Читать книгу The Kitchen Diaries - Nigel Slater - Страница 92

If there is a recurrent theme to my cooking at the moment, it is the clean bite of lime leaves and chillies. I appreciate them for the freshness and vitality they bring with them. I have no luck at the greengrocer’s with the lime leaves today, nor at the major supermarket that stands, red brick and sprawling, less than thirty minutes’ walk from home. I end up catching the bus to the crush of Chinese shops that line Gerrard Street, which have more lime leaves than you could shake a chopstick at. They freeze at a push, and for once I remember to take a second packet home with that in mind.

I have had this problem before, usually when the leaves’ inclusion is crucial (Thai fish cakes, perhaps). People say you can use lime zest instead. I agree to an extent, but there is something missing. There is more than just the well-known flavour of lime in those finely shredded leaves. They carry a bite, a spritz, to them that is missing in the skin of the fruit. If lime leaves remain elusive, I would rather add a stalk of lemon grass instead.

While I’m in Chinatown, I pick up a couple of papayas. Unusually, they are perfectly ripe, a deep custard yellow. Tender as a kitten, they get carried home on top of everything else. One of them still gets bruised. After the pork, I slice each fruit and scoop out the black seeds – they look like caviar – then squeeze over a little lime juice. It means there is too much lime in the meal but it has brightened up a wet day.