With New Year’s resolutions long since shrugged off and cast aside like so much laundry hung on a treadmill, now is the time when we all start to panic at the prospect of fitting into our summer clothes, having lost none of the weight we so responsibly packed on to hibernate through the long, harsh winter. Some of us may still be able to taste a lingering air of sherry and Christmas cake in our mouths when we first wake up. It’s nothing to be ashamed of – festivities aren’t festive without plenty of good food and drink – but of course, most of us could do with a healthier lifestyle, especially as bikini season (or banana hammock season for the fellas) fast approaches.

And besides, as the weather changes, so do tastes – hearty, fattening winter fare like stews and sausages seem less and less appealing as the days grow longer and warmer. It’s a season of revival and newness, a season for lighter, livelier food, a perfect time to start eating more Malaysian cuisine.

A lot of Malaysian cuisine is based around fresh vegetables and seafood, and learning a few simple Malaysian recipes is a perfect way to utilise wonderful seasonal produce to make lighter meals. Take assam laksa: it uses fresh mackerel as its base, so it’s chock full of omega 3 and vitamin B12, and it makes good use of one of Britain’s most abundant, affordable fish. It’s a really lovely and satisfying supper for cool spring evenings – hot, but not heavy.

Some of Britain’s most delicious vegetables are coming into season, and Malaysian cooking is a perfect way to harness their bright, sweet flavours and nutritional value. Purple sprouting broccoli makes an amazing stir-fry, garnished with a few chillies, some garlic, and Malaysian seasonings like kicap manis, sambal, and belacan. Likewise, asparagus is a fantastic addition to a mee goreng, and Jersey Royal new potatoes are beautiful in a Malaysian curry – especially with some fresh prawns or mussels thrown in.

No discussion of spring produce is complete without a mention of lamb, and there are all kinds of lovely, healthy ways to prepare this wonderful meat using Malaysian ingredients and recipes. Rub a few lean lamb chops with belacan, kaffir lime leaves and a touch of chilli, then pop into the grill- this makes a simple but hugely flavourful dinner. Or why not make a lighter version of the classic lamb curry, kari kambing, by omitting much of the oil and replacing the coconut milk with yogurt.

Malaysian cooking typically uses an arsenal of pungent herbs, spices, and seafood to achieve strength and complexity of flavour, and so it doesn’t rely on animal fats and simple carbohydrates as much as a lot of Western cookery. With fresh British produce and a fully-stocked Malaysian larder at your disposal, you’ll be frolicking in skimpy swimwear with confidence by June (or maybe July). And the food is so good, you won’t even miss all the extra calories.

Cross posted on Malaysia Kitchen.

But there are ways to chase the February blues away. Jogging helps (when it’s not raining). So does beer. And of course there’s the Super Bowl, although I can understand it if not many of you are interested in staying up until 3 AM to watch a confusing sport often unfavorably compared to the far more popular rugby.

Call me a romantic, but my favorite way to break up the late winter doldrums is to celebrate Valentine’s Day. (Cue eye rolling.) I know, I know. It’s the sappiest of holidays, mostly advocated by greeting card companies and purveyors of cheap chocolates, and if you’re single it can make you want to commit suicide – or homicide. But hear me out.

Even for romantics, the rituals of Valentine’s Day can become a dreadful chore after so many years of chocolate, roses, and overpriced lobster dinners. It should be fun and exciting for couples, so why do we turn to the same old steakhouses and stuffy French restaurants year after year? Typical Valentine’s meals are heavy, overly formal, and criminally expensive – hardly moodmakers for an evening of love, if you get my meaning. A meal that’s truly romantic requires spice, color, a sense of excitement and a touch of the exotic – but by now, Indian and Thai have grown tiresome. It’s got to be Malaysian.

Anybody worth dating will find typical Malaysian aromas of kaffir lime leaf, lemongrass, chilli, and coconut irresistibly intoxicating, and these days, the UK boasts some truly atmospheric Malaysian restaurants. Up north, you can visit Norman Musa’s Ning in Manchester for a three-course Valentine’s feast of satay, curry puffs, whole fried sea bass, chicken curry, and light, tropical sorbets. In London, there’s Suka at the Sanderson Hotel, which boasts an authentic Malaysian menu served in one of the city’s most stylish venues.

Or better yet, you can impress your date by cooking a Malaysian feast yourself. Classic dishes are remarkably easy and very satisfying, and they fill your house with an incredible perfume. And remember not to skimp on the chilli – they’re an aphrodisiac. The pain signals your brain receives from chilli heat cause your body to release endorphins, resulting in a light, woozy buzz. My old college roommate and I used to challenge each other to do shots of Tabasco sauce for this very reason. Also, we were idiots.

If you’re single, I may have lost you already. But Valentine’s Day is a perfect opportunity to have some friends around, grab a few beers or a bottle of gin, avoid overbooked restaurants and nauseating cooing couples, and knock up some awesome rendang, laksa, or char kway teow. At the very least it will help provide an escape from the gloomy February climate. Which we all need, regardless of relationship status.

For recipes and restaurant info visit Malaysia Kitchen!

Note that these aren’t necessarily things that were opened/launched/published/forged from lava in 2011. Just things I experienced for the first time, or really came to appreciate last year.

Favorite beers!

Bristol Beer Factory Acer: There have been a lot of really delectable 4%-ish, hella hoppy golden ales released by British brewers in the past year, but this is my favorite, brewed with copious amounts of Sorachi Ace hops. Because of the weirdly complex nature of this Japanese varietal, and inevitable inconsistencies related to cask-conditioned beer, Acer is always a little bit different each time I have it – but it’s always bitingly bitter and thoroughly refreshing.

Mikkeller Nelson Sauvignon: I do hope we don’t see the last of this already rare brew, because it’s a jaw-dropper. Playing on the fruity aromatics of the Nelson Sauvin hop – so named because of its similarities to Sauvignon Blanc wines – Mikkeller has used champagne yeast and the wild fungus brettanomyces to produce even more vinous notes, then aged it in Austrian white wine barrels to drive the point home. The result is a real WTF of a beer that gleefully blurs the line between wine and beer. A few other beer geeks and I were left without words when we sampled it on a whim at BrewDog Camden.

BrewDog/Stone Bashah Highland Park and Black Raspberry Reserve: On paper, this collaboration between two of the most rambunctious breweries on the planet sounds like a train wreck, or at the very least, a “throw everything at the wall” type of ill-conceived experiment: a black IPA aged in whisky casks with copious amounts of berries. In actuality, it’s something far more than the sum of its parts, and unlike any other beer I’ve tasted, with fruity hops  and delicate tartness harmonizing beautifully with the richer, more mellow flavors of dark malts and whisky.

BrewDog Mr. Squirrel: I love this beer – and not just because I helped brew it. The game boys at BrewDog helped me put together this completely bonkers strong dark lager, made with 100% Sorachi Ace hops, four varieties of miso, and toasted walnuts. It turned out pretty much exactly how I’d hoped: lushly pork-friendly and multilayered with a full-on proteinaceous body, intense nuttiness, and a jab of salt and fragrant hops.

De Struise Pannepot: In November I went to Belgium, and it rekindled my love for Belgian beer. Pilgrimages to the Cantillon brewery and Delirium Cafe were almost too awesome for words, and completely by chance I found Westvleteren XII on the menu of a cafe. But none of the beer experiences I had were quite as marvelous as Pannepot, an offering as close to the Platonic ideal of a quadrupel as I think I’m ever going to find. It made Westvleteren taste like Leffe by comparison. This is one serious Belgian beer from a serious Belgian brewery.

Honorable mention goes to my collaborative smoked chilli weizenbock with Black Isle, Highland Smog; De Struise’s massively, dangerously complex imperial stout, Black Albert; Camden‘s Inner City Green and Summer Wine‘s Elbow, both hugely hoppy quaffers at under 4%; and just about anything from The Kernel and Marble.

Favorite restaurants!

The food at Racine never ceases to amaze me. I first visited three years ago, by chance – Laura and I wandered in because we were in the area and it has the same name as my hometown. But as soon as the first course arrived, I was enraptured by their deceptively complex French cooking – I say deceptively because dishes like their rabbit with mustard sauce, grouse with Armagnac, and chocolate terrine are presented in a straightforward, unassuming manner, but now that I know a bit more about classical French cookery, it’s obvious that these are really difficult, consummately skillful feats of cookery. I had the pleasure of meeting chef patron Henry Harris on my last visit there, and I couldn’t resist asking him how he makes one of his signature dishes: warm garlic and saffron mousse with mussels. I asked not only because that dish is one of the most magnificent things I’ve ever tasted (and easily one of my top five London dishes of all time), but because its intricacies seemed almost impossible to unravel. He answered with a justifiably annoyed shake of the head, followed by a coy smile and an explanation that was disconcertingly simple: the fundamentals of the dish aren’t hard to follow, but they are very hard to execute. And that’s what makes Racine special: every dish takes talent and practice, and it shows. And what’s more, they’ve got the service and the ambiance nailed, too – it’s one of the rare places you can go for both a romantic date or a pre-museum lunch with your hollering baby nephew and still have a lovely time.

More towards my end of the Piccadilly line, I’ve finally found a Korean restaurant that serves tteokbokki, pajeon, and bibimbap that taste just how I remember them from my trips to Seoul and Busan: Dotori. And it isn’t just the flavors that are authentic – it’s the prices, too. For some reason, Korean food in London has always struck me as unusually expensive; I don’t mind paying good money for good food, and I appreciate the economics of running an east Asian restaurant in London are a teensy bit different from running one in east Asia. But when it comes to to Korean, I just couldn’t shake memories of amazing meals eaten from anonymous street stalls for less than a fifth of what I typically have to pay here for a lower quality product. Dotori’s barbecue and banchan are excellent, and excellent value, and it’s nice knowing they’re only four tube stops away – actually, it’s nice knowing they exist at all.

In a similar vein, I’m a huge fan of Asakusa, which shines like a lighthouse in a sea of overly stylized, sexed-up, overblown and overpriced Japanese restaurants. Asakusa is an izakaya, and a proper one – the carpets are a weird red color, the walls plastered with handwritten menus and faded Japanese beer posters, and the food fantastic. Fancy it ain’t – you won’t find a foie gras roll here. But what you will find are Japanese pub classics cooked perfectly, things like karaage, soft shell crab tempura, dengaku nasu and grilled chicken skin. Healthy? Who cares? This is a place to relax and enjoy yourself with friends and family and a big bottle of Asahi.

If I love Racine, Dotori, and Asakusa for their straightforward authenticity, I love Spuntino because it’s the complete antithesis of it. Spuntino is neither here nor there; on the surface, it’s a meticulous pastiche of a Lower East Side cafe/diner, but the menu reads more like a mashup of arty American and northern Italian with flashes of modern British. Chilli popcorn and a remixed PBJ dessert bookend meals that may consist of chickpeas with squid and ink alongside sliders made with spiced mackerel or bone marrow-studded beef, all washed down with black filter coffee or classic cocktails – or are they classic? Maybe not, but they feel like it. It goes without saying that the food is delicious, but more importantly, it’s joyful and creative, made with an obvious love for its sources of inspiration, but also a willful irreverence that few restaurants have the confidence to pull off.

The Sweet Fanboy Vindication Award goes to The Fat Duck.

The Best Budget Cheeseburger in London Award goes to BrewDog Camden. (Burger Anarchy‘s words, not mine!)

The Style Over Substance (But the Substance is Pretty Damn Good) Award goes to Bob Bob Ricard.

The It’s Not Really a Restaurant, But It’s Still the Best Restaurant In Scotland Award goes to Yatai.

And the Better Than Tayyabs Award goes to Mirch Masala (try the fried fish – it’s the new lamb chop).

Favorite things to read!

I’ve written enough words now. Go read someone else’s!

Ideas in Food: Inspirational modernist cuisine from two of America’s most adventurous cooks.

The Fat Duck Cookbook: Dense, uncompromising, and endlessly useful.

Jonathan Gold: Still the best restaurant critic in the world. Don’t believe me? Just ask the Pulitzer Prize committee.

Cooking Issues: Advanced yet accessible experiments in food science.

Harold McGee on Food and Cooking: If you’ve ever asked yourself “why?” in the kitchen, this book probably has the answer.

For years, I feel like the London food scene has been dominated by this idea that all good food is fine dining, and if it’s not fine dining it isn’t good food (unless it’s home cooked, but that’s different). In 2011 we saw that notion completely inverted, as fine dining took to the streets and lowbrow food worked its way into highbrow contexts. Diners seem to be less uptight these days, and more casual, honest, and adventurous in what they spend their money on. Beer is cheaper, more food-friendly, and more diverse than wine; there’s more to China than dim sum and duck; fusion cooking works when it’s inspired by flavor, not forced by concept; burgers don’t have to be “gourmet” to be good; great barbecue requires as much thought, practice, and care as French haute cuisine. These are all important lessons we collectively learned last year, lessons that New Yorkers and Angelenos learned many years ago. I’m not trying to be snobby or patriotic; there are obviously great things about British food culture that Americans would be wise to take on board. But I do think that until quite recently, most major cities in the US have been more exciting and more diverse food destinations than those in the UK. And I think the UK has taken note of that.

Not convinced? I submit a few more thoughts for your consideration:

• In April, an American won the MasterChef title by serving burgers as a starter. (It was me.)
• There is now a restaurant in London called Burger and Lobster. Burger and Lobster! And that’s all they serve! That sounds like Maine, not Mayfair.
• My completely average corner shop here in Bounds Green sells Sam Adams, Morrisons stocks Sierra Nevada, and Tesco carries Goose Island.
• Ramen is finally coming to the capital.

This last point is important. Ramen’s obviously not American, it’s Japanese, but it isn’t entry-level Japanese. For many people in both the US and the UK, sushi is the first Japanese dish we try, and the first one we come to love. The whole sushi phenomenon is a little bit vexing to me because it’s based on a frustrating contradiction: it seems exotic and sophisticated on paper, but more often than not, it tastes completely inoffensive and bland. Let me just clarify that good sushi is one of the most beautiful dishes in the world; if made with fresh, seasonal seafood and expertly prepared rice, it can be absolutely exuberant with flavor and texture. But for every Yatai there are a hundred outlets of Yo! Sushi or supermarket shelves hawking insipid pre-fab maki that tastes like nothing but rice. And poorly cooked rice, at that.

Because sushi so frequently lacks any flavor at all, it lacks flavors that may be unappealing or challenging. But for that reason, and because it’s fun to eat (even crappy sushi looks pretty and colorful), it’s a good gateway to more interesting Japanese cuisine. We come for the sushi, but we stay for the tempura, the pickles, or the gyoza (and we may even discover good sushi). We graduate from sushi and branch out into other kinds of washoku like okonomiyaki and yakitori. And then there’s ramen. Glorious, wonderful ramen.

If sushi is too often style over substance, then ramen is the opposite. Ramen is unrefined and rough; it isn’t delicate, healthy, or even particularly exotic; but what it lacks in terms of image it more than compensates for with soul. Ramen is one of Japan’s most rich and flavorsome foods, and also one of its most individualistic; whereas soba and udon are considered more traditionally “Japanese” and therefore subject to more rigid strictures, ramen is open to variation because it’s often thought of as not quite 100% Japanese. (Its roots are Chinese, and it’s occasionally still called “Chinese soba.”) Different regions boast different types of ramen, and within those regions, different shops sell endless permutations of that type. The question of which region and which shop makes the best ramen is hotly debated, with loyalties typically divided along prefectural borders.

In New York and Los Angeles, ramen has come to attract the same kind of devotion as it does in its native Japan. It started as an unsung staple among Japanese Americans (and dedicated Japanophiles), but soon caught the attention of the local press, and then the foodie community at large. With outposts like Momofuku injecting a dosage of modern coolness into an otherwise humble food, ramen has gone bourgeois, and it’s now as ubiquitous and essential an American urban food item as the taco or the hot dog. Of course, London has never had a very large Japanese community, so Japanese food has been slower to take off here than, say, Chinese or Indian. But by now we’ve all crossed the sushi bridge, and we’ve arrived in noodle country.

It’s not that ramen didn’t exist in London until now – it’s just that nobody cared, not even the restaurants that sold it. There are a few dedicated ramen shops in Soho that churn out indifferent and totally mediocre soup, while the best ramen in the city has been shrouded behind a speakeasy-like veil of secrecy. Cocoro, Nagomi, and Roka all serve mighty fine ramen, but up until recently, none of them listed it on their menu. To be fair, Cocoro and Nagomi advertise in Japanese-language magazines and newspapers, which is how I found them. I think they just assumed non-Japanese folks weren’t interested, but I always figured that if a restaurant were to serve good ramen and put a little marketing behind it, the foodies would come flocking. And that’s exactly what’s happened with the ramen events held by Tsuru Sushi. So far they’ve generated quite a lot of buzz around their three previous ramen lunches, all of which sold out and received universally positive, sometimes gushing reviews from those in attendance.

When I first discovered Tsuru Ramen on Twitter, my eyes widened and I got goosebumps. It’s happening, I thought. I got a similar feeling when I first discovered Daikokuya in LA back in 2004, but this is exciting on two levels. I was happy that good ramen might become easier to find in London, but it also validated my hunch that there is a general ramen void that needs to be filled. I’ve been planning to open a ramen-centric izakaya since winning MasterChef, and the rousing success of the Tsuru Ramen events seems to be a good sign that the time is right for it. It is possible that ramen may be just a fad – but that’s what they said about sushi.

At any rate, the arrival of ramen, burgers, beer, and highbrow/lowbrow shuffling all makes me feel very at home; I guess it seems like Americanization because to me, it seems like America. London has always been a good place to eat out, but it’s just now becoming a fun place to eat out, and it’s going to be awesome to see what happens in 2012 – and to be a part of it myself.

It’s safe to say that last year was one of the strangest and most awesome I’ve yet to live through.

I started off managing the Euston Tap, yet another job I wasn’t really qualified for but somehow managed to get with relative ease. It started with 80-hour working weeks, scrambling to organize an operation with problems ranging from rude staff to raw sewage, but after a few months we got to a point where I could work only 50 hours a week and I was really starting to enjoy myself. It was never an easy job and it wasn’t one I would have stuck with for long, but I took pride in it, and in the end it was the only full-time job I’d ever really liked. That’s partly down to a very large supporting cast of hilarious and big-hearted characters, both behind the bar and in front of it, and to regular episodes of outlandish comedy and grim tragedy. (On two occasions I had to dig shit out of the toilets by hand, which at the time was decidedly the latter, but in hindsight seems more like the former.) I always felt that the Euston Tap would make an awesome setting for a ridiculous reality show. They could call it The Only Way Is Euston.

Of course, when the MasterChef final aired I was more than ready to move on. Ready, but not at all prepared. As far as career changes go, winning a game show and being thrust into the national spotlight, if only for a moment, is a hell of a way to do it. It was abrupt, immediate, and dramatic. Because of the conflict created by being known for my culinary skill despite having no real experience of professional cooking, there has been the odd rough spot: pop-ups with inconsistent food and service, or demos and classes that were too convoluted to follow. But I’ve learned from my mistakes, and as my kung fu instructor says, you can’t learn to cook rice by talking about it. You’ve just got to do it.

My life has been pretty exciting and chaotic ever since I left Wisconsin, but what followed MasterChef has probably been the most exciting and chaotic eight months of my life. When I heard that I would be going to work at the Fat Duck, I felt a sort of thrill I haven’t felt in years – it was a childlike giddiness, the way you feel on Christmas Eve when you think you might be getting Legos. The two weeks there were incredibly enlightening and educational, difficult but at the same time surprisingly fun. I was also invited to brew my own beer at the Black Isle Brewery and BrewDog; this would have been a dream come true at just about any brewery, but these guys gave me a huge amount of creative control and treated me like a real guest rather than a marketing tool (even if that’s what I was). We made some awesome beers that I’m very proud of, and I developed some lasting professional and personal relationships with them.

There have been big projects like campaigns for Malaysia Kitchen, KitchenAid, and Oral-B, and smaller gigs, like speaking at the Japanese Embassy and Unilever, cooking for Trevor Sorbie, and testing microwaves on the Gadget Show that have all kept me quite happily busy. There is always the fear that the offers may start to slow as my 15 minutes count down to zero. But even when they do, that will be a fine opportunity for me to focus on much bigger projects, like a book or a restaurant – which is already in the works.

Despite warnings from successful restaurateurs – who pretty much universally tell me not to open a restaurant – I still want to open a restaurant. That’s the dream, and I feel like now is the time to do it. Professionally, I’m still well unprepared and inexperienced. But I fear I may always feel like that, so I may as well just close my eyes and jump. Conan O’Brien said something in his interview on Marc Maron’s podcast that really spoke to me:

Get yourself into situations where you don’t have a choice. I really think that’s the definition of accomplishing a lot of things in this life. I have some part of me – because I’m not a brave person, I don’t think of myself as someone who has a lot of guts – but I will get myself into situations where the house is on fire and there’s only one way out, which is through the front door. And then people later on give you credit for going through the front door, and well, there was really no where else to go… the only way out is to survive it. If I had been taken off the air after six months, I would just become a Trivial Pursuit question.

I’m also not a brave person. I’m not very assertive or confident, but one thing I’ve learned about myself through MasterChef and everything that’s come after it – and this is probably true of most people – is that I can do things that I never thought I could do if I have no choice but to do them. I said before that it was awkward to be asked to run kitchens or cooking classes without any experience, and that I was unqualified for my job at the Euston Tap; I wasn’t just being self-deprecating. I really had no practical knowledge of how to run a pub except for a fairly good knowledge of craft beer. When I started, I had never changed a keg; I didn’t know how to condition ale; I had never cashed up, made rotas, or ordered supplies; and I faltered. I made mistakes and I struggled, but I had bosses, co-workers, and customers that were counting on me, and so I had no choice. I had to, as they say, shape up or ship out.

And that’s how I feel about opening a restaurant. It just has to be done. And I think it has to be done sooner rather than later because now is such an exciting time to eat out in London, and I think that my restaurant will fit in nicely with current food trends while also filling a long-standing void. I’ll speak more on that in my next post.

The Perfect Steak

serves 1

aged sirloin steak, 300-500g (3-5 cm thick)
smoked sea salt
black pepper
vegetable oil

The perfect steak has to start with really high-quality meat. It won’t be cheap, but then steak is not an everyday food. In general, you should look for breed known for complexity of flavor, such as Aberdeen Angus, Longhorn, or if you’re really feeling flush, Wagyu. But even among meat from the same breed, not all steaks are equal – different diets produce different results, and of course aged beef will taste different (many would say better) than beef from a freshly slaughtered cow. Look for meat that’s well-marbled; it should have little ripples of fat integrated with the muscle fibers. Whether or not to go with aged beef is a matter of personal preference, but there are certain benefits to beef that’s been hung for a few weeks. As the meat ages, it dries out slightly, which concentrates its flavor. As the cow’s cells break down, they release enzymes that start breaking down other molecules into smaller ones, producing new, intense flavors, and degrading proteins that cause toughness in the finished steak. Aged meat turns dark and dry along the exposed surface; this part of the beef can be chewy and can harbor harmful microbes, so your butcher should trim it off before portioning your steaks.

If you take a highly precise, scientific approach to cooking the steak, it becomes a prohibitively complicated endeavor. The food chemist Harold McGee dedicates no less than 17 pages to cooking meat in his encyclopedia of kitchen science, and his conclusion is still to use your intuition and senses when cooking a steak to perfection. “Cookbooks are full of formulas for obtaining a given doneness, but these are at best rough approximations. The best instruments for monitoring the doneness of meat,” he writes, “remain the cook’s eye and finger.” There are so many variables in cooking steak – pan temperature, thickness, cut, fat content, age, etc. – and trying to monitor and account for all of them is practically impossible. It is best to stick to a few rules of thumb, but always bear in mind that they may not always yield exactly the same results. You have to trust your instincts, and remember: if meat is undercooked, you can always cook it longer, but overcooking is irrevocable. Always err on the side of rare.

Start with a frying pan with a good, solid base that distributes heat evenly. Blast it with heat on your strongest burner; let it sit on the heat for at least 5 minutes to get really screaming hot. The high heat will ensure the steak develops a gloriously flavorful, toothsome brown crust. You should start with a steak at room temperature, but if you’ve forgotten to take it out of the fridge ahead of time, don’t worry. Just remember that it will take a little bit longer for it to cook through. Rub the steak all over with generous amounts of smoked sea salt, freshly ground black pepper, and a neutral vegetable oil (I use rapeseed). The smoked sea salt is optional, but I find it lends a pleasant barbecue-ish flavor. Now it is time to cook.

For a sirloin, start the cooking by laying it in the pan on the edge with the thick band of fat. Fat does not conduct heat as well as meat, so the meat along this band will take a little longer to cook. Cooking the fat first also renders off dripping, which will help lubricate and flavor the rest of the steak. After the fatty edge has cooked for 1 minute, turn it onto its side. In general, for a medium rare steak, cook for 1 minute plus 1 minute per centimeter of thickness per side. So if your steak is 3 cm thick, it will be in the pan for 7 minutes; if it’s 5 cm thick, 11 minutes. For medium, add a minute; for medium well, another minute, and so on. Turn the steak frequently; if you leave the steak for too long on each side, the intense heat will cause it to overcook along the edge, so instead of a consistently medium rare steak you get a steak that’s medium rare in the middle but well-done on the outside. I turn my steaks every 30 seconds, although some chefs turn every 15 seconds. If you’ve got a really thick steak, it’s best to cook it in the oven and then just finish it in the pan to develop a crust.

When the steak is finished, take it out of the pan and give it a squeeze with your fingers. There’s a test you can do which is not tremendously accurate, but it’s still one of the best ways to gauge doneness. Hold your hand out with the palm facing you and let it hang limp. Feel the inner heel of your thumb (the big fleshy bit inside your palm). This is approximately the same feeling you get from poking meat that’s raw or cooked blue. Now pinch your thumb and index finger together, but don’t squeeze. The heel of your thumb now feels like a rare steak. Thumb to middle finger is medium rare; thumb to ring finger is medium well; and thumb to pinky is well done. If your steak feels like this, abandon all hope. You’ve ruined dinner.

Finally, an important but often overlooked step: resting. The muscle fibers in meat constrict when they’re hot, forcing moisture out like a sponge being squeezed. If you cut the meat before the meat has cooled slightly, you’ll lose precious juice. Rest your steak for at least half the cooking time before serving.

And there you have it: the perfect steak. Serve it with whatever you like, but don’t obscure the beef’s flavors with overpowering sauces; you paid for it and no doubt fretted over it, so you’ll want to taste it! Some nice, buttery mash and maybe a little horseradish are all you’ll need.

I love British food and the UK food scene in general, but I must say street food is something I’ve sorely missed since I moved here three years ago. Ever since my college days in Los Angeles, I’ve lived off street food. Back then it was tacos, burritos, and quesadillas sold out of trucks, on perfectly breezy nights both sober and less so. The issue of which taco truck was the best on the boulevard was debated with passion and jingoistic loyalty. We loved our trucks, so much so that we thought nothing of waiting nearly an hour to get our food and didn’t mind that snarky Beverly Hills types ignorantly referred to them as “roach coaches.”

When I moved to Japan, I lived in Fukuoka, which is on the island of Kyushu, Japan’s dirty south. Aside from murderous late summer humidity and the occasional typhoon, the weather on Kyushu is warmer and more conducive to outdoor eating than other parts of the country, and so I took many of my evening meals at yatai, the red-lanterned street stalls that lit up the backstreets and banksides of Fukuoka city. Hearty pork ramen and gyoza dumplings, or simply grilled meat on a stick were the perfect pick-me-ups before or after a big night out.

And of course, all my travels around east Asia were fuelled by street food. In South Korea, it was spicy rice cakes, blood sausage, and waffles; in Hong Kong, stinky tofu and tea-stained eggs; in Taiwan, beef noodles and dumplings; and in Burma, there was grilled squid, fried chicken, and samosas. If memory serves me correctly, on my first trip to Thailand I don’t think I had a single meal within four walls; everything I ate came from a stall, a cart, a truck, a bicycle, or just a basket balanced on someone’s head. And I ate well – very, very well. The only reason I deviated from the street food path on my second trip to Thailand was because I was a travel agent, and I was forced to evaluate hotel restaurants. Dreadfully boring, that.

In 6 years of travelling and eating, I’d developed a love and appreciation for the food of the street, so I was dismayed to discover that such a culture doesn’t really exist here in Britain. The basic units for casual, inexpensive eating in Britain are the pub, the cafe, and the home – all of which I love, but they don’t replace the experience of a hot meal enjoyed in the air of a cool night. But then that’s just the problem – British nights (and days) aren’t really cool, they’re downright cold, even in the summertime. Couple the weather issue with a beloved pub culture that dates back for centuries, and it’s not surprising that street food never really took off here.

That is, until now.

The recession, while in many ways tragic and dispiriting, has had in my opinion a positive impact on the way people dine out in the UK. Increasingly, people want value for money, so we’ve seen a thrilling boom of eateries that are unique and delicious, but still affordable, with the creativity and skill of fine dining applied to casual scenarios. In 2011 counter service trumped table service as the country devoured exciting and exotic food at prices that make eating out a day-to-day activity. And at the center of this activity was an exaltation of street food.

But what of the weather? The British have always been admirably defiant in the face of terrible weather, almost going so far as to celebrate it. And while a cold and damp climate may not seem suitable for dining out doors, there may be no better context for enjoying something hot, spicy, and aromatic. Malaysian food fits the bill perfectly – when we took to the streets with the Malaysia Kitchen Street Food Tour truck in late November, it was a joy to see how our nasi goreng, chicken satay, and char kway teow brought visible warmth to the cheeks of all who tried them.

London, Nottingham, and Manchester are a world away from Kuala Lumpur, Melaka, and Sandakan, but that may be precisely why our Malaysian street food went down such a treat. Who couldn’t use a little exotic escapism during these bitter winter months? With its lively aromats, sweet sauces, and fiery chillies, Malaysian cooking can transport you, if only for an instant, to a more equatorial state of mind. Yes, we had the occasional confused shopper trying to order burgers. But after one bite of our food, their faces lit up – the thought of burgers vanished, and all they wanted was more Malaysian food.

Luckily, you don’t have to wait for the Malaysia Kitchen truck to roll into your town to get your spicy street food fix, because these days there are more Malaysian restaurants in the UK than you may realize. To find the Malaysian restaurant nearest to you, visit the Restaurant Finder at MalaysiaKitchen.co.uk. And if there isn’t a restaurant nearby, don’t forget that Malaysian food is easy to cook at home, and the right ingredients are readily available on the internet!

What do you do on a Friday night? Maybe you relax at home with a takeaway (there’s no shame in that), watch a movie and generally zonk out. Or maybe you hit the pub, the one roughly halfway between your office and the train station, and stay there for a few hours until somebody suggests you all go to Pizza Express or something. Or maybe you go to the cinema, which can so often be a surprisingly stressful ordeal, what with all the monstrously overpriced snacks, 20 minutes of advertising, and the inevitable person who persists in talking throughout the film. (Or maybe you are that person, in which case: shame on you!)

We go out on Friday night to relax and have fun, and yet so regularly we end up doing things that are neither relaxing nor particularly fun. One of the best Friday nights I’ve had in recent memory was Malaysia Night, a massive takeover of Trafalgar Square in celebration of all things Malaysian. To my knowledge, there’s nothing quite like it in London, and it was amazing to walk around the square and experience the palpable happiness and pride exuded by the exhibitors, vendors, and visitors alike. Traditional dance, arts and crafts, and travel info were all on colorful, enthusiastic display, but of course, I came for the food.

And what food it was. More than 20 Malaysian restaurants had set up shop, which was great to see, because in honesty I didn’t even know there were that many Malaysian restaurants in London! It opened my eyes to a whole new food culture on my doorstep that I hardly knew existed. I am not ashamed to say I stuffed my face, which I have a tendency to do when surrounded by delicious food. First up was rendang with roti canai from Pelangi – incredibly tender beef, braised for hours in a sauce of coconut, lemongrass, and ginger, served with traditional flatbread. Succulent and aromatic, it’s no wonder this is considered one of Malaysia’s national dishes.

Next, I sampled some specialities of the Terengganu region, keropok, a delicious sort of fish sausage, and some fish crackers which were absolutely amazing. Imagine prawn crackers made with mackerel and less grease; they’re exceptionally moreish and make a great snack or accompaniment to a variety of other dishes. I then moved on to the Tukdin stall, where I devoured a few of their delectable curry puffs: flaky pastries concealing a lush, satisfying potato curry, like a sort of refined Malaysian pasty. The kind of food I could happily eat several times a week, simple yet undeniably tasty.

As my internal fuel gage approached full, I settled on a final dish, sambal sotong from Delima: tender chunks of cuttlefish smothered in a brick-red, fiery hot sauce. It was so good I greedily snarfed the entire plate, even though I was full to the point of discomfort.

Like I usually do at good food festivals, I was disappointed with myself for getting too full to carry on eating, because there was so much more I wanted to try. But I left with an understanding of the British Malaysian food scene that I didn’t have before; the sheer amount of restaurants there excited me, and the the food was revelatory. With so much good food available, there’s no need (and no excuse) to settle for bland, boring, and safe! I am determined to shake up my Friday night routine every now and then with a visit to my local Malaysian. Malaysia Night comes just once a year, but with so many great Malaysian restaurants around, there’s no reason every night can’t be Malaysia Night.

Fancy a Malaysia night in? Don’t forget that Malaysian food is cheap and easy to make at home! See my first Malaysia Kitchen blog for more info.

Whenever I travel to a new country, I make a point to visit at least one grocery store while I’m there. They’re like living museums; collections of objects that comprise and nourish a culture. I generally find them more interesting and exciting than the arts and antiquities found in actual museums, which belong to distant epochs and echelons, and may be fascinating in some abstract sense, but don’t give me any immediate understanding of the people around me. Plus, in grocery stores you can buy, cook, and eat the exhibits – how awesome is that?

One of the great things about living in London is that this experience is just a quick train ride away. To paraphrase Dr. Johnson’s famous words, when you’re tired of London, you’re tired of food, for there seems to be no limit to the sheer variety of food and food shops to be found here. But I’ve done my time walking the beaten paths down the aisles of Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Bangladeshi, Scandinavian, and Polish supermarkets. It was time for something new, something different: Malaysian food.

Unfortunately there is no dedicated Malaysian grocer in London, but Five Crops in Charlton is the next best thing. An emporium of east and southeast Asian ingredients, they have a large section of Malaysian larder staples. I was charitably shown around by Ben, a veteran manager who clearly knew the fundamentals of Malaysian cooking. I had a shopping list of things I thought I’d need to make some killer Malaysian food of my own, but for the most part I just followed his expert advice. The first items into my basket were:
– kicap lemak manis: thick, sweet soy sauce
– kicap lemak masin: light, salty soy sauce
– sambal: a paste made from chilli, onions, garlic, fish, prawns, and tamarind
– belacan: a crumbly brick of dried, salted shrimp

Together, these four ingredients will form the foundation to a wide variety of Malaysian dishes; in concert they add sweetness, saltiness, heat, and savoury depth, and their applications go beyond traditional Malaysian preparations. I am particularly enamoured with sambal and belacan, the former for its intensity and complex sweet, sour, and spicy character and the latter for its pungent, fishy aroma and concentrated flavour. You only need a teaspoonful to season an entire pan full of food, and it works wonders for stocks in need of a little extra something. I think of it, in a way, as the prawn equivalent of Bovril (though I’m not sure how it would taste stirred into hot milk).

I had my foundation. Now it was time to start building. I stocked up on both white jasmine rice and black glutinous rice, as these provide the bulk of so many Malaysian dishes, both savoury and sweet. I got a packet of ikan bilis, adorable little dried fish that provide flavour and crunch to the national rice dish, nasi lemak. I also bought Malaysian sweet chilli paste, which is smoother and tangier than the versions from nearby countries, as well as tamarind paste. Preparing fresh tamarind is an arduous process, Ben explained, involving much washing, boiling, peeling, grinding, and straining, so the pre-made paste is what most people keep in their homes. It has a sourness unlike citrus or vinegar, somewhat like green apples but richer, with a slight brown sugar-like sweetness to it. And because it’s a paste and not a liquid, it can help thicken sauces and glazes. Another awesome ingredient to have on hand, even if you’re not making Malaysian food.

Finally I filled my basket with various aromats: curry powders for fish and meat, a packet of spices used in the Malaysian pork hotpot bak kut teh, kaffir lime leaves, lemongrass, galangal, and ginger. I was well on my way to making my own terrifically fresh and delicious Malaysian meals.

But there was one last thing. In my travels around southeast Asia I encountered one particularly controversial item, known to cause many first-time tasters to retch, but reverently dubbed “the king of fruits” by its many dedicated fans. Banned on Malaysian public transport for its unusual (okay, nauseating) smell but also adored for its rich, creamy flesh and complex flavour, durian is perhaps one of the weirdest foods on earth. When I first tried it five years ago, I didn’t like it. But knowing how much others do like it, I couldn’t escape from the thought that the problem is not with durian, it’s with me and my own tastes. I was determined to make a durian dish that wouldn’t disguise its flavour but harness it and perfume it and make it taste delicious to people who profess to hate it, like me.

At Five Crops they had a stack of big, beautiful durians, and Ben showed me how to choose one. (And how to handle them – their spikes can draw blood!) By pinching two adjacent spikes together, you can gauge a durian’s ripeness – no give and it is not quite ripe; if they bend slightly towards each other, ripe; and if you can touch their tips together, very ripe, and very stinky! Another way to test ripeness is to fiddle with the stem; if it’s flexible at the base, the durian is ready. I chose a very ripe one, and Ben then showed me how to open it. Holding it with gloves or a thick tea towel, find the natural seams where the spikes come together. They look like little valleys in mountainous terrain. Cut through the seams with a sharp knife, and pull the durian apart.

So there I had it. My very own durian, and a boxful of amazing new ingredients to play and experiment with. I could hardly wait to get home, get tasting, and get cooking – and that’s exactly what I did.

Visit Malaysia Kitchen for more info!

First and foremost: cooking. I will be working as a stagiaire in some of the country’s best restaurants, the names of which I cannot reveal, but rest assured they are led by some of my culinary idols. They are unpaid gigs, and I’m sure I will be on the very bottom rung of the kitchen ladder, but to have opportunities like these is a real dream come true and I am beside myself with excitement. I’m also scared out of my mind.

Additionally, I will be establishing myself as a caterer and consultant for private and corporate events. I’m doing a few parties and pop-ups in the near future, but the catering business won’t really get going until the end of the summer, when I’ve finished most of my stages and have more time to focus on setting it up properly. I intend for this to be my bread and butter for the next year, so I want to do it right.

Meanwhile, I am appearing in the MasterChef Experience at the Good Food Show in Birmingham, this June 15-19, along with my contemporaries Tom and Sara, as well as John, Gregg, Dhruv, Mat, and other MC alumni. Stop by to watch us cook and say hello!

At the end of June I’ll be heading up to Scotland to do something I’ve always wanted to do: brewing. And I’m going to go nuts with it. I’ll be spending three days with BrewDog producing one of the most insane lagers the world has ever seen, then cooking a beer dinner at their restaurant Musa in Aberdeen (details to follow). After that I’m trucking up to Black Isle Brewery to make another properly bonkers beer, and I have been discussing the possibility to brew with yet another respected Scottish brewery while I’m up there to make a neat little hat trick.

On top of all this, I plan to doing a bit of writing and recipe development for various companies, new digital media projects, a few appearances here and there, and I may also have a hand in curating an art exhibit and even making music. The people who I have met through my newfound notoriety have generally been lovely, and I’m thrilled about my upcoming collaborations.

Finally: the restaurant. There is a restaurant in the works, though it’s all quite nebulous right now. It would be disastrously foolish of me to think that I could immediately open up shop with virtually no experience, so while I am starting to meet with potential backers, I am going to take my time and build up my understanding of kitchen mechanics and restaurant management before I begin to solidify any plans. But the goal is to get the ball rolling early next year, for an opening late next year.

It’s all happening now. I am grateful for the continuing support I’ve had from my family, friends, and fans. It’s such a lovely feeling when people tell me they’d love to try my food, and I promise that soon enough, they can!