Eat My Globe

Chapter 7

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The Mercado de la Merced is in Avenida del Salvador, not theJ most salubrious part of town, and as I approached, I noticed that the surrounding streets were full of streetwalkers, their pimps and pushers. It was not in the slightest threatening, and I more alarmed the closer I came to the market, seeing that everyl street stall was now prominently displaying p.o.r.nographic DVI many of which were proudly announcing the involvement animals you could also probably buy at the market.

I was pleased when I finally hit the market proper and ducke into the main hall. Cristina was right: it was an astounding sight.1 Everywhere I looked, mounds of fruits and vegetables toweredj from floor to ceiling, butchers were displaying hundreds - no^ make that thousands - of carca.s.ses swinging from metal hook and the alleyways between the stalls had a constant flow of powerful-looking men pushing carts containing everything from churns of milk to cows" heads with their eyes still open; their tongues lolling from the sides of their mouths.

I walked around for two hours, taking well over a hundred! pictures, always asking "Puedo - may I?" first. I was never refused,In one stall, where a man was busy feeding corn masa into machine churning out hundreds of tortillas every minute, I wasinvited in to have a go myself I found it harder than it looked to] scoop the right amount from the dough and to keep the rhythnxof feeding the machine. As I left, they presented me with a packe of the tortilla I had helped make. I had nowhere to keep them.l so, as I left the market, I put them on a bus stop bench where I] hoped someone might put them to good use. Pimps and pushers j have to eat too.

Mexico City, as the capital, of course has representatives the cuisine of all of the country"s thirty-two states. I couldn"t try J them all, but Cristina had recommended one particular place, at the end of one of the lines on Mexico City"s efficient metro system to the National University.

Ricardo Muiioz, the chef at Azul y Oro, is the author of The Gastronomic Dictionary of Mexico and considered as one of the finest chefs in the country. I can see why. Azul y Oro is a simple, canteen-like restaurant with a short menu. Everything about the place showed the benefits of good ingredients and attention to detail.

I wanted to sample a mole, one of the most famous of Mexican dishes, from the Pueblo region. Cristina told me that Ricardo made some of the best, and I ordered mole negro con polio, asking for the version that came on the bone. Mole is made by slow-cooking a huge number of ingredients, including onions, chillies, peppers and, most famously of all, dark, bitter chocolate, which thickens the sauce and gives it depth. The version served at Azul y Oro was a revelation.

The chicken, while tasty enough, was just a vehicle for the sauce, glistening and black. It had layers of flavour I had never experienced before: heat, of course, but also smokiness, bitterness from the chocolate and sweetness from the onions. I scooped up every last bit with a wheat tortilla before, looking around to see no one was watching, picking the dish up and licking it clean - the perfect meal to end my time in Mexico.

Love Me Tender.

They say it"s an ill wind that blows no one any good, and, arriv ing in Buenos Aires, you understand what they mean. Just afi the Millennium the Argentine economy collapsed and the cu^ rency plummeted to a fraction of its former worth; it has still no recovered. It"s a horror for the locals, of course, but for the visitc it means that this elegant and sophisticated city can be enjoyedsa fraction of the former cost.

I discovered this soon after my arrival as I walked to the trend district of San Telmo in search of the one thing that comes instant to mind when one thinks of Argentina: big hunks of dead co The Argentines" obsession with beef mirrors my own. No countr in the world eats as much beef per head as they do, and the qualit of their steaks is rightly famous for its taste and texture.

I found my way to Desnivel, a local favourite, and at midday i was already buzzing with a mixed crowd of tourists and business men. The menu was short, and I chose a local morcilla, blc sausage, to begin with, followed by a bife de chorizo with batat - sweet potato crisps. A half-bottle of the local wine came, as : always, does in a pinguino, a small carafe shaped like a penguir The blood sausage was interesting, with a softer texture than any I had tried before and with a hint of spice, but it was the steak tha was an epiphany. I had tried Argentine steak before in Londoij and New York, where great store is set by flying it in vacuur packs to maintain the freshness. Here it was the real deal, served juicy and rare, the beef prepared fresh from slaughter rather that being allowed to age.

Xhe cut meant it was tougher than other steaks I had tried, but tenderness is a much overrated virtue. Too many people acclaim a steak for being "so tender you could cut it with a spoon". When was steak meant to be cut with a spoon? A good steak should not be as tough as old boots, but it needs you to put in as much work eating the flesh as the animal did building it. If you want soft food, go and eat an ice cream. This, suffice to say, was an excellent steak, the juices retained in the meat by the quick cooking on the searing grill. The bill, of about 4. for the whole meal, made it taste extra-sweet. As I said, it"s an ill wind.

My only contact in Buenos Aires was a man by the name of Fernando CwiHch Gil, whom I had met at the London Bar Show. Unfortunately, he was flying out of town, but he had managed to arrange for me to have supper with his uncle and aunt the next evening.

I woke up late and spent the day clearing my head with one of my marathon walks through Puerto Madero, the new port development, with its expensive restaurants and bars. There was little to attract me to any of them, and instead I followed a group of workmen obviously taking a lunch break and found myself alongside the main ca.n.a.l feeding into the port. There I spotted a row of vans selling Buenos Aires"s favourite street food, bondiola and choripan, which they were preparing on flaming grills. This was obviously where the men had been heading. I went for a bondiola and was presented with thick slices of beef in a crunchy roll, which I was invited to lace with chilli and chimichurri from small bowls on a table next to the van. The meat was even tougher than the previous day, but worth it, as each bite let out incredible flavour.

The effort required did rather exhaust me, and I needed little else to eat until that evening, when I joined Martin and Liljana Sanchez Gil at La Brigada, perhaps the most famous of the Buenos Aires parilladas, or steak restaurants, deep in the heart of San Telmo.

"I am sorry for the ridiculously early hour for supper", Martin said by way of introduction. "I wouldn"t normally even consid eating until lo p.m."

He explained that before my arrival they had already com mitted to attend a party and so had to fit in supper beforehand even though, as Martin bemoaned, eating at an hour niost Argentines would find shameful was going to play havoc with his digestion.

Martin took his meat incredibly seriously and, with very typical Latin American machismo, took control of the ordering without a glimpse of the menu. He summoned the waiter and began a long discussion about the cut of beef he wanted, exactly how long it should be cooked and what dishes were to proceed and accompany it. First, we were presented with a slab of melting provoleta cheese.

"You can tell how good a restaurant is going to be by the quality of its cheese", Martin said, wagging his finger at me to emphasize the point.

This was followed closely by some offal in the form of goat sweetbreads and chitterlings, fried to a beautiful crisp and sprinkled with salt. I was instructed to add five drops of lemon, no more and no less, to wake up the flavour before I was allowed to tuck in. Finally, the main event, the bife, a sizeable hunk, cut across the grain to give the most flavour. I tucked in, mentally marking it down as one of the great steaks I had tried. Martin chewed more slowly and with consideration, before looking up and saying, "Pa.s.sable".

As I said, Martin takes these things very seriously indeed. In Buenos Aires, if meat is important, then wine is almost more so. Martin, determinedly in charge, ordered a spectacular Malbec from the Salta region, whose spicy damson notes served to bring out all the flavours from the meat.

Martin and Liljana insisted on picking up the bill and then invited me to join them at the party. As we arrived, a local singer was setting up to perform, and for the next hour she sang her heart out. Which is just as well, as every song, as in Mexico, minutes ontained the words "mi corazon" at least once. In sixty l^e poor love had her heart stolen, stamped on, stabbed and broken in any number of painful ways. But she kept going back for more, so I guess it was her own fault. Martin and Ljilana appeared at my side and asked me if I wanted a lift home. It was 2 a.m. How the h.e.l.l did that happen?

I had a taxi booked barely ninety minutes later to take me to the airport for my flight to Brazil.

I had been in the city only a couple of days and had barely scratched the surface. I had not even begun to think of trips to places outside the city, such as Mendoza or Salta, because of my tight schedule. Argentina was yet another country I would have to revisit. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Eat My Globe could become a full-time job.

A Painful Brazilian.

My guesthouse in Salvador da Bahia was basic but beautiful, i blue tiled walls, s.p.a.cious rooms and wide balconies. It was a ^ come sight after a nightmare flight from Argentina, and, best < all,="" it="" was="" a="" few="" minutes"="" walk="" from="" the="" beach,="" the="" perfect="" choic="" for="" a="" few="" days="" of="" rest="" and="" relaxation,="" so="" necessary="" during="" a="" "="" like="" this.="" i="" changed="" into="" my="" fetching="" three-quarter-length="" shor="" and="" set="" out="" to="" explore,="" my="" backpack="" over="" my="">

"You are not going out with that bag are you?" a voice behind the reception admonished.

"Well, er, yes", I replied.

"I wouldn"t advise it", he added. "Just take enough cash dinner and keep your camera hidden. There have been a lot muggings recently."

Once I went outside, I could see what he meant. Fear bree paranoia, and I don"t consider myself a particularly nervous toi ist, but in Salvador I never really felt entirely safe. Not once: all my time there. I felt as though every eye was watching and every person was viewing me as a potential mark or victir It may have been unfair, but it was a feeling that never really le me.

It was great shame, as the beach area was indeed lovely: sand golden in the declining sun and the sh.o.r.efront lined with me selling coconuts from which they swiped the tops off" wit worrying-looking machetes before inserting a straw for you suck the chilled liquids inside. I dipped into a beach-front restaurant for supper, which consisted of deep-fried salt cod cakes, h meat, rice and chips washed down with a Brahma beer ^"d headed back to my hotel slightly dispirited about the thought *f spending the next five nights looking like a walking dollar sign-.

After a good night"s sleep, however, I decided I was going to make a better fist of it, starting with a superb breakfast, one of the selling points of the guesthouse: fresh fruits, soft, warm semolina cakes, guava juice, hot bread and strong tea. I felt better already and began to strike up a conversation with a young Chilean woman called Macarena, sitting at the table next to me. She told me that there was going to be a big party in the Pelourinho, the old town, that evening with bands playing, drum orchestras and lots of dancing. She did not want to go on her own, so, despite my own aversion to matters dance-related, I agreed to join her.

After breakfast I set out to explore the city, without bag, of course. I must have walked about ten miles, from the beach area through the new town and down to the Pelourinho, which I had been chatting about at breakfast. I disliked it intensely. The buildings were in an appalling state of repair, and the Pelourinho itself was a depressingly ugly tourist trap with a hustle on every corner. I fought my way through the street pedlars and hustling cab drivers to the Elevador Lacerda, a huge elevator that linked the top of the city with the lower part. At the bottom was a market where you were able to sit and watch young men from the local projects performing capoeira, a distinctive form of martial arts developed by slaves under the guise of native dance. It is hypnotic and impressive - as, indeed, was the ability of the men performing to prise money out of the bystanders.

Around the edges of the market were stalls selling acaraje, small b.a.l.l.s of black bean paste filled with peanuts or shrimp and deep-fried in dende, the local palm oil. I bought a small bag from one vendor, trying hard not to inhale the frankly noxious smells from the cooking oil. I took one bite and left the rest on the table next to where I was sitting for someone more desperate than me to eat.

It would be fair to say that up to this point Salvador had impressed me, and I was beginning to regret my choice of bo^^ Salvador and Brazil as a stop on the journey. The evening proved to be more fun. Not that the town itself ever held any great all for me, but that night, when I arrived to meet Macarena for the evening, I found that we had been joined by four others from the guesthouse. They were a good crowd and having far more fun Brazil than I was. Being with them lifted my spirits, and it was an enjoyable evening as we headed up to the old town and joined in the party. It was a h.e.l.l of an event, with live bands playing, drums sounding and deafening noise wherever you turned.

Soon after we arrived, our group was adopted by young local, Elton, who took us under his wing in the hope of getting a few dollars at the end of the evening for watching our backs. He was a good guy and led us to a large church in front of which a band was playing reggaeton, an irresistible combination of reggae and samba music. On the steps of the church a packed crowd was swaying rhythmically, and we fought our way through to a prime vantage point and joined them, even me, as we sucked down cans of cold beer we had bought from local vendors. As the clock struck midnight, Elton suggested that it was a good time to be heading back to the relatively safe enclave of the beach area and helped us all squeeze into a cab after we had gratefully pressed a few notes into his hand.

Having not had time to eat, all of us were starving and headed down to a seafront restaurant where we shared a moqueca, the large seafood stew made with chunks of fish, shrimp, coconut milk, peppers, tomatoes and lots of garlic. It came served in a traditional capixaba clay pot and bubbled away fiercely for minutes after it was placed in the table. We washed it down with far too many caipirinhas - lethal c.o.c.ktails of cachaca, Brazilian rum, lime juice and sugar - before staggering back to the guesthouse at around three in the morning.

I wish I could say that this evening of fun changed my view of Salvador, but it didn"t. It may have been the fact that I had no than three hours sleep each night, because my room turned """"to be Bed Bug Central, or it may have been that on one day I ^"d at least three people try to pick my pocket as I walked along the seafront in broad daylight.

Or it may have been the fact that, on the whole, the food was grim I may not have done it justice, but there appeared little to Jo justice to, and when it came time to leave Salvador, I did so willingly- I posted about my experiences on a food website and someone replied saying that, on their visit to Brazil, they felt like "fish food in a shark tank". I know exactly what they meant.

I had a layover in Sao Paulo before my flight to San Francisco. The airport was one of the ugliest I have had the misfortune to pa.s.s through, and as I slumped dejectedly on Big Red for the best part of twelve hours, I couldn"t help but think there were other countries out there I should have visited instead. When my plane finally took ofl", I leaned over my neighbour and gave Brazil a very recognizable hand signal through the window.

Giving Thanks in Santa Cruz.

The very first invitation I received when I posted about i planned trip on the internet was fiom a woman called Ta Butler, inviting me to join her and her extended family Thanksgiving in Santa Cruz, CaHfornia. I had no idea who i was, but reading her posts on the food websites, I smiled at wh I saw. They were very funny, painfully honest, and she shared i innate ability to p.i.s.s people off in cybers.p.a.ce, though that is i difficult in these virtual worlds where there are people who ; extraordinarily eager to find a reason to be p.i.s.sed off at someon they have never met and probably never will meet.

I wrote back saying I would be delighted to join her, and o the next six months we swapped regular e-mails, so by the tir I came to pick up my rental car and make the short drive froB San Francisco, where 1 had spent a couple of days recovering aft< brazil,="" i="" already="" knew="" i="" would="" like="">

I was wrong. I didn"t just like Tana: I adored her. Shar witted, funny, vulnerable, open-hearted, generous and spirited Tana is best described, in the nicest way possible, of course, being mad as a bag of ferrets. From the moment she walked int the lobby of my anonymous hotel and greeted me with the word "I hope you are feeling strong, honey, you have a 25 lb turkey tC carry" I knew that she had not been kidding when she promise me an eventful Thanksgiving in Santa Cruz. But then, Sant Cruz is perfect for people like Tana.

The west of just about every country attracts the oddb.a.l.l.s.l kooks, crazies, waifs and strays and people who just don"t fit anywhere else. It is certainly true in San Francisco and Los Angeles, and here in Santa Cruz it was gloriously and shamelessly nuts and fdled with the abundant energy that comes only from people who not only don"t care what people think about them uow but probably never did care in the first place.

The turkey was a big old b.u.g.g.e.r of a bird, putting to shame even the colossal ones that used to give their lives for the clan Majumdar"s Christmas festivities. Tana informed me that we would be having two of them and then began to reel off all the other dishes that were being prepared by her and her friends for the meal. I made a mental note not to bother with the free breakfast of multi-coloured cereal in a polystyrene bowl at my hotel as I heaved the turkey into the boot of her car and then climbed into the pa.s.senger seat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don"t think the turkey is going to cook in time," she wa "the oven isn"t working properly."

The oven was, of course, working properly, and the bird, looked like it was doing splendidly, turning to a glistenir bronze colour as it cooked. I did what any self-respecting ma would do in such a situation when there is so much to be done: ] opened a bottle of wine, poured myself a large gla.s.s, despite th fact it was barely ii a.m., and sat back in a comfortable chair t< p="">

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

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" I squealed in a high-pitche voice that would have troubled the neighbourhood dog "They"re the best bits." She did not look convinced but reprieve the innards from their garbage bin dungeon and put them on aplate for Bob and me to nibble on while she got everything ready to transport over to the location of our supper.

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

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

It was a uniquely Santa Cruz occasion. Everybody seemed to be related to everybody else in some labyrinthine way that I never quite got to the bottom of The women all referred to each other as "G.o.ddesses", without any hint of irony that I could detect, and at the end of the meal guitars appeared and people began to sing songs that I suspect were about b.u.t.terflies or saving whales.

Tana was entirely in her element, making sure that everyone had enough to eat and drink, taking photographs, punctuating conversations with that laugh of hers and, at the end of the evening, gathering a group to sing a gentle lullaby that sent Logan to sleep before Bob carried him out to the car for the trip home. In the middle of it all I sucked on the bone of a turkey wing and made a promise to myself that, if at all possible, I would return to Santa Cruz for Thanksgiving every year, even if they didn"t want me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

23.

Three Men and a Still.

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

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

I am getting ahead of myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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