine leaves (£2) and a small box of sweet chilli black olives (£2.70). The vine leaves are soft, without any stringiness. The olives are fantastic with a just a little spice. With not a hint of anything remotely greek or italian about him, the olive guy accompanies my purchase with a terse "Cheers, guv. Have a good weekend."
