I have bid a temporary farewell to the ever delightful April and “Jesus, Sacha!”. It’s been a tiring, yet enjoyable week. We didn’t get to do as many things as I’d hoped – cheeky! – but part of that was down to jetlag and unfortunate weather.

As if compelled by a strange force of nature, April brought us a litre of Tanqueray gin. I finished the last of it this evening. Served over ice, with a squeeze of lime juice and Indian tonic water (not slimline, ever), this is one of the finest drinks known to mankind: refreshing; antimalarial; and hangover-free (in moderation).

Irksome beans
The tinned beans on offer at supermarkets are vile, expensive and not worthy purchase. I am referring to the vegan staple fartogenic borlotti beans, red kidney beans, cannellini beans, chick peas, etc, etc, etc. The only varieties on offer at Tesco, Asda, Sainsbury’s and Morrisons are undercooked, without salt, sans flavour. Why? Why do we have to be victims of the salt nazis? Even bread has no flavour any more because it is baked without sufficient salt.

I despise the health-freaks who impose their taste-free lives on the rest of us. So fucking what if your systematic review shows that reducing salt in pre-cooked produce by 80% reduces the risk of early mortality by 0.5% (0.3-0.8% CI)? Who gives a crap when it reduces enjoyment of what life we do have by 80% (75-100% CI)? Mongs.

And yes, I do realise that the previous paragraph exposes my lack of understanding of statistics and that, but the salt nazis more than make up for it by exposing their lack of understanding what things taste delicious.

My Tuscan bean soup won’t tolerate the inclusion of inferior ingredients. It simply cannot be eaten with the undercurrent of resentment induced by the incorporation of bullet-like, tasteless borlotti beans. Having reached the age of 44 (bon compliano to me, btw), I refuse to subject myself to this shit. Accordingly, I shall henceforth be boycotting beans of the precooked, tinned variety on offer at the supermarkets and be cooking my own, from the dried ones, that you buy in bags.

I love dried beans. You can buy half a kilo for less than a pound (sterling) and freeze them once cooked. Even more exciting is the fact that a lot of them contain highly toxic lectins that will actually kill you if you don’t soak and cook them properly prior to eating. I remember watching That’s Life! as a child and there being a campaign about kidney beans because people too stupid to soak and cook were actually dying. There’s this thing called natural selection…

Anyway, I’m sure that in a few years time, dried beans will be banned for one reason or another, but until they are, here’s how I love to prepare the poisonous little fuckers.

1. Rinse beans in cold water a couple of times and soak overnight in fresh water.
2. Rinse again, transfer to a bigger pan because they’ll have doubled in size, cover in fresh water, add bay leaves and a couple of cloves of garlic, bring to the boil.
3. Boil for ten minutes, ADDING AS MUCH SALT AS YOU LIKE half way through.
4. If using beans for a casserole, remove from heat after boiling and allow to cool.
5. If eating beans, simmer for ten to twenty minutes until soft.
6. The brilliant thing is that the beans can be frozen in batches. Just cover them in cooking liquor and freeze for future use.
7. That’s about six cans’ worth for £1, cooked properly and so very tasty.
8. So fuck off and die on fire, salt nazis.

Anyway, I now have three batches of borlotti beans in my freezer; the remaining batch went into my soup.

I have no idea why borlotti beans are called borlotti beans in cans, but pinto beans in their dried state.

Horeetho
Chorizo annoys me. Inappropriate, overuse of chorizo annoys me. You can’t move for this Spanish so-called sausage in supermarket deli aisles and sandwich shops. It isn’t even nice; the overpowering overtones of paprika are harsh and unpleasant. I simply cannot comprehend why shops and sandwich bars serve this doppelgänger of a pork product and not the beautiful, refined salamis from Italy.

Nothing can beat the combination of salami Napoli with an olive oil-dressed rocket sandwich, oo-la-la’d up by a few parmesan shavings. If you’re feeling a bit cheeky, substitute the Napoli with Coppa, Ventriciana, Finocchiona or Bresaola. For a thunderbolt of piccante, go for the full-on blast of a Calabrese. In each of these, the subtlety of flavours flow, sometimes followed by a hit of fennel seeds, other times, the warmth of chilli washes over you. Never though, are you hit in the mouth, face and nose by the simultaneous assault of paprika, chilli and pig.

Inappropriate absence of Chorizo is utterly inexcusable
While in York the other day, my search for a lovely cafe that, thanks to Google and Twitter, I know still exists was abandoned due to a raging headache, low progesterone, hypoglycaemia and the company of others. Desperate for food and painkillers, I suggested going to La Tasca for lunch.

Now, about, Jesus Tina! twenty years ago, La Tasca was an excellent tapas bar in Manchester, it then became a chain with outlets all over the place. Needless to say, after patronising the one in York, I’ll not be going back. I paid over £10 for paella, recalling the one that I’d had on my visit to the restaurant on Deansgate in 1995. It was bursting with authenticity, flavour and colour, overflowing with excellent ingredients, and even provided the entertainment of ripping the flesh from langoustines. The one in York was bland. It was lacking in even the basic flavours you would expect from the dish: there was no blast of saffron and where the dish isn’t the dish without the paprika-infused oil from the initial cooking of chorizo, there was not a sausage. Literally, there was not a sausage. How could they make a paella without starting off the dish by cooking chorizo? Where was the garlic?

It was dreadful.

I hate going to restaurants and knowing that I could cook what I’m eating so much better for a fraction of the price. The restaurant being part of a chain is absolutely no excuse. The fact of the matter is that I know I can’t cook a quarter pounder with cheese better than McDonald’s, so from now on, when I’m out and about, that’s where I’ll be going when I’m in need of a quick lunch that’s prepared to high standard without being eaten with an element of resentment and an unwelcome dollop of mayonnaise.