Ambrosia and the Rain

I ought to be working my way through examples 15.1 - 12.27 of "Spinning and Shaking; Technological Science" (Fourth Edition), pp 222-225. Instead I am riding a train north from London, fantasising about cabbage, marvelling at P.G. Wodehouse and thinking how beautiful the English countryside is.

The brassica I speak of is of course the savoy cabbage. Its very name bestows a sense of class - there are no 'red' or 'green' hotels in London - no, it is the 'Savoy' hotel with the international reputation. But why now? What about this humble vegetable has suddenly provoked such great affection from my hitherto insouciant attitude towards it?

This week saw my sister's 18th birthday, and I spent the previous week carefully arranging matters so that she was aware of my "seven pm briefing" on the day in question, and my pile of "nine am labs" the following morning. She understood; I couldn't skip these, and it was fine because I'd only been at University a week. Needless to say, she was surprised to see my grinning mug come through the door about half an hour before she was due to leave for her birthday meal. Was she happy to see me? "You big fat liar", she remarked accusingly.

That night we ate at a small restaurant near the Thames, opposite a four-hundred year pub frequented by Oliver Cromwell. The inside was warm and tastefully lit - contrasting beautifully with the frankly vile weather - and after sitting down we considered the menus. Sitting there, I was struck by a sudden conundrum. Beef, Ale and mushroom pie with a bowlful of assorted legumes? It was tempting, certainly, but my eye lit on a line of text near the bottom of the card, and I hesitantly made my order - roast pork belly served with savoy cabbage and Bacon, with apple and rosemary compote.

Oh, happy day.

I will not speak of my joy at finding succulent pork belly, cooked to perfection with fennel seed and anise. I will leave untouched the subject of the chunky, delicately flavoured compote. The topic of the baby onions nestling sweetly in the rich brown sauce shall not pass my lips. The cabbage, however, is quite a different story.

My God!

My previous experience with cabbage has been with the red variety, cooked for my dad - staining every thing it touches purple and everything in the house with its vinegary smell. Not so this stuff. Hidden, tucked away beneath the pork itself was a pile of tender, sweet foliage - perfectly cooked with bacon then doused in the sauce. Warm, gently spiced flavour filled my mouth, accented with the juices from the meat, exquisite flavour bursting from every leaf. By itself it was incredible, but with a little of the pork and one of the onions it was a revelation, comfort food of the first order.

Which leaves me on a train, some dozen miles north of Bicester, bound once again for Earlsdon and culinary purgatory - my frankly unexceptional bolognese, the grey, overdone occasional steak, my merely satisfactory sausage and mash. I have only one option - there are two pork steaks in my freezer.

I absolutely must learn to cook like that.