TikTok Food

Posted on 03/01/2022 by Yvonne Rogers

TikTok has been around since 2016 and caught on like wildfire amongst young people all round the world, as quickly as Facebook did when it first took off. It is fast and furious, and because of this terribly addictive, leaving you wanting more. Essentially, it is a social media platform primarily targeted at GenZ, who spend hours making and viewing their’s and each other’s short, snappy and slickly-edited videos. Each TikTok video typically lasts less than a minute. After clicking on a random video, the viewer can easily find themselves immersed in watching hundreds of other videos from that person’s account and then before they know it are onto someone else’s videos. An hour or more can easily pass by just as the videos do.

The choice of topics covered on TikTok is endless, but most videos are about the stuff that young people are into these days, including dance moves, fashion, jokes, adorable pets, lip synching and slapstick pranks. They also include skills that traditionally most kids have not shown much interest in, such as cooking. I was listening to The Food Programme on the radio the other day which just so happened to be featuring the growing trend amongst young people watching TikTokers demonstrating how to cook, that is quick and easy, without fuss, while looking yummy. Collectively called #FoodTok, videos in this genre have been viewed many billions of times. The mind boggles.

One of the people mentioned in the programme was Poppycooks, who has made a name for herself by specialising in how to cook the humble spud. Her video of how to make roast potatoes went viral which she then followed up with several other recipes of cooking potatoes, from crispy to crunchy to fried to mashed. She was really clever in working out how to keep viewers coming back for more, by adding a new video each day of the advent calendar, this Christmas just gone, comprising 25 recipes. The best was left to the 25^th December, salty, super-thin, mouth-watering chips. They are indeed moreish. Poppy also has a cheeky look, adding a pinch of humour every now and again. You can’t but help fall for her and her style of cooking. The sound of her breaking open and biting into a crunchy potato is mouthwatering – and would make most people want to peel some potatoes and get cooking.

Like with other social media platforms, the secret to which TikTok videos become viral is largely down to a combination of algorithms, appeal and advertising. The trick is working out how to sustain interest. Many people may have a one hit wonder while a few go on to make a career out of it. Poppy, for example, has nailed it. She now has over 2 million followers. But staying high in the leagues of TikTok influencers creates huge pressure. The FoodTokers have to keep conjuring up new recipes they can show off in consistently tantalising ways always under 60 seconds! It is an amazing skill. Unlike the celebs of yesteryear, who have become famous through wealth, being in the know, being a looker, and/or having a huge talent, these youngsters can rise to the top through their deft video-making and editing skills, making things look easy and super cool. They may only discover they have a real talent to entertain when beginning to create the videos. And literally anyone with a smartphone/camera can bubble up and become a star over night. This is one of the joys of this media – its serendipity.

Sometimes, people experience autonomous sensory meridian response (ASMR) when watching FoodTok videos, which essentially is a tingling body sensation that starts on the scalp and then progresses down the back of the neck and spine. For some people, this kind of sensation can be triggered by listening to crunching, slurping and other whacky sounds. SamSeats, for example, has made an amazing video of many tingling sounds associated with preparing a fancy ratatouille dish. The sounds include ice cubes being dropped in a bowl, a knife slicing through an assortment of veggies and the rapid and fine chopping of garlic cloves and sprigs of herbs. It is music to the ears and makes you want to watch and listen to the video again. Each time you do, you hear something new. The second time I viewed it, I heard the glugging sound of oil being poured from a bottle and the frying of onions. Such food performances, speeded up to fast-beat tempos, are simply sumptuous. I can see how addictive they are (although sadly I never experienced the ASMR sensation of tingling).

And now I am tempted to upload to TikTok my old fashioned YouTube video (10 years old now) of ‘a plate of sizzling food’ being served up. Here it is: sizzle sizzle.

(Image of roast potatoes from lianaskitchen.co.uk)

Drone Delivery

Posted on 25/06/2021 by Yvonne Rogers

Amazon have been trialling drone delivery of parcels to people living in remote and suburban towns for a while now. Since then, flying deliveries have literally taken off. Only last month, a rival start-up company in Ireland, Manna, took it one step further. They have developed a fleet of drones that are pretty nippy, flying at 80km/h and delivering goods in less than 3 minutes within a 3km radius of take off. That is really impressive.

At first, the dropping of goods in this way was limited to medicines where there is a need for urgency. Now, it seems all manner of groceries are being dropped, from coffee to melons. People can order something on their phone and within minutes a parcel is released and lowered on a dangling piece of string in front of the person’s house. How novel is that – having a cool glass of wine or a cup of coffee suddenly appear in this way – as if it was out of a sci-fi movie. Look up to the sky and see hundreds of buzzing drones circling, descending and releasing parcels in the air.

Speaking of which, a new report released by the Pentagon provides further evidence that UFOs are for real. The US military has documented meticulously an increase in unidentified flying objects sighted moving around in the sky. At first, one might think there is a coincidence – an increase in drones dropping objects might be what is being mistaken for as UFOs. But the video clips and photos they have released pre-date drones. They look like supersonic bats or lit up jellyfish in grainy skies. For many, it is the ultimate fantasy to imagine actual aliens landing on earth coming from these mysterious flying objects. However, no one has caught on camera any sighting of them lurking around Wandsworth or such like. Sadly, it seems there is still no real evidence. Just glimpses of what might be. Part of the problem is us earthlings don’t have the means to capture them or catch up with them, as they zip passed our planet at lightning speed. As noted by the former director of national intelligence John Ratcliffe, “Movements that are hard to replicate, that we don’t have the technology for or are travelling at speeds that exceed the sound barrier without a sonic boom. “

Meanwhile I am looking forward to my first G&T dropping slowly from the sky…

Remote Nurturing

Posted on 16/05/2020 by Yvonne Rogers

Many of my friends have taken to gardening during lockdown, making raised beds and planting whatever seeds they can get their hands on. Just like the craze for baking and bread-making, there is now one for growing your own food. The other day, my neighbour, Julie, proudly listed the latest seeds she has pricked and planted in our new communal street garden, including peas, potatoes, runner beans, borlotti beans, spinach, garlic, carrots and beetroot. We can all take it in turns to go and help nurture them, weeding, watering or adding more plants, although one neighbour is definitely the head gardener.

It got me thinking how could we could capitalize on these enterprising green finger efforts to make them even more of a shared event, where potentially hundreds or thousands of people could take part to grow one mega veggie patch or a series of connected gardens. Wouldn’t it be amazing if those who don’t have a garden could feel as connected to the earth as those who have actual gardens? As I wondered about this possibility, I was reminded of a project from many years ago when the internet was just getting off the ground called Telegarden. Anyone could log on to the site where you could watch a circular garden with a robot arm. You could also sign up to control the robot who would plant flowers and then water them. It was created by artists Ken Goldberg and Joseph Santarromana from California. It was kept alive for 9 years and during that time 10,000’s people connected. It was a fusion of tech and nature. The idea that a physical garden could be operated by users online was considered by the artists as being “the most absurd”. Now, in lockdown it does not seem quite as absurd.

How about we try to recreate a more up-to-date version of Telegarden (call it Lockdown Garden) in empty school yards, university campuses, national parks, meadows, or even on the land that people own but don’t have a use for. School children, grandparents, single people, young and old people, bored people, well anyone really, could log on, pay a small fee and select from a catalogue of fruit and veg seeds to grow. Drones and automated robots could work in tandem nurturing the garden, weeding and picking the veggies, that could then be donated to people in need. Our favourite TV gardening presenters, like Carol Klein and Monty Don in the UK, could judge the best kept Lockdown gardens and the most crazy, beautiful, bountiful and so on. And of course there could be disasters filmed by the drones that could keep the viewers and growers hooked, like the robots overwatering, marrows growing to be the size of a small car, and robots refusing to cooperate. Perhaps I am getting a bit carried away here but it would be a fun challenge for all those makers and engineering students who are now at a loose end.

Remote Living

Posted on 25/03/2020 by Yvonne Rogers

So official lockdown kicked in on Monday for us living in Britain. The rules are a bit more lenient than in some countries, where they have draconian curfew measures in place. Here, we are allowed to leave home for one exercise a day, and to go shopping to buy necessary food and medicine. We are also allowed to go to work if we absolutely can’t work from home. So for the time being if you are a construction worker you can carry on as normal – so long as you are two metres apart. Good time to be a crane operator – high in the sky looking down on empty streets. I suspect not for long. It must be very difficult for a government to balance its country’s economy when deciding which strategies to use try to flattern the pandemic curve that will have most effect – while determining how best to change human behaviour in a way that is so very different from how people normally live their lives.

Yesterday, I did my beach walk alone at 8.00 a.m to start the day. It was full of joggers and dog walkers. There was plenty of space so we managed to keep our distance. The sea looked calm and serene and for that hour one could think of something else other than Coronavirus. Today, I am saving up my permitted outside exercise for later in the day. By mid-afternoon yesterday I was getting quite restless. At one point I looked at my watch thinking it was 4.15p.m – soon time for a planned social chat with a friend – only to then discover it was actually 3.15p.m. Normally, being surprised by finding I have an extra hour would be a joy. I can fill it in easily by catching up on work. Yesterday, I can honestly say my heart sank a little, reminding me of when I was a teenager on a long Sunday when the clock stands still…

Meanwhile, all around us is a flurry of activity online. I see a lovely Amanda is streaming her yoga class to us on Friday at work. A couple just got married in Birmingham before the country banned weddings; over 100 guests watched it being live streamed on Facebook. There are also sweet videos of grandchildren, now doing the rounds, waving at their grandparents through the windows or patio doors in their garden, some even squashing their little noses up to the glass. Lots of people have celebrated their birthdays with their friends family and by virtually holding their birthday cakes up for them to see.

The one that has caught everyone’s eyes, however, is Joe Wicks, also from Birmingham, who has become the self-proclaimed UK’s living room PE teacher. Hundreds of thousands of families are joining in each day for his 9.00a.m class. You can see why. He has charisma, presence, energy and drive that appeal to children and parents, alike. The videos of kids prancing around the living room, following his instructions, are very moving. A bit of the magic that Russell Brand oozes seems to have rubbed off on him.

Eating alone together online has also started to become popular again amongst families and friends. I remember a few years ago when Skype was becoming mainstream some of us tried it as an experiment. For example, when I was in South Africa on sabbatical I had a Skype dinner with a friend back in the UK. It was nice to catch up with her while doing something but the eating part actually felt quite odd. We had both served up ourselves something simple – a pasta dish – and started eating about the same time. But somehow picking up our knives and forks together did not synchronize and the eating of the meal did not feel natural. The smells, tastes and noises when eating together were lost in translation.

Unlike the craze for ASMR where someone uploads a YouTube video of themselves making eating noises when eating jelly beans, cake or other delight that makes viewers go crazy when listening to them. The acronym stands for ‘autonomous sensory meridian response’ which apparently causes a tingling sensation in someone akin to the hairs on the back of their neck standing up. Zach Choi, who has over 7 million followers, does a great impression scoffing fast food – might be compuslive viewing for those who are missing their junk food fix now that McDonalds, Nandos and the like are all closed.

Apparently, there is a huge following for ASMR; over 15 million videos have been made and watched endlessly. It is not just the chewing, munching and crunching noises that appeal but also lots of other mundane noises that trigger that weird sensation in people – including the sound of rolling marbles on a hard surface, someone whispering ever so softly or tapping their nails gently on a desk. The mind boggles.

I have watched a few of the ASMR videos and I am afraid they don’t do it for me it; if anything they do the opposite, making me judder and cringe. I like the straight forward things in life like the clinking of glasses. At the end of a tiring day of back-to-back remote work meetings I now look forward to a FaceTime chat with a friend or two with a glass of wine in hand. Of course, it is no substitute for the real thing but it can be surprisingly relaxing and enjoyable. We make sure we have a good laugh, crack some jokes and try to see the funny side of life. And then its dinner, Netflix, and the 10.00 o’clock news before going to bed.

Another Groundhog Day in these strange times.

Street Party

Posted on 03/08/2016 by Yvonne Rogers

Each year my street has a summer party to which everyone in the street and adjoining roads is invited. I have managed to be on holiday for the last few years and have missed it. But this year I was at home and my cheery neighbours cajouled me into joining in. The sun came out and the street was transformed with bunting, removal of parked cars and trestle tables all lines up in a big square. I looked nervously out of the front room window for when it was to start and saw people had begun to sit down, bringing with them an assortment of dishes and bottles. It was time to enter the fray.

My closest neighbours and myself plonked ourselves down at one end of the communal table with our contribution. I had made a salad and heated up a ready-made quiche. My neighbours had brought two huge boxes of tempting donuts. But what to do next? Where to start? We sat waiting for others to join and then hesitantly started to put a few bits of food on our plates and fill plastic glasses with Rosé wine. People seemed to be huddled in their own bubbles. We ate our food and then drank more. It all seemed rather uncomfortable and awkward – well at least for me. Then, Peter, one of my more sociable neighbours, had the bright idea of taking his box of donuts around the tables and offering them to people. That broke the ice. He came back beaming – having got an assortment of people to take up his offer. And suddenly the floodgates opened. Lots of people stood up with their dishes and started offering them to everyone. We were inundated with offers of homemade Victoria Sponge cake, strawberries, chicken dishes, cheese plates, salads and lots more. Everyone started sharing and competing with their offerings. Try mine – it is delicious. The conversations started to flow. I was stuffed not wanting to offend anyone. The pub started selling Pimms and the Tombola and raffle got into full swing.

Then the band started playing, children started dancing, dogs ran crazy and the much hoped for conviviality was there for all to be a part of. The tables had turned. The openness and willingness to step out of one’s comfort zone – started by the offer of a donut – was a refreshing contrast to the depressing fallout from Brexit and world news of recent. I am even looking forward to the next one.

Ninja Talk

Posted on 16/08/2015 by Yvonne Rogers

Many of us dread going to the hairdressers as much as we do when visiting the dentist. Having to engage in small talk for an hour or so can be quite exasperating. After the first few minutes of niceties ‘sharing’ where you went on holiday, followed by isn’t this spell of hot weather too much, the conversation can often dry up. A few can open up too much and start to overshare what they got up to last week or moan incessantly about anything from the price of parking in town to the crisis at Calais. The easy option is to hide behind the glossy magazines, immerse oneself daydreaming in the background music or play Candy Crush on one’s smartphone.

I actually look forward to going to my hair salon as I have developed a quirky rapport with my stylist, Ella, where we usually skip the small talk and move straight into something a little more alternative – whatever tickles our fancy. This morning we began by talking about the row of very luminous green Maidenhair ferns that adorn the windows of the salon. A new addition. I asked her how come they were looking so healthy when they are so hard to look after. That was her cue. Ella went into rapture as she marvelled about the precarious art of fern care. Besides frequent watering and daily misting the secret is to give them a full immersive soaking once a week – but not any old soak it has to be just so and only for a few minutes. At the beginning of their new life in the salon they nearly died. It was only when one of the assistants took over did they make a recovery.

We then moved onto the current craze of using Nutribullets for making smoothies for breakfast and throughout the day. She regailed how her last one went up in flames and left the house reeking of an acrid burning smell. On investigating why it had spontaneously combusted it turned out that she had left it on for a couple of minutes too long and that had no doubt caused the motor to overheat. She fessed up to walking away to do something else and then coming back ‘probably’ a bit longer than a couple of minutes. Anyone who has kept a blender on full blast for a few minutes knows that smell only too well. Anyway she had the balls to take the burned out bullet back to the kitchen store who replaced it without question for a newer one called a NutriNinja. Those Nutri guys have done their marketing homework. Bullets and Ninjas as names for fruit pulverizers. Masterful.

Ninjas are commonly associated with warriors – secret weapons used against enemies. In the US there is a popular TV reality series where competitors have to tackle a series of challenging and heart-stopping obstacle courses to win. It’s about power and blast. The NutriNinja boasts a 900W motor that blends using its “21,000rpm stainless steel blades.”

Unlike the Nutribullet, the NutriNinja has a control panel that allows the user to set the time for the blasting after which it stops on its own accord. Perfect for the likes of Ella who wander off and forget the time. Genius design.

It seems this the Nutri family of machines is transforming a whole generation’s way of eating. Everyone in the salon fessed up to owning a Ninja or a Bullet and enjoying throwing whatever was languishing in the fridge into it to make exotic smoothies or creamy porridge. We went through the list of must-have veggies and fruit to use and the no-no list. Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries were the best. Half a carrot not a whole one as it make it too bitter. Avocados and bananas were considered too claggy. Celery did not work well. Ella likes throwing oats, almond milk, dates, frozen berries and some kale into hers for breakfast. Another stylist favoured Kale and spinach and apple and ginger. And on they went including the other clients describing their concoctions and wonder drinks. Vodka was also added for nighttime drinks. They revelled in the art of mixing fruits, vegetables, nuts and grain with yoghurts, milks and whatever – in the way artists enjoy setting up their palettes. Utterly riveting. I was chomping at the bit by the end, ready to go and buy my NutriNinja.

But as with any new pleasure there is always a killjoy lurking in the background telling us too much of a good thing is bad for you. Research has shown that you get hungrier more quickly if you drink vegetable and fruit smoothies rather than crunch and munch your way through them whole. The sugar spike can come all of a sudden causing the premature hunger pangs. But as pointed out by Rhik Samadder on his blog “it’s not for healthy people. It’s for incredibly lazy people.” And there are many of those in the world. Ella, for example, would barely manage a piece of toast most mornings. Now she is powered up with vitamins and zest every morning. And it is so much fun to play with not knowing what it will turn out like each time.

Call Buttons

Posted on 23/11/2014 by Yvonne Rogers

Pressing buttons is often irrepressible. You can’t help yourself when you see one just asking to be touched. The other day, I was at a meeting where someone proudly proclaimed how they love to push the green button when going through fast track security because it gives them a great sense of satisfaction. The physicality of pressing down on something makes them feel good – like a high five. And, conversely, if they have been subjected to a slow ordeal through security they equally enjoy slapping the red button, helping to relieve their frustration.

Buttons are becoming more ubiquitous in other contexts, especially, it seems, those designed to expedite service. Getting someone’s attention can be a trying experience, especially in cafés where waiters are often surly and go out of their way to be unhelpful. Imagine my delight when I saw this call button at Searcys Champagne Bar at St Pancras Station – inviting the customers to press for more champagne. The bar claims to be the longest in Europe and so it saves the waiters having to walk up and down all the time so that you can catch their eye. There is something rather alluring about seeing a sign next to a button saying ‘press for champagne’ rather than the more impersonal ‘press for service’. Trouble is when I last visited it with a friend it did not work. We pressed it and waited five minutes. No waiter. We pressed it twice more and still no waiter. There was no way of knowing if the thing worked as it did not give any feedback after being pressed. Eventually, after 20 minutes a waiter sauntered past, oblivious to being summoned by the button, and so we resorted to the usual, grabbing his attention by shouting and raising our arms.

The second call button I came across the other week was in a rather ordinary hotel in the centre of Madrid. The push buttons were encased in a plastic base – located on each table in the foyer/café. At first, I thought they were decorative paperweights but then I realized they were service call devices, comprising three buttons; call waiter, ask for the bill or cancel call. It was only when I looked at a sign at the bar providing an explanation I worked it out. Being mischievous, I was tempted to press all three and run away. Like playing Knock Down Ginger. But then I thought better of it. Instead, I gingerly pressed the icon that looks like a man about to shoot himself in the head (it is meant to be a waiter holding a tray up high). I waited. But it was the same as at the Champagne Bar. No response. After five minutes and still no sign of a waiter I pressed it again. Eventually a waiter did appear from behind a closed door and I hailed her over with my arm.

It seems, in both cases, the waiters were ignoring the new-fangled technology (or had switched it off). I don’t blame them – being beckoned by the tyranny of a button is surely very demeaning. And yet, flight attendants would lose their job if they did not attend to the call buttons pressed throughout a flight. However, many of us don’t dare use them. The one time I did press it to get some water, the attendant gave me that look that puts you in your place, masked by the ‘have a nice day’ smile. There is something in a glance that speaks volumes. It is rare now to see passengers pressing the call button. Instead, most of us will walk up the aisle to the galley and ask for what we want.

Why is that pressing buttons to get someone’s attention feels awkward? After all, this uneasiness and not knowing does not happen in Korea – where restaurant table calling buttons are an integral part of the culture. Everyone simply presses the discrete button, placed at the end of each dining table when wanting waiter service – without giving it a moment’s thought. What’s more, a waiter will invariably arrive in seconds and seem only to pleased to serve.

How Much?

Posted on 04/09/2014 by Yvonne Rogers

There is a lovely fish market called Hatch’s next to where we are staying on vacation in Cape Cod. There is always a queue of people inside buying from the many different kinds of fish on sale. Three of us went in there the other day to buy some fish for a planned BBQ and looked at each other blankly when confronted with the fish counter – we were clueless. We admitted to each other that we had never bought fish from a fishmonger before. K said she just went and selected fish from the cooler fridge in the supermarket. R simply shrugged and I said I had never bought fish in my life – being allergic to it. We watched the other customers pointing at various fish and making purchases. I watched one woman being handed a big bag and the fishmonger saying “that will be 87 dollars.” I gulped, wondering how was it that fish could cost so much.

Then our turn came. R pointed at the mussels and muttered something like a pound or a pint. The sales assistant helpfully showed us an amount and we all just nodded. Then K asked for some cod. The man asked us how much? We answered in unison, “enough for three?” The man took a huge slab and showed it to us and we all nodded together again. In the end, it turned out to be enough for 10 people!

The next day I went to buy some salt water taffy fudge in an old fashioned candy store and the sales assistant asked me if I wanted a pound? That seemed an awful lot so I replied half a pound – which turned out to still be a lot.

A couple of generations ago everyone went to the greengrocers, fishmongers, butchers and bakers and knew precisely how much and in what units to buy – be it apples, sausages, eggs, bread, milk or sherbet lemons. How we buy has been transformed in the era of supermarkets and online shopping – where we simply look and select pre-packaged food. Some may read the quantity on the label but most just select a shape and check the price.

It is not just the way we shop that has changed it is also many other aspects of how we go about our daily lives. An article in the magazine, TechCrunch, published this week by Rajat Suri discusses how software is transforming how we live, from fine dining to driving cars. He points out how there is “an entirely new consumer-facing software layer of apps and services being deployed as we speak”. Tablets are now appearing on tables in restaurants that diners can select their meals from and no doubt will soon recommend to the diner what they would like to order, thereby obviating the procrastination that wastes waiters’ time when coming to a table to take an order from a party who have not decided. The smart dining software could check, too, the nutrition and calories of the ordered dish which in the background could be uploaded to the diner’s latest healthy living smartphone app. Other vital statistics might then pop up to amuse the diner such as how many people have eaten that dish today, how many are left in that restaurant (thereby removing the disappointment when the waiter returns and says “I am sorry we have run out of that dish.”). Who needs to interact ever again with a surly waiter or a fussy diner?

But perhaps the scariest idea about smart dining software is to use it “in real time to optimize operational processes like waiter steps of service”. Instead of being able to linger and chat with customers or be assigned to their favourite tables, waiters will be monitored by smart software that will learn and then schedule the most efficient way of getting food to the table with the minimum number of waiter steps, eliminating any unnecessary deviations from the optimal path for the restaurant. Now, that really takes the biscuit out of AI and big data.

High-Tech Shopping

Posted on 18/05/2014 by Yvonne Rogers

Last week I spent a whole morning at a mega Sainsbury’s supermarket in Chingford, somewhere on the outskirts of East London. The British TV series, Gadget Man was filming content for a new show and they asked us if they could try out our lambent shopping handle.

The handle we designed is a minimalistic, mobile and fully functional display that clips onto supermarket shopping carts/trollys, intended to help people decide when choosing between which groceries to buy. It can be easily customized to provide salient information about the food dimensions people care about, such as salt content, fat content and food-miles. The latter are represented by varying lengths of a series of LEDs on the handle and a changing emoticon showing their total miles against a social norm. For example, scanning a packet of quinoa results in all 16 LEDs lighting up because it comes from multiple countries in Asia, whereas scanning a ready-made lasagne lights up only 3 of the LEDs, because it is made from Scottish beef. (Lambent by the way means having the property of moving lightly or flickering gently over a surface – which our handle does rather than being in your face.)

At a glance, a shopper can compare the same product for different brands, for example, two types of chocolate, bottled water or apples. The price might be the same, but the salt or sugar content or whether it has been locally sourced varies. While much of this information may be available on the food packaging it is often in small print or presented in such a way that it takes ages to find and can be confusing to the shopper. We make it compelling and easy to read off. Some might argue that smartphone apps do the same job. We showed empirically that this is far from the truth; they are often fiddly and tedious to use, and can overwhelm the shopper who is holding their phone in one hand, a product in the other while trying to scan it and navigate a complex store environment, usually in a hurry.

The lambent shopping handle was just one of several new gizmos being filmed intended to make shopping easier and more enjoyable. So, we got to watch Richard Ayoade (the british comedian, actor, writer and TV presenter) in the flesh for the whole morning act out various scenes with the latest gadgetry. When not being filmed, he sat or stood calmly in the store reading a book. He was happy to let me have my photo taken standing next to him. How cool is that?

Our approach to enhancing shopping is to provide just enough information about certain product properties in order to help shoppers make more informed purchasing decisions. It is lightweight, playful and simple – enticing you to think rather than accept what others recommend. Quite different from much contemporary thinking about how we should use technology which promotes deciding for the user. For example, only this morning I was listening to a programme on Radio 4 about “Silicon Valley’s vision of local high-tech shopping”. The vision was same old, same old. An example of the future was of Jenny walking into a Burger Bistro, where upon her smartphone is recognized by the Point of Sales that then flashes up what she ate last time. The waiter on seeing her and the information about Jenny picks up a plate of fried sweet potato fries and takes it to her table saying in a cheery voice, “Hello Jenny, I thought you would like some of these again!” without asking her. This kind of personalized service is likened to ‘Rockstar treatment’. Just like Justin Beaver or David Beckham never have to decide or ask but always get the food they want. But sometimes even they might want change…

Whereas the likes of PayPal, eBay and other retail companies are pushing for more of this kind of personalisation in restaurants and stores, Isabelle Szmigin, a professor of marketing at Birmingham University, offered a refreshingly sceptical riposte, pointing out that just because Jenny ordered sweet potato fries one day, it does not mean she wants them every time she goes back to the same restaurant. While many of us maybe creatures of habit, most of us crave new experiences, tastes, products and surprises. We don’t want to be stuck with a Groundhog Day mindset. The model of personalized shopping based on your past experiences and purchases is set in the past. High tech retailing needs to break out of the automated recommender way of trying to please and nudge people. We can do much better when thinking of how to enhance shopping and dining experiences with technology.

A brand new Waitrose opened last month in Hove. It is the talk of the town (we have been waiting years for one) and it seems a destination in itself to visit judging by the line of cars queuing up for the car park. My fellow commuter regaled to me how it was the highlight of her weekend. She went with her chum on a Saturday afternoon and sat down at a table in the middle of the store (next to the wine section) and they both ordered a glass of house wine and some tapas. Whilst enjoying their repast, they merrily selected their shopping by tapping icons on a tablet, craftily positioned on their table. A minion then went on their behalf to do their shopping, that was ready for them to collect on their way out. No hassle, no queuing. There is a premium for this service but what a fun way to while away an hour – quaffing while doing online shopping in an actual bricks and mortar supermarket.

Which Sauce?

Posted on 19/10/2013 by Yvonne Rogers

I’ve started listening to the Danny Baker show on Five Live that goes out on Saturday mornings. The delectable Danny explores everyday topics in his distinctive style; quirky, witty and maundering. You never know where a conversation with a caller might end. He has the knack of moving it in unpredictable and very funny ways. The pièce de résistance is the weekly Sausage Sandwich Game – that is now legendary amongst his fans. A guest (such as a former footballer, or a singer) is invited to answer questions about him or herself that are innocuous but personal – such as when did you last climb a tree (this year, in the last two years or over 10 years ago) or where did you live for the longest when you were a child – on a street, road, lane, close, avenue or other. The kind of unique questions that banks should come up with for their security questions instead of what is your mother’s maiden name or the primary school you went to (since now you can lift that information so easily from Facebook or LinkedIn).

Two call-in contestants are also invited to represent their football team (say Arsenal or Berwick Rangers) and have to guess what the guest would choose as their answer. They have to make their choice based on what they have heard about the guest in the introductory banter.

So, on very little information they have to decide, for example, if the person is a tree climber (and hence climbed up one recently) or even more random, they seem like a person who would have lived on a road rather than an avenue. Having tried to work it out and explain their reasoning the guest then reveals when, where or whatever the answer. Whoever gets the right answer scores a goal. The last question asked is the sausage question – do they take red sauce, brown sauce or no sauce when eating a sausage sarnie. The suspense is brilliantly timed. We hear the clock ticking and then the contestant’s think aloud reasoning behind their choice (e.g. ‘oh she is definitely a brown sauce person, given she is from up north’, or ‘he does not seem like someone who would take any sauce’ so a no-saucer). As Danny says, this question reveals something about a person in ways that an interrogation could never do. The bon homie and self-deprecating humour that exudes from Danny throughout keeps you laughing and looking forward to the next game the following week. It is masterful, phone-in radio.

We often have to guess something about someone else, their likes, dislikes, what presents they might like, writing something witty about them on a ‘miss you’ leaving card, which restaurant or café they would like to meet at, and so on. For many it can be hard work, especially if they don’t know the person that well. There is a mismatch between the individual things we know about a person and the high level categories offered by retail. Buy for him or her; that special present for mum or dad, and so on. What if you could go to an online site and instead answer a few sausage sandwich type questions about a person you need to buy a present for, say a 40th birthday. The underlying system could do some clever pattern matching and suggest something original and unexpected for that person. That would be smart shopping – and entertaining for the shopper instead of being a chore.

Meatless Month

Posted on 14/07/2013 by Yvonne Rogers

Is it possible to give up meat when you are a serious carnivore? I bet a couple of Danish guys I know – who eat serious amounts of meat usually at every meal – that they could not go a month without it. I was surprised when they took up the challenge. There was much joshing and ribbing in the build up to the start. But on the first day of their new veggie diet, in mid-June, they went about it with much gusto and seriousness.

Throughout their meatless month, they ended up cooking many different dishes of vegetables, cheese, falafel, patties, pastas and more. They went through feeling very hungry, eating healthily, then sometimes eating badly (lots of pizzas, beer and cheese) and having to suffer, by having to cook meat for the rest of their family whilst not eating any of it themselves. It was very difficult at first – but the anticipation of the enormous meat feast at the end kept them going. And what is more, they now eat less meat in their day-to-day diet.

At first they both felt really hungry all the time, but then after a week they began to feel normal and even lost weight. A highlight was keeping in touch on a daily basis through sharing their experiences via email updates. Everyday they took photos and sent them as attachments to me with a description of what they had eaten, with witty asides. I’d really look forward to seeing what they had concocted, and, on the occasional day when they didn’t, would start to get worried. But my fears were unfounded. My emails sent to them showing concern made us bond more and their replies would be even wittier.

By the end of the month I had a collection of 60 dishes they had cooked and/or eaten. Involving the family, sending photos each day and chivvying each other along helped enormously and in its own way was a creative way to change a deeply ingrained and habituated behavior.

Below is an abbreviated version of our shared diary.

Day 1
J: – spinach and ricotta pasta with tomato and chili sauce
So far so good
M: I seriously dont know what to say
BUT Day 1 in the Veg World

Day 2 Breakfast

AND there was bacon and sausages on the buffet too, but I proudly did not have any.

Then for dinner:
J: 2x vegetarian pizza. Spinach, mushrooms, feta, chili – they were really good actually!

M: Homemade Flatbread with Falafel and Fetta

Day 3
On day 3, M got his daughter and friend involved and they helped cook a 3 course meal:
“My daughter A and her friend made dinner today – 3 courses. Hashbrown with salad as a main and chocolate cake for dessert. Really nice.”

Day 4

I did not hear anything on day 4 from either of them and got worried, so asked if they had cracked. They replied:

J: “No, not cracked at all..! Made my best effort so far. Mushroom and asparagus risotto – using vegetable stock. Cooked over a few hours in good company of a bottle of Rose. One of our most delicious meals in a long time. I think you would both have liked it.”
M: “No no.. Pasta dish with onion and cream. A little boring. Btw: Yvonne, what should we eat for protein?”

Sunday is usually a day for a roast with a big piece of meat or fish. The guys had to endure a Sunday without:

J: “Leftover Sunday But with a fried egg. The white blob on the left is a slice of goats cheese pretending to be steak ”

M: “Pasta with spicy beans. The rest of the family had salmon – not easy!”

After the first week I asked them how they felt about having given up meat for a week. Both said they were getting better at it but still felt hungry.

Day 8

This day was really tough for M because he had to visit somewhere that did not cater for non-meat eaters. That can be really hard – especially for the first time:

“We visited C’s daycare center yesterday where we had dinner. I had salad, carrots and rice. Seriously, vegetarians were not catered for. So I had what we call koldskål when I came home (advanced buttermilk).”

After two weeks I sent an email to them celebrating the occasion:

J: That is “two weeks left” I am thinking…
Me: are you dreaming of aubergines or bacon sandwiches?
J: Just bacon – no bread involved in my dreams.

Then came a night without an email from either of them and I got worried again, so sent an email to this effect:

J: “No worries. we had a long working day and ended up at the pizza place where I had a Quatro-Formagio 4x cheese one, again…”

It was M’s birthday during the month – usually a time for a big feast. He got up at 2.00a.m to pull the pork and slow cook it. Then during the birthday meal, itself:

J: Here is what we had today..
While we had the vegetarian lasagne with salad, on the plate, the other guests had the pulled pork roast sandwiches.. Very hard to stand the temptation! But we did!!”

The use of the subject heading could sometimes be filled with suspense. One day, J simply sent in the subject heading: Oh..and a breadstick….
Inside, the message said: “Very filling :-)”

After 3 weeks

“One week left. Look forward to a less restrictive diet, but feel a bit overwhelmed by the thought of mountains of meat, which I dreamt of just two weeks ago…”

Whereas for M, he was finding it all a tad tough:

“Still no meat. But dinners are getting more and more boring.

Nearing the end of the month, fear crept in for J:
“First day with meat will be Friday – at the group’s BBQ at P’s place. I am a bit scared actually… Might have to start out a bit slow. Seem to have adjusted to no meat by now. The first week I was soo hungry, but that is not really the case anymore. In fact I seem to fill up a lot easier than ever before. I also had strong meat craving for the first 2 1/2 weeks, but not so much anymore. A bit confronting when I think about a huge steak actually… what have you done to me!!”

The final day

Was a big surprise.

J: I think this photo speaks for itself..
First taste of meat after a month. Went to the research group’s BBQ last night, and brought with me the biggest T-bone steak I could find. I must admit that I felt a bit worried that I wouldn’t be able to eat it all…

But it was delicious..! Absolutely fantastic, I have to admit. But then again it was a really nice piece of meat. The other meat-things I tried after that (meet balls etc, sausages, etc.) did not give me the same experience of satisfaction. So a month without meat certainly has done something to my perception of meat.
Felt very full afterwards though, and have had a bit of a tight stomach since.. I think I will ease it in over the next couple of days.
But nice feeling to be “allowed” meat again :-)”

M: “In the beginning I was hungry all the time, but was also enthusiastic about the whole thing. I actually searched for interesting and new recipes – which was partially successful. But it was difficult to change as my family still wanted to eat meat. Also, to make more sustained behavior change I think I would have to go into lentils and beans – which I didn’t. So the problem is that I ate unhealthy – chips, cheeses, bread with butter – just to avoid being hungry all the time. But I didn’t have stomachaches like I sometimes have – probably due to the lack of red meat. So I have cut down on red meat – which is probably good for me.”

On my travels, I’ve come across some of the most delicious braais and BBQs. I also discovered pub meat raffles (offering huge tray loads of raw meat). The idea of winning a pile of pork that would otherwise cost 40-50 dollars makes many salivate. However, the prize goes to Fiji, which I am currently visiting. It used to be called the ‘Cannibal Isles’ – a country that up until two hundred years ago still enjoyed eating the flesh (cooked or raw) of its (human) enemies. We’re off to see the caves tomorrow where there is an old cannibal oven still intact…

Maid in Hong Kong

Posted on 17/06/2013 by Yvonne Rogers

Hong Kong is now one of the most densely populated cities in the world. Every square inch of the island is made use of and valued like gold. High-rise blocks are squeezed in everywhere, dotting the landscape, that makes me of think of rows of x-rayed teeth – long, close together, uniquely stained but uniform.

It is easy to think you are still in the airport when surfacing via the Express train at Hong Kong station. A vast, multi-leveled shopping mall welcomes you – that looks just like the one you left at the airport. There are rows of expensive boutiques interspersed with ubiquitous phone and electronic goods shops. All enticing and packed with wealthy shoppers.

I had arranged to meet a couple of friends, who are currently living here, outside a Prét-a-Manger (that ready-to-eat sandwich shop with the same fillings everywhere). Rather than drink their frothy coffee from a brown polystyrene cup we chose to go upmarket to a Tea Boutique (sic), called TWG further down the mall (there is also one in the UK based in Harrods). They claim on their website that they “will carry you away on a journey of sensations, spiced with elegant samovars, brass weighing scales, Italian marble floors and hard wood tea counters.” We discovered from the menu that they also serve over 800 different types of tea from all over the world. How surreal is that? I thought there was only posh tea, builder’s tea and herbal tea. It made choosing just one from an endless list of exotic sounding teas nigh on impossible. I was tempted by ‘sexy tea’, ‘desert mirage tea’ and ‘dancing tea’ but in the end selected a Jasmine tea (being in China) that had a few other nice sounding adjectives added to it. Someone in the marketing department must have had a field day.

After drinking our fine Grand Crus tea we walked out onto one of the many ‘walkways in-the-sky’ – that provide covered spokes to other neighboring high-rise buildings. It was mobbed with Philippine girls, huddled together in small groups, sitting on the concrete, demarcated by makeshift walls made from cardboard boxes. These are the maids of the wealthy and the middle classes. At first glance, it looked like they had set up market stalls but, on closer look, it turns out they have colonized the concrete paths, turning them into temporary living/dining rooms. In each one, you can see them chatting, laughing, sleeping, reading, texting, playing, eating, drinking and grooming – as if in their own homes. This is how they spend their one day off from serving the natives and the ex-pats, bringing with them their umbrellas, blankets, food, drinks, magazines, Scrabble sets, iPads and mobile phones. Because they live in terribly cramped apartment spaces – barely enough room for a bed let alone a kitchen – they decamp to the shopping Mecca’s many arteries to socialize and relax with their fellow maids, against a backdrop of Gucci shoppers and gourmet tea drinkers traversing from one tower block to another. What struck me, was how they had appropriated the cardboard boxes to make their living spaces; the flimsy barriers providing them with just enough height for a level of dignity, privacy and territoriality whilst low enough to be seen and to see. A creative way, indeed, of horizontally inhabiting a vertical city, whose earthly goods are mostly out of their reach.

Hell’s Dinner

Posted on 10/05/2013 by Yvonne Rogers

For many years, I used to look forward to reading the Winner’s Dinner column on the back pages of the Sunday Times; you always got an excellent meal of the late Michael Winner’s witty anecdotes, abundance of charm and pencil-sharp observations of his latest dining experience. It was a pleasure to consume and chuckle over coffee and toast on a Sunday morning. Sometimes, his best articles were about some of the worst places he visited – because it provided him with so much more rich material from which to mercilessly mock, slam and share.

I can only imagine what he would have written if he had been to Ollamessa – an Italian restaurant in Southbank where we went on my last night in Melbourne. From the outside, it looked tempting with plenty of greenery, potted plants and a front piece of glass at the entrance, with slick water gently pouring down it, giving the place a green, tropical feel. But once inside it felt like a different world. I am sure on moving from outside to inside Michael would have called his chauffeur and made a quick exit.

We were too tired to pick up on the signs and then it was too late. Inside, was very dark. The place we were taken to had black plastic seating from floor to ceiling, in a cavern like space. No windows and closed in by a long imposing wall. As we neared our table, my eyes were immediately drawn to a large, brightly lit-up glass meat fridge, where large slabs of red pig, sheep and cow cadaver hung – just like a Damien Hirst piece, all within a few feet of our table.

The owner came lurching over to us. His ubiquitous white shirt stood out against the black backdrop; the buttons stretched at his belly where a mobile phone was inserted. He tried to tempt us with plates of cheese, garlic bread, cheesy bread, antipasta and other starters he deigned to list. Each time we shook our heads, he reciprocated by leering more at us more. Then he smiled and said he had been drinking since 7.30a.m – it being Anzac day – starting with 12 pots that morning. He eventually walked away but left his beery smell permeating in our nostrils. The plastic menus he left for us were greasy and plastered with too many options, covered with italic text on both sides. Too much choice. I eventually found the section on pizzas, and the first one listed comprised a strange assortment of potato, cheeses and meats. Not one I had ever heard of before – or wanted to try. The others also sounded equally unappealing.

A hapless waiter arrived and I asked him if they had a pizza oven. He gave a Basil Fawlty blank look. I understood immediately and ordered instead the simplest thing I could find – spaghetti with olive oil and garlic and a mixed salad. My companions ordered a Porterhouse steak and a Saltimbocca with salad and chips.

What was served and what we ordered, however, did not match up. No chips but soggy looking mash. No porterhouse just a rib-eye. My ‘mixed’ side salad was all fiery, wilted rocket leaves doused in an explosive dressing that ripped off the roof of your mouth. The rib eye turned out to be a rump of pink flesh and the saltimbocca a thick slab of fried grease. My spaghetti had been cooked for about an hour, was cold, and had the texture of baby food tinned pasta smothered in some overpowering garlic oil.

As we struggled to eat some of it, the waiter then brought a plate of cheesy pizza bread – compliments of the house. Talk about adding injury to insult. We just asked for the bill. I could not get out quickly enough. As J and I stood taking gasps of the night air the other J. suddenly came running out shrieking in distress. She had found a cockroach crawling up her sleeve when putting her jacket on.

When regaling our story to the Melbournites, they were aghast. The city is renowned for its amazing restaurants. Surely, not possible. But ironically, it is one we will dine out on for years and remember, unlike some of the other wonderful restaurants we went to. Sometimes, it pays to endure unpleasant and shocking experiences to pit against the good ones. At least for round the campfire.

Future Fashion

Posted on 10/03/2013 by Yvonne Rogers

Where does work finish and fun begin? I’ve been playing with a Makey Makey kit that turns everyday objects into touchpads. As mentioned in an earlier blog my aim is to encourage elderly folk to see what they can make using it and to see if they can then teach kids how to create using it – inspiring a younger generation to unleash their ideas.

My first effort was to play a drum kit using fruit: I started playing with grapes, then apples and finally tomatoes as my inputs. It was really easy to map them onto the online software program. And when the grapes started sounding like drums it reminded me of when I got my very first computer program to work! Moreover, there was something very childlike and pleasurable in squeezing grapes and tomatoes to make different drum sounds. I then moved onto a digital keyboard. Equally, it it was just as much fun to make a simple piano melody by squeezing grapes and tapping tomatoes. Whatever next? My mind went into overdrive and I started thinking of assembling a fruit orchestra…

Part of the fun with using this kind of electronic toolkit, with fruit and salad as the input, is discovering something new about the world. In this instance, it got me thinking about how conductive different materials are – since this makes a difference to how well they act as input devices. I started off testing out plastic salad serving spoons but that was a clear no-no, whereas when I tried with the grapes I discovered they were very conductive. Apples were somewhere in between. It also led me to look into the fridge to see what else I could experiment with – cucumber, mustard, falafels, cheese, bread, chocolate… so many possibilities. Not only does Makey Makey make you think creatively it also helps you begin to understand some of the principles behind basic electronics.

(I know the video is amateur but it was tricky holding my phone camera, the earth wire and playing the fruit all at the same time.)

I’ve been looking recently at how others have been embedding technology into everyday objects. One of the latest trends is fashion. While, wearable computing has been around for several years, new and affordable electronic materials, such as LEDs, thermoconductive paints, longer life batteries and so on, are providing a richer palette for fashion designers to work with. One start-up ‘fashion and technology’ company called Studio XO, are leading the way. They have been creating and engineering interactive clothing that is stunning to look at and marvelous to wonder about the techno-gubbins behind it. Last month when I was in London, I went to a talk given by the co-founders, Nancy Tilbury and Ben Males, in the very fashionable Soho House club. It was packed to the rafters with fashionista and technology hipsters from all over London – standing room only.

Nancy and Ben were interviewed in a Q&A format by some cool dude who worked for crane.tv (an online video magazine for contemporary culture). After showing a short video they had made, they talked about their ideas and demonstrated their digital mermaid bra designed especially for Azealia Banks Fantasea Tour. It was studded with hundreds of blue and clear crystals interwoven with LEDs, which diffracted light among the crystals, animating them in time to music that was controlled by a pre-programmed circuit. Quite stunning. They also showed a Sneaker shoe they had embedded with various electronics, including a small LCD on the tongue that displayed an animated Puma running across it and various other LEDs in the sole and heal that lit up, depending on what the shoe sensed and did. Many of their designs are one-offs customized for rock bands and popstars. What they are now trying to do now is work out how to move on from one-off commissions to the mainstream clothing market.
At the end of their interview with crane.tv the audience, strangely, were baying for their blood. “How is it fashion? How is it different from Christmas tree lights?” one member asked? Another wanted to know why they were not creating more down-to-earth, health-related clothing that could improve the lives of millions of people, such as vests that could fend off mosquitos, thereby reducing malaria in Africa. Another wanted a suit that would grow with his expanding waistline and change to match his clothing needs rather than twinkle to reflect his emotions and moods. Others wanted more sustainable and durable clothing. Still others could not see how this kind of fashion technology could become mainstream, H&M clothing. Who would pay the extra for gear, that displayed digital content, other than a few trendy night clubbers?

Nancy and Ben, I thought, had a really tough time under the London fashion spotlights but defended their patch and position very well. I also thought their creations were highly original, pushing the envelope of fashion and technology in innovative ways, and, importantly, were a real pleasure to look at. Aesthetics still plays a vital role. Having digital content appear in various forms on your clothing in ways that the wearer can upload and control offers much potential for individual creativity and personal style. Maybe I am naïve, but I can see their push into mainstream fashion taking off … if only others could be less cynical.

I’ve also recently been exploring how technology can play a role in enhancing the dining experience. Similar arguments surface. We ran a workshop at the end of last year at the John Salt restaurant – that Ben Spalding was the resident chef at the time, experimenting with his creative and quirky pop-up dining experience. The questions raised at our workshop were many, but included does augmenting food with digital technology, such as lights, sounds and other media enhance the eating experience or does it serve simply to titillate? Moreover, might it distract and even get in the way of the enjoyment of eating? What does new technology, in its various guises, add that other ways of contextualizing the eating experience (choosing the seating, the cutlery, the lighting, the colour, the music, etc…) can’t already do. Is it just another gimmick? Or are we onto something quite new?

it seems there is a fine line between fad and fun when it comes to fashion and food. But there is much to be gained working out how best to mix technology with everyday materials to make the combination valuable, pleasurable and worthwhile.

Deconstructing Salad

Posted on 27/11/2012 by Yvonne Rogers

At a workshop I was running the other weekend on ‘Creative Dining, Cooking and Technology’ we were treated to the culinary delights of hot chef Ben Spalding. One of the dishes that he brought to the table was a small bowl containing a delicate salad that was beautifully plated. The pieces were tiny – a wisp of fennel, a sliver of radish, a shard of celeriac. The dish came with a paper print-out listing the ingredients – all 30 of them. Rather than place forkfuls of the assembled leaves, seeds and other tasty morsels into our mouths to munch – as one typically does when confronted with a mixed salad – the brightly-coloured list encouraged us to deconstruct its contents, identifying and matching up each ingredient to those on the list. I managed about 20. My neighbour slightly more. It was very much a shared experience as we compared notes; firstly, describing the visible dimensions, of colour, shape and form and secondly, articulating the taste, crunchiness and lingering flavours. Talking about the leaves transformed the usually talked over salad experience for me.

I asked Ben’s sous-chef, Nathan, what next and he said their new challenge was to come up with 50 ingredients that they could forage and which would go together. Upping the ante or what. Usually, a salad has between 1 and 15 ingredients with a dressing of 4 or 5. It is often regarded as a dish to freshen the taste buds or whet the appetite. Of course, there have always been main salads, where the leaves are accompanied with tuna, chicken, salmon, egg, nuts or cheese, often with grandiose names, such as Caesar, Waldorf, Caprese or Nicoise. But for a side salad to take centre stage and become the talking point was a stroke of creativity.

It made be think of the word salad and my childhood memories of being served it at school. Not nice. Always cold, off-putting and uninspiring: limp soggy-tissue lettuce, insipid thistle-threaded tomato quarters and ugly-tasting beetroot slabs. Then I switched to fonder memories: the first time I really understood what mouth-watering meant: tasting a bunch of ultra-fresh radishes served up by themselves on a plate with salt crystals and a slaver of creamy butter on the side. I could not get enough of the combination.

One memory led to another. Food is great for letting the mind wander. From salad to salad days. A lovely turn of phrase from Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra – referring to the period when one was young, inexperienced, and carefree. From carefree to listening to ‘Lazy Sunday Afternoon’ being played on Radio One. To baking a different cake each week – chocolate, banana, lemon, cherry, walnut…to the delight of my family at Sunday tea. Stringing together poignant memories is a joy as anyone who has read or seen the film of Nigel Slater’s book Toast will know.

It was lovely to be able to pick at Ben’s salad and discover new ingredients rather than act all grown-up, trying to balance the delicate pieces on a fork. The secret to creative cooking is choreographing surprise that lets the diner deconstruct the dish and discover what’s hidden.

Feeding Security

Posted on 18/03/2012 by Yvonne Rogers

In the suburb I am staying in – along with many others like it in South Africa – a fleet of security company cars is ever present, slowly driving around the leafy streets. You can easily spot them as they are covered in their company logos – like those in the Tour de France – only they are not there as back-ups for the cyclists but are there for all and sundry to see, keeping an eye on the comings and goings in the neighborhoods, by monitoring their company’s burglar alarm systems. It is all part of the dedicated armed response service, 24 hours a day; a very visible deterrent against crime.

Security is serious business here; it is one of the largest in the world. Every house is alarmed, has automatically locked imposing gates, barbed wired, high fenced walls and burglar bars on all the windows and doors. The security companies also adorn the walls of the houses they service with signs that match those on their armed response cars, letting them (and any potential intruders) know who they are protecting. Dotted around the streets are homely little wooden, sentry-like huts, with protruding CCTV cameras next to them atop long poles, providing bases for the guards. The ultimate in security are the gated communities that offer a 5 star security service, including permanently manned huts.

But it is not just about being as safe as houses. As soon as you start to drive your car, it knows, and automatically locks all the doors for you with a resounding and reassuring, orchestrated 4-slam ktchung. And in some of the outside restaurants, you can even find rock-climbing carabiners that have been secured to the underside of each table, repurposed as locks for the diner’s bag.

Security is a lucrative industry and it makes the people who live here and the tourists who visit feel safe; white, coloured and black. According to Wikipedia there are over 7000 private security companies employing 400,000 private security officers. That is a lot of eyes on the look out for a country of 49 million people. It is part of the price that was paid, so it seems, for getting rid of apartheid.

I was struck the other day by how security can mean quite different things, depending on the word that precedes it. I was having lunch with some architects last week when the topic of ‘food security’ came up. Food and security when combined are very distinct from private and security when conjoined. Instead of being about protecting people from intruders, the term is about enabling everyone at all times to have access to enough food that is affordable, healthy, culturally acceptable, produced in ways that are environmentally sound, socially just, and so on. In other words, it is about opening up rather than locking up. The security is in the food – making it safe to eat. But the real meaning of food security lies in its absence; where the worry is about insecurity in the system, and there not being enough food to go round all year round.

And then there is the ‘security blanket’. Both private security and food security are miles apart from the bedraggled piece of cloth children often hold onto for dear life – that gives them much comfort as they navigate their way through an alien adult world.

Pairing 101

Posted on 02/03/2012 by Yvonne Rogers

It is increasingly trendy for gastronomy restaurants to pair a wine with a course, matching the notes, flavours and textures of one with another. You read the list of ingredients in a dish and then the type of wine they think matches it. Trouble is it is difficult to imagine the effect of the pairing just from the words, and by the 4th dish one begins to start drowning in the adjectives and labels, and start to lose the plot. And, if the tasting menu is 5 courses or more then that amounts to tasting 5 or more different wines. One’s eyes start to swim a bit. But maybe that is all part of the experience.

The basic idea of pairing, which has been around for centuries, is to enhance the dining experience; the elements of one are meant to bring out the elements in the other, resulting in an accentuation of tastes. The texture, smell, sugar, acidity, etc., in both food and wine are assumed to react differently in each other’s company. The trick is to make sure they are compatible in the matching.

There are numerous websites, books and guidance to help the amateur select the right type and taste of wine to match the kind of dish and its way of cooking. For example, Natalie has an online tool that even lets you select a food type (e.g. pasta), a dish made of it (e.g. gnocchi with brown butter and sage) and then when you press the button, it selects the type of wine you should serve up with it (e.g. Pino Blanc).

It is a bit obvious but reassuring for those who are just learning pairing 101. There are some basic ground rules about matching, such as white with white meats and red with red meats. A fundamental aspect is to understand the balance between the ‘weight’ of the food and the ‘body’ of the wine. For example, one would not mix a Cab with a light fish and, conversely, a Pino Grigio with a hearty, venison stew. But when it gets to deciding on a vintage and its terroir and matching these with the complex set of flavours that a good chef creates, you are joining a different league. Only highly trained sommeliers seem privy to the chef’s thinking behind the complex dishes. Then, just like the beautiful game, it can be a pleasure to score, but you need to understand the rules of their game, and they can seem quite elusive at the highest level.

Yesterday we went to a restaurant in Cape Town called Planet that served 5 course menus – both regular and fully vegan – with matching wines selected by the very knowledgeable and brimming with enthusiasm, Carl Heinz Habel. We ordered two regular and one vegan. The pressure to choose the right wine to match the balance of the ingredients in the meal was offloaded into his hands and I, for one, was grateful for this. He seemed so jolly, attentive and knew his onions.

As we sat down on very comfortable chairs in the rather grandiose Nelson hotel, the ladies were tucked in and immediately provided with a handbag stand to place their bits on – rather like the portable stools creaky folk carry around with them to sit on during long trips to art galleries. We were tickled pink by this detail – we could only assume its function was for the ladies to keep an eye on their purse when wanting to do a bit of fixing and fussing without having to grope around on the floor or the back of the chair for it. I kept thinking how some old biddies might have popped their pooch or feline friend in their bag for company. It was the perfect shape and size for nestling a well manicured spoilt pet in.

Our sommelier, Carl, had done all his homework before. He’d gone to great lengths to chose five different wines that matched each of the dishes – and it turns out they were different for the regular and vegan menus. Whereas I had First Sighting Pinot Noir 2009 with my starter of marinated mushroom terrine, G had de Grendel PIno Gris 2010 to match her quail terrine, rooibos cranberry jelly, and smoked corn samoosa. Normal wines use animal products for purification, vegetarian use egg-white and vegan some unheard of chemicals…I was convinced that they were inferior.

We decided to keep the menu as our extended cognition companion, and placed it at the empty place at the table – it proved to be indispensible by the second course, as we could not remember what we had ordered or the wine that was to accompany it!

We straight away tasted each other’s wines. For some, that might seem like defeating the object of pairing but sharing and comparing is such a natural part of the dining experience. My fear was confirmed; I felt short-changed bar one wine. Somehow, G’s wines always seemed more colourful, leggy, full bodied, long noted, punchy, and enhancing. We were completely bowled over by one of her wines, in particular, forgetting all about the food momentarily and just concentrating on savouring her wine – a local Semillion from the Cape. It just sung to us a complex and rich melody – irrespective of the dish we were eating. And we wanted it to keep playing. Sadly, the glass emptied all too quickly and the waiter did not seem to want to replenish it. Instead, the next one arrived, which turned out to be a real anti-climax.

I am sure there is an art to how one tastes a wine, takes a mouthful of it and combines the lingering and ensuing notes – just as there is an art to tasting dishes. However, I always get caught up in the conversation and forget to drink the wine, after an initial tasting. Then before you know it, the waiter is standing next to you, ready to pour the next pairing wine. I either have to leave the old one standing or slug the remainder quickly. Neither approach is satisfactory. I can’t seem to get the talking, wine sipping and food sampling mix sorted.

Knowing how often to sip, at what point during the eating and how much to leave at the end to maximize the balance of grape and grub, seems a step too far for me. And sometimes one can be mightily disappointed with a wine and not know what to do, especially if your fellow diners are enjoying theirs much more. One of my vegan wines had no taste at all. It simply vanished in the mouth and left me wondering where had it gone. When I explained this experience to the sommelier, he was rather taken aback; presumably it being rare for a diner to dare question his selection. He swiftly took my barely touched glass away and returned, saying that there was nothing wrong with the wine – insinuating, perhaps, that it was my palette that was at fault. As a gesture, he replaced it with a big fat bulbous glass filled to the brim with a big, shouty Chardonnay. I was not sure how to react to his brashness and so took a tiny sip, heard it scream “tourist” at me and so left it equally untouched until the next more lively glass of Pino Noir arrived.

I am sure pairing can be lots of fun; breaking down and matching up the elements that chef and sommelier have brought together but, on reflection, perhaps we’d have been better off slowly sharing, at our leisure, the same bottle of fine wine, that we all liked the sound of rather than being paced by the courses.

And finally, as noted by wine expert Mark Oldman, “Food and Wine pairing can be like sex and pizza: even when it’s bad, it can still be pretty good”. But a very dry wine with a very sweet food is, in his words, “the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard” (Wikipedia). On another day, I am sure my vegan wines would have enhanced the dishes, but on this occasion, the more powerful and potent opulent atmosphere of the place and the wit and charm of my dining companions, overshadowed the potential pleasure of the subtle pairings on offer. But much merriment was had by all.

Bunny Chow

Posted on 28/02/2012 by Yvonne Rogers

It is funny how certain dishes grab your attention immediately on a menu. The one that got my eyeballs today, when we were having lunch at a local surfer’s café, was “Bunny Chow Chicken Curry Pizza.” Now that is a mouthful to read! And parsing it took me into an unknown space. I tried conjuring up the components and an image of rabbit’s ears together with ‘number 55 chinese take away’ on a piece of fine Italian dough came to mind. Not a pretty sight.

Gary laughed at my naïve translation; pointing out that the bunny derives from a South African word for a local indian people (Bania) and not from the pet rabbit. Usually it is just called bunny chow chicken curry but this dish had been extended, presumably for the macho surfer – in the way the ‘gutbuster breakfast’ at a certain all nighter cafe in Brighton, UK has become legendary for serious nightclubbers in the early hours.

The café we were visiting was located in Muizenberg – a popular very blue and laid back beach place, open to surfers of all levels. It was on the front with fantastic views overlooking the bronzed bodies and shark tattooed boards. Gary had the bunny (see above) and I had a less evocatively named, but still tasty, toastie sarnie.

The original South African dish originates from the 1940s as indeed a kind of take-away. The local Indians, who were not allowed in certain cafes and shops during Apartheid, were served a lovely curry, out the back of the restaurant window in Durban, in a scooped out loaf of bread. The bit that was scooped out was then put back on the top like a plug – the bread acting like a container. The modern day version is more refined but the sentiment behind the dish remains. And apparently the butter chicken is every bit as scrumptious.

I remember frequenting an American-style bakery chain, called Panera, at lunchtimes when I lived in Bloomington, Indiana. It also used to serve piping hot food in very large scooped out sour dough bread – if requested by the customer. They literally called it a ‘bread bowl’. Bunny chow, however, looks and sounds much better.

Just like I find the name odd, I find it strange that you can eat the container your food arrives in. Now, that really is sustainable cooking.

Sweet Spot

Posted on 06/02/2012 by Yvonne Rogers

There is a new American quarterly magazine out called Lucky Peach that is about food and writing; the second issue features articles on the sweet spot of cooking. Such moments occur at a significant point in the trajectory of cooking – when something tastes just perfect, having been matured, dried, marinated, etc. Left any longer and the magical umami is ruined. Any less and it has not triumphed.

Underlying the metaphorical term is the idea that there is a limited window of opportunity to discover the optimal experience. For a chef to hit the sweet spot requires making a dish just so. Sweet spots can also have perfect moments. But you have to know how to recognize them. They can easily come and slip past unnoticed. A chef can overdo a dish by not turning the heat down at a key moment.

“You have to act at certain moments in certain ways. That is what cooking is.” (Donald Patterson, Lucky Peach)

Magic moments happen when the diner, reciprocally, experiences the chef’s perfect moment; often it comes unexpectedly and that is part of the magic. Suddenly, out of the blue, arrives a train of intense sensations. The trick for the diner is to savour them for as long as possible; lingering over them and replaying their unfolding delights before depositing them in a multi-sensory memory bank.

The other week I revisited Roganic; this time, with some fellow colleagues, S and D, from the Slade School of Art. They were as enchanted by the whole dining experience as P and N were as described in an earlier post.

D and I had the vegetarian menu. As we contemplated the sweet spot, our first dish arrived; “caramelized cauliflower, sour cream, raisin, roasted lettuce and pennywort.” It comprised smoked cauliflower florets, both white and brown, and a glistening gem lettuce heart sitting like an expensive jewel surrounded by a coating of cauliflower dust, gently flecking the rest of the plate. The composition was simply stunning; the palette of colour, shape, size and texture was perfectly spaced and balanced.

It looked too beautiful to eat – D commented on how it reminded him of a scene from Gulliver’s Travels that he had just been watching with his children. The separation of the tiny vegetables, herbs and thinly painted streaks of sauces made it look like a Lilliput landscape of trees, plants and streams.

We began by visually grazing all the different elements. But our mouths soon began watering, and we found ourselves involuntarily picking up our knives and forks in anticipation of the tastes. First, to be speared was a tiny white floret on the left of the plate. This was followed by the scooping up of an adjacent brown floret; our sweeping manoeuvres were delicately repeated, smearing each floret with alternating touches of brown raison jus and white sour cream. The symmetry was engineered and anticipated as part of the chef’s – Ben’s – perfect moment. We both just got it.

Once the florets had been devoured, we sliced into the emerald centre-piece. The texture of the lettuce and its fused tastes were divine.

Without discussing the implicit ordering behind our deft left-right-centre moves, D and I discovered that we had done exactly the same; it was as if the miniature forest before us suggested how we should approach and enter it in the way a painting does. And yet this was the first time we had seen this delicately poised dish.

It is well known that plating is central to gastronomy along with the selection of cutlery and tableware. One foodie blogger suggests that it should “completely obfuscate how the dish should be eaten. This serves to replace the diner’s initial hunger with feelings of uncertainty, inadequacy, and ultimately inferiority.” However, I think this blogger is missing the point – what is key is the playfulness behind the chef’s plating, especially how it triggers unexpectedness and joy in the gentle deconstruction of it. It is not about feeling like a lesser mortal but understanding its ephemerality – a core part of the pleasure is knowing how to appreciate it when it has gone.

Sizzle Service

Posted on 21/01/2012 by Yvonne Rogers

A group of about 12 of us traipsed down to the basement of a restaurant in Chinatown on a rainy and windswept evening in Manchester. It was the tail end of our second day at an intensive workshop, where we had been hard at work landscaping the future of human-computer interaction research. We were exhausted and hungry. Two round tables had been pushed together in a corner, under a cove, hidden away from the rest of the restaurant. We shuffled in and sat down in anticipation. Big, heavy, black-coated menus were handed out to each of us. We began flipping through the vast encyclopedia of dishes, embedded in sticky plastic pages.

My neighbour to the left, M, and myself took the easy option, selecting the vegetarian set meal – not wanting to navigate and choose. The rest went for the full chinese, selecting an assortment of platters.

To our surprise, the veggie soup arrived first. Two bowls of murky brown liquid, with various mushroomy things floating in them, were placed in front of us. We looked at each other, took a sniff of the rising steam, and instantly had the same gut-reaction. The smell was acrid and sewer-like. I’ve never been keen on the British variety of Chinese food – liberal lashings of MSG do not agree with me. But this kind of whiff was new to us, signaling a no-no; we both moved our bowls to the centre of the table, untouched, and switched back to our bottled beers.

I then went in search of the toilets, and found them at the top of a rickety staircase, which was hidden behind a thick curtain. Stacked up outside the ladies were boxes and sacks of onions, carrots, greens and other supplies. They had to be awkwardly navigated around. Once inside, it was cold and shabby; a notice on one cubicle door saying ‘out of order’.

The evening was not boding well.

It is times like this when one needs to dig deep to raise the spirits – or take one’s leave – which was not an option. I gulped slowly on the cold air and descended again.

A large tureen of chicken soup had arrived that was being efficiently ladled into two semi-circles of bowls, next to where my seat was. This classic dish was appreciated much more by our fellow diners than the pungent vegetable soup. Soon after, the ubiquitous duck arrived with plates of flat pancakes, diced spring onion, cucumber and various red and brown sauces. No veggie equivalent was brought and so our companions invited us instead to make duckless rolls. We declined.

Meanwhile, the waitress had stood right next to me, chopping and dicing the meat off the duck’s back, inches from my face. I took out my iPhone and filmed the last moments of the spectacle. I am always amazed at how rapidly a whole solid form can transform into a plate of shreds. But to be so close was something else.

Our party, now filled with chicken gloop, relaxed and raised their voices. M and I looked at each other and sipped our beers again. What were we to do? We took the duck scene as our cue to be mischievous. I can resort to being quite cheeky if it is just me out of my comfort zone – and when not able to escape – but with two of us in the same state and up for it – well, it can get out of control.

A lively member of our party, H, on the opposite side of the table had been telling her neighbour about her hen night. We listened in. She started to tell us about how Tim the butler, had suddenly appeared at her house, with a well-chiseled and buffed six-pack, standing to attention, almost naked. He spent the evening with her and her friends, playfully serving them cocktails and nibbles from the fridge.

This picture of fantasy service was in such contrast to the prosaic, slap-on-the-table style we were witnessing. M and I began playing a game of ping-pong, batting quips and one-liners across to H and each other about the contrasting scenes. We stretched the butler story far for all to share, embellishing and exaggerating in detail the more surreal aspects. Our banter became contagious and before long we had the whole table in fits of laughter.

Plates of more dodgy-looking, lurid-coloured and MSG lacquered food arrived, but it ceased to matter. M and I picked at it and puckered our faces; by this stage the evolving narrative had become our food. Our chopsticks became drumsticks and we drum rolled each new part that was added to the story or repeated in more detail.

The climax came when the waitress slapped down a signature dish of fizzing, shiny meat. “Sizzle, sizzle.”

There is only so much high-octane, chopstick banter that can be juggled before it falls pancake flat. After the sizzle moment, we grabbed the keynote speaker, who was falling asleep from Korean jetlag, and took her back to the hotel – but not without encountering a murky tapioca lake of hailstones and sleet that had descended on the streets whilst we were in the bowels of Mancunian Chinatown.

Timing is everything.

And check out Butlers in the Buff.

Tasting Colour

Posted on 17/12/2011 by Yvonne Rogers

There is an art to selecting a superlative set of adjectives to describe the eating experience of gastronomic dishes – just as there is to explaining the fusion of ingredients and methods used to create them. Reading the captivating and conjuring words for dishes on a menu, then hearing the expanded accounts from the waiters standing next to you bearing plates of delights, primes the taste buds, but recounting afterwards the sensuous and delectable explosion of tastes they elicit can leave the uninitiated fumbling in the dark. The ease and eloquence with which the top chefs judge and comment on the finalist’s dishes of this year’s BBC Master Chef competition puts me in the shade. Instead of trying to compete with the food critics, chefs and foodies, I decided to ask my dining companions to talk about what ever triggered their experience of eating amazingly prepared molecular food.

Three of us went to Roganic, a temporary (pop-up) organic restaurant in Marylebone, run by Simon Rogan and Ben Spalding, and described by John Lanchester (the food and drink critic for the Guardian) as “pop-up on Viagra” with a “fair degree of modernist wizardry”.

We opted for their modest -sized and -priced, three-course lunch.

My companions, Paul and Nadia, started off in fine fettle, describing the free appetizer in terms of its unexpected weight and how it took them completely by surprise, as its texture and shape suggested it should be something else. Paul exclaimed, with animated gesture:

“It was like double surprising, it looks much heavier than it is, you pick it up and you realize it is much lighter than it is…You think it is going to be crunchy because of the crunchy stuff all the way along the top and then you bite into it and it is squidgy all the way through.”

This form of unexpectedness seems to be key to the intensity of subsequent pleasure.

As we moved onto the starters, Nadia began talking about her food colour experience – that neither of us had ever heard of before – and for which her husband thinks she is slightly barmy. She started explaining how she sometimes experiences – without warning – eating food in terms of hues and different shades of beige and brown. She does not know when it will happen, or which foods; it just happens:

“I don’t see it here (points to dish). I see it inside (points to her chest). Beige. I don’t know how to explain it. For me there is a clear link. I can’t cook with it because, if I think about it, it is a totally different experience, as it becomes an association. It comes, just like that, I can’t stop it.”

How exciting is that, I thought, sometimes getting an internal colour that you can’t see when eating a dish. Far from thinking she was a bit batty I was rather envious. I’ve never had an internal colour experience.

Back to earth – we noticed on entering the restaurant that there was a large pebble in the middle of each table. It seemed to go against my naïve knowledge of Feng Shui. The waiter smiled when we asked what it was for and said wait and see. We tried to guess – not having read any of the foodie reviews which mention it – but all got it wrong. The waiter reappeared and plopped on it a dollop of hand-churned, Malvern-salted, infused butter. Instead of the usual discreet side-pot of top-sliced butter we had a pièce de résistance – a cream, pearl-wave perched on a powerful rock, overshadowing even the beautifully nested assortment of bread rolls and crisp bread. And it felt beige!

Something as simple as changing the setting makes one see, the often taken for granted, in a completely new light – in this case, bread-spread. We all wanted immediately to scoop it up and then gleefully drop it on to our bread.

The pebbles are handpicked from Folkestone beach by the chef and their cold core keeps the soft creamy butter from melting, but also acts as a good ice-breaker for the dining party – you can’t help but notice it when you sit down. Clever.

I was curious to know how they were cleaned – thinking 30 large stones in a dishwasher might be quite a challenge to balance alongside the plates and glasses – not quite the same as stone washing a pair of Levis. Of course, there is a carefully thought out stone-cleaning procedure, including soaking them every night in salted water, boiling them for a couple of hours each week and lots of brushing and scrubbing afterwards, to make them pristine clean. They even tried baking something on them one time in the oven but several broke so they abandoned that idea. This anecdote of exploding rocks triggered Paul to recall his own about how when he and his wife lit a fire on a big rock to cook al fresco – while camping in the Australian outback. It turned out to be a sedementary stone that exploded in their faces, showering them with pieces of hot stone that burned little holes in their clothes. Stone the crows, I thought.

The unexpected highlight for me was a leek dish that used the King Richard variety. It turned out to be far from being the common or garden variety and much more befitting of its regal name. My categorizing of leeks is something I cook up with potatoes on a cold day to make a hearty soup. Roganic’s dish, however, completely reconstructed my conception of what a leek is. To start, the waitress came over to our table and showed us the dish that had just come out of the oven, explaining how it had been cooked. At first glance, it looked like a small, uncooked Cornish Pasty on a bed of peat covered in thyme. Then she pointed out that what we were looking at was a clay dish and we realized that the leek had been encased and cooked in its own mummy-like, clay pot. When next it arrived, de-cased and plated, it looked plump and golden, sitting on a spread of shallot jam. The waiter then shaved a Norfolk truffle ball on top of it, using great precision. My King Richard was finally ready to eat. My moment of pleasure turned into an explosion of intense flavours – I’ve never experienced a leek to be quite as beautiful. The Barcelona tapas experience came flooding back to me. I had to close my eyes and go ‘ahhhhhhhh’.

Each of the dishes brought their own surprise array of delights that we joyfully assayed; colours, textures, weightiness, crunchiness, and whatever words came out of our mouths. We tried their signature onion ash (that looked like something in between peppery flour and the gunpowder debris from indoor fireworks) along with foraged herbs, petals, wood sorrel, intensely, aniseedy shoots and various sprigs and seeds.

Finally, we enjoyed a warm afterglow that ended the meal – a small liquor glass of Douglas Fir-infused milkshake followed by a baby Victoria sponge cake which popped and crackled as we bit into its icing – like a delicate sparkler going off in the mouth. If only I could get a silver colour like Nadia gets her beige colour. Just imagine what that would be like.

Technology Tapas

Posted on 19/10/2011 by Yvonne Rogers

Barcelona is gastronomy city, full of many amazing restaurants steeped in a tradition of Iberian cooking. The highlight for years – for the chosen few – has been a trip to elBulli. Anyone who is a foodie will know just how much it means to dine there – especially before it closed its doors for the last time this summer. It was a magical place where one could have the most extraordinary dinner, unimaginable, tasting sublime flavours, textures and aromas in beautiful surroundings.

Countless books, blogs, documentaries and articles have been written or made about the unique elBulli experience, covering every angle, from the sacrifices of being a stagiare to the privilege of being a diner – and for very good reasons. Apparently, over a million people have tried to book a table there, and those lucky enough to be selected have often had to wait a year before taking up their invitation. Such is the global fascination and world-wide reputation.

By serendipity, I was invited to attend a workshop in this majestic city, entitled ‘Gastronomy and Technology Days”, organized by the great man, Ferran Adrià, himself, in conjunction with the forward-thinking Spanish company, Telefonica. The opportunity to be in the physical presence of the former was exciting enough, but to be able also to spend a couple of days in the company of top foodies and techies from all over the world, talking about and sharing their insights on a diversity of themes related to food, dining and technology, was wild. I did not stop buzzing the whole time I was there.

I arrived late in the evening on the Monday and went straight to Estrella Damm– where the first night’s social event was just starting. This famous spanish brewery in conjunction with Ferran and some of his chefs had organized the evening, featuring a range of elBulli inspired Iberican tapas. I had literally jumped off the plane, sprang into a taxi and walked straight into a large bustling, happening dining cellar. It was full of people talking mainly Catalan and drinking Estrella’s special red star beer, poured by serious waiters from dark wine bottles into delicate wine glasses – a beer fit to sit proudly among the best of wines. It was the creamiest and most delicious-tasting beer I have drunk.

Whilst we were waited on by the electable staff, Ferran swanned around the tables doing the rounds, to the delight of his captivated accolades, happily obliging to put his arm round those wanting to capture the moment on their phones. I watched in awe.

My memory of tapas is of wholesome, comfort food: spicy potato bravas, thick crusty bread, succulent olives, pungent garlic mushrooms, textured tortilla and for those who eat meat – the sight of hearty sausages, meatballs and seafood dishes. The tapas served to us at Estrella, however, were in a different league of sensational tastes, scented smells and sumptuous sights; locally produced, creatively designed and artfully combined – befitting of elBulli. It was a culinary experience that required one’s undivided attention at tasting rather than being backgrounded to the ongoing bright conversations.

Reluctantly, I skipped the meat and fish dishes, but nonetheless enjoyed them vicariously through the descriptions and facial expressions of the international group of participants I had joined. When the desserts arrived, I was able to return centre stage to the shared foray; sampling from the delicate bowls various combinations of cheese, sorbet, ice cream, fruit, biscuit, caramel and cinnamon flavours and textures. The tiny scoops were divine, hitting the spectrum of my tastebuds in perfect harmony.

But then out of the blue, the last tapas that enveloped my sensory perception system, hit me with an enormous thud.

It was called “Pera escalibada, toffee de moscovado, mantequilla tostada y nube helada de pera y trufa”.
Emanating through the mix was a very strong taste of meat – almost like its very essence. It was such a shock. I have not tasted meat for over 30 years now and yet the memory of it came vividly and immediately back to me in a rush. But how was it possible that a dessert could produce such an intense flavour of meat for someone who had assumed it to have faded into the distant past (later on, one of my culinary companions explained the science of why such a sensation could happen). It was not that it was unpleasant, rather that it came upon me so suddenly and so strangely. I didn’t know what to do next.

As a reality check, I commented on what I had just experienced to K, who was standing next to me. He agreed he’d tasted the same. I exclaimed how was this possible? He smiled and ate some more. My mind and emotions then went into overdrive. Supposing it really was meat I had tasted – would I become ill (the reason I refrain from eating meat) or, if not, would it mean I could start eating meat again and this time enjoying it? I imagined myself going down to the buffet the next day for breakfast and loading up my plate with bacon rashers. But then fear returned.
Panic started to mix with anticipation.

And then a memory from my childhood flooded my consciousness – the first time I could remember eating meat. It was when I was about six. I had gone round to a friend’s house for tea and was confronted with the bright coloured flesh of a spam fritter whose fullness was only revealed to me when I cut into its battered coat. It looked pretty in pink but I remember it tasting foul.

Presciently, my talk the next day was called “Transforming Dining Through Technology-Induced Perceptions and Proustian-Invoked Memories”. I presented some nascent ideas about how we might capitalize on our food memories (both positive and negative) and design pervasive technologies that would enable people to make more of their ephemeral experiences and subsequent shadow memories, through transforming them in new directions. But Proustian moments are usually so personal and private. I wondered what it would mean to make them more public; turning the unexpected assault of a powerful memory into more of an intense shared experience.
The next night we went to a very down-to-earth looking Tapas bar in the centre of Barcelona. It was simply called Tapas 24. No booking and a simple menu to choose from a small chalked black board and the back of a manila envelope. The ambience was convivial and a small group of us from Korea, America, Chile, the UK and Spain sat closely together at a shiny counter tabletop, that was brightly lit.

As we were to discover, it was far from being your average tapas spread. The owner, Carles Abellan (who had worked for many years with Ferran Adrià) has removed the aura of “sacredness from high cuisine”, making it possible for all to enjoy at a very affordable price. On the bar’s website, it notes “the keystone of Carles Abellan’s proposal are his tapas, which are based on the tastes of memory…”

We had a brilliant evening getting to know each other, sharing food memories and the current culinary delights. This time, the desserts did not shock with meat essence but were unbelievable. I could not stop myself scraping the plates for a last taste – the one I will remember most was the chocolate truffle-mouse drops in olive oil coated with Iberian salt.

Our hosts chose mainly dishes that I could eat (my glimmer of hope of being able to eat meat again was short-lived) despite my protestations. It was genuine altruism. They wanted me, too, to be able to open and close my eyes, go ahhhhhh, ummmmm, and talk excitedly about the dishes. And only later did I realize that such selflessness actually heightened the pleasure for them.

Memories and personal stories were regaled by all sitting round the tabletop. The conversations flowed in many different directions, each of us following up ideas from our respective talks and then returning to social talk, seamlessly moving between ideas for the future and reminisces from our past.

We left full of endorphins.

It made me rethink my view on technology and food; you don’t need the former to make the best of food or food the best – all you need is a convivial atmosphere, an appliance of science and lovingly created interactive ingredients. But maybe there might be a more compensatory role for it when you can’t have those.

Vegetarian Apartheid

Posted on 23/09/2011 by Yvonne Rogers

I always get a bit anxious about attending conference dinners. You can end up sitting for hours around a big round table, feeling uncomfortable, bored and lonely, and compensating by drinking too much headache wine. This time, the conference was in Beijing, and the meal had been elevated to a banquet to be held at the Summer Palace. The local organizers wanted to make it a night to remember. And the Chinese certainly know how to put on a good show, being such great hosts. I tried not to think about it but the anxiety started stirring during the pre-dinner boat tour on the lake.

I put on my brave face as we made our way towards the entrance of the great hall. And then suddenly my jaw dropped. In front of us was a big board with a prominent sign, saying “Tables for Vegans and Vegetarians in room 3” with a big hand drawn -arrow pointing to the right. I stopped in my tracks and simply stared at the words; meanwhile, the rest of our party had walked into the large, pretty lit-up outdoors dining area in the middle of the palace. I waved at them but they did not see. Resigned to my destiny, I made my way to a deserted back room with tables covered in signs saying vegetarian. Talk about over-egging it. Luckily, Janet, my colleague – who is also vegetarian – helped me pick my humour up from the floor. I am used to being served last in set meal dinners but being segregated like this took the biscuit.

As we sat in the empty room watching the tables outside fill up with happy faces a flashback came to me. I was brought up as a vegetarian as a child. This was extremely rare at the time, especially in my neck of the woods, but my parents seemed to think it was perfectly normal. Trouble was the junior school I had just started, at the impressionable age of 7, had no concept of vegetarianism. And so it was agreed that I would take in each day a Tupperware container with some non-meat protein in it and hand it over to the cooks in the canteen.

It was in the days when dinner ladies served you. All the other kids got served first and I had to wait. By the time my plate was brought to me they had all finished. So all eyes at my table locked onto my plate as it was lowered down to me. There was a deadly hush as they all looked on aghast.

Floating in a thick brown sea of gravy were some cashew nuts. The cook had also given me a blob of mashed potato and some cabbage. I could not bear to look up again at all those saucer eyes. Desperately, I tried to push the cashew nuts into the potato, as if hiding them would make the horror go away. The next day the kids all followed my plate on its journey to the table with searchlight eyes. And it was not just those sitting at my table. Word had gotten around. The dinner lady looked kindly at me as she placed the dish in front of me. This time it was cottage cheese floating in a dark ocean of gravy. I just wanted to cry. I have repressed what happened next. And I don’t remember how long this ordeal went on for. I think possibly a few weeks until the school got the hang of making me a cheese salad.

In the end the banquet turned out to be a real hoot. As the room filled up with more vegetarians, who had also been plucked away from their friends, I was summoned to another room. Being one of the conference chairs meant I had to sit at the high table in the grand room, overlooking the stage. But this caused a bit of a commotion amongst the waiters – as the banquet was to be a long series of plates spun around on a lazy Susan (which just so happened to be the size of a football pitch). It would not work with vegetarians at the table. You could not mix and match dishes like that. And there was not enough space for more dishes. James, chief chair, would have none of this and came to our rescue. With his mighty authority, he ordered some extra dishes just for myself and Don – another co-chair who had also been pulled out of the vegetarian and vegan room.

Eventually, we all sat down and the Lazy Susan started to spin with fishes, chickens and other tasty looking morsels. Our veggies were going to be a while and so Don and I sat there looking on, gulping at our wine. The headwaiter kept coming over to us and saying “Prof, food coming”. Our fellow diners felt sorry for us and tried all of the dishes as they arrived to see if there were any we could eat.

There was no need to talk quietly to one’s nearest neighbour, as I had done last week at the stilted cheese dinner. People were yelling from all sides of the very large round table as the Lazy Susan was playfully spun clockwise and anti-clockwise to ensure we got some jellied bean curd and pickled walnuts.

Finally, our plates of greens arrived and we vegged out. Next morning, Don was grinning from ear to ear, tinged with green.

Breaking Buffet

Posted on 19/09/2011 by Yvonne Rogers

I like going downstairs first thing in the morning when staying in a hotel, anticipating a good buffet spread to start the day – even more so when suffering chronic jetlag. This time I had just arrived in Beijing for a conference that I was helping to organize.

I was not disappointed. The spanking new Holiday Inn had been kitted out with a very large food emporium. I wandered from station to station, examining the platters and opening up all the silver lids to peer in. Then I watched some of the Chinese fill their bowls with dumplings, spring onions and pickled fishes, topped by a token western pastry.

I turned to the last table that was discreetly placed to one side, and spotted the real McCoy – a set of local pukka dishes that looked very colourful and quite different from anything I had seen before. One was even labelled ‘grandmother drunk fish’! That tickled my fancy but I did not have the nerve to try it. Instead, I selected cornflakes, watermelon and a slice of brown bread.

Many years ago, M and I were staying at one of those posh Pousada’s in Portugal – a fine old castle that had been restored in splendid medieval style. The breakfast buffet was a work of art, voluptuously balanced like a Giotto still life. We piled our plates high with an assortment of fruits, cheeses, eggs and breads, savouring them with eyes closed. Mid-way through the feast M went back to get some more coffee. Trouble was he was enjoying the culinary delights so much that he over-zealously replaced the coffee jug on its heater base.

It made a mighty chrquesssrrrr bang and cracked wide open in spectacular fashion. The contents gushed forth all over the pristine white cloth that held the still life together. It continued to spread with its own volition – staining the front and sides of the buffet canvas, like a mudslide. M froze and gasped; he was understandably mortified.

We then both gulped at the enormity of the moment as the liquid snake continued its course to the floor; looked at each other like guilty children and stealthily left the dining room, red-faced and empty-handed.

Stilted Cheese

Posted on 17/09/2011 by Yvonne Rogers

I was invited to dinner as part of a celebration between my department and a well-known computer company for the select few – that followed an evening lecture given by one of their top guys and a drinks reception. We arrived late at an elegant french restaurant that had lots of cornered areas, filled with happy smiling faces, all bathed in a glowing, warm atmosphere. But instead of taking our places in this convivial painting we were escorted upstairs to the top floor to our very own private dining room.

Admittedly, it was beautifully decorated with tasteful artwork, candles, flowers, light and mirrors but it was quiet, bright and stark in comparison. Moreover, the room was dominated by a massive round table perfectly laid out for a party of 15. Someone had taken a huge amount of care arranging the napkins so that the understated menus were discreetly nested in them – ready to glance at without necessarily taking hold of. Nice touch, I thought.

I put my bag to to the side of the room and awkwardly stood behind a chair facing in – waiting for the signal from the boss to be able to sit down. After I sat down I looked around and saw you could see everyone’s face but you could only talk to your nearest neighbour. The table was too big to talk across to anyone else – shouting was not the order of the day. It was not a wedding reception. But strangely, one could vaguely make out what others were talking about even though you could not hear them. Well at least when they looked your way and you saw them talking in a certain way you knew they were talking about you. But as eye contact could not be made they did not know you were looking at them looking at you. A panoptic paradox.

So I spent most of the meal talking with the chap on my left. He was in the business of smart cities and coop-etition – a neologism that the computer, energy, architecture and infrastructure industries have all latched onto as they try to work together while still all trying to make money wiring and interconnecting us ever more into the 21st century.

The starters arrived and I had ordered melon soup. A brightly filled plate was placed in front of me, looking like a dessert – ice-cold, very sweet, bright pink, water-melon froth with a blob of lime green, basil ice-cream floating in the middle. I looked around the table and saw no one else had ordered it. Big mistake. Made worse by being reminded of the transformer colour combo sweets from my first day at the new job. It did not taste of the real thing and my head and stomach got very confused by having pudding first.

Time ticked on. It was creeping towards 11 when the true desserts were eaten and the coffees served. I looked up to my boss to let him know I wanted to leave in order to get the last train home but he was a million miles away on the other side of the table. So I had to get up, say my farewell to my dining companion, walk half the way around the room, and tap the boss on the shoulder to be excused.

A few months ago I was captivated by the formal stately dinner the queen was laying on for President Obama when he was over visiting – it was being televised live and I happened upon it while channel hopping. Not sure why I was so transfixed; maybe because it was live it made for compelling faux pas viewing. The tables, again, were beautifully laid out, but the guests were even more separated by individual fans of fine glassware and silverware.

Is it possible for formal dinners to be less stilted? Maybe the answer lies in the seating rather than the detail to plating. The one exception that I have enjoyed – is high table at King’s College, Cambridge where much merriment and laughter can be seen and heard filling the cavernous high ceilinged dining room. And there everyone dresses up and sits very closely together at one long wooden table – facilitating all sorts of kitty-corner conversations.

Flat Whites

Posted on 13/09/2011 by Yvonne Rogers

About 3 years ago I was in Melbourne at a conference. I met a longstanding friend of mine, Paul, for coffee at one of the many unassuming cafes near our hotel. He suavely asked for a flat white. I was rather puzzled having not heard of one before. So instead of asking for my usual cappuccino, I nodded and said meekly “the same”.

The coffee arrived at our table in lovely china cups (the staff bring it over to you instead of you standing awkwardly waiting until you hear your name barked). I took a sip and had a Proustian moment – transported momentarily back to living in France when I was first introduced to a certain Parisian café to discover the joy and sheer delight of a creamy smooth strong French coffee.

A year ago, the flat white arrived in the chain cafes in the UK. I ordered one in my local Costa and was pleasantly surprised at the care the barista went to in making a flower design on the top by deftly moving the metal jug, containing the perfect temperature, frothed milk, from left to right and up and down over the cup.

It reminded me of the playful shamrock bartenders sometimes add to the top of a pint of Guinness – if they like the look of you.

At my designated café on Tottenham Court Road they go one better. Each day they create a different pattern – sometimes lots of little flowers, other times swirls. You can see the intense concentration in their eyes as they finish with a final flourish. It is a magical moment.

Interactive Ingredients

Musings and reflections by Yvonne Rogers on technology in everyday life

Category Archives: Food