They must have had some REALLY bad meals

(picture from twistedsifter.com)

Recently Esquire Magazine's blog called "Eat like a man" called to my attention the subject of the terrible food served to rock stars. Who would have thought that money couldn't buy everything, least of all good food for bands on tour? The Smoking Gun has published an excerpt from something I guess is best referred to as the "manual" handed to prospective tour caterers to the Foo Fighters. I thoroughly enjoyed the read, and I hope you do too. Here's the link.

Don't put it on your label

(picture from wownews.se)

Systembolaget has stopped sales of a wine called "wacky chicks" because of the printed lipstick kisses on its label. Apparently "The combination of pouting lips and the name gives the impression, in our opinion, that alcohol consumption raises physical or mental capabilities, contributes to social or sexual success or solves problems such as loneliness or boredom”. Really!!? Let's have a look at that, shall we. If I'm not much mistaken, Systembolaget sells a "wine" called "Emotions". This is what the bottle looks like.


(picture from systembolaget.se)

Now, if that picture ain't sellin' "enhancement of physical or mental capabilities", I don't know what is! In fact, just looking at that bottle makes me want to booze my entire drizzly, wet, depressing Swedish "summer" vacation away. And then the name, "Emotions", that just screams of all the stuff I might be lacking in said depressing vacation (say all the millions of souls who crave immortality but don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon).
Let's have a look at another one. "Relax". (It's a German riesling. Relax what?)


(picture from systembolaget.se)

I guess if it's called "Relax" it's not "an enhancement of physical or mental capabilities", but rather a loss of mental and physical capabilities. In fact, just looking at this bottle I feel like buying a whole case for winding down after work. Maybe I should get a case for everyone in the restaurant? After all, restaurant staff are known for their high-octane tempers and stressful lives. Yes, they all need some "Relax" every day, because what's on the label must be true.

I'm all in with BKWine on this one. We have a ridiculous law only allowing the over-20s to buy a bottle of wine, by which time one should have learnt to distinguish between advertisements and reality. If by this time one hasn't learnt these things, maybe there are other things one should be worrying about than buying "wacky chicks". After all, I don't know of anyone who bought Coke Zero because they thought it came with the possibilities of becoming more attractive to women (or being given a personal SWAT-team and a chopper. But that's another story).

Jazz Nights on Sundays

You may or may not have noticed that Bloom is noisier (in a much more melodious kind of way) on Sunday evenings. That's because we've had the good taste to start up Sunday Jazz Nights on our wonderful waterside terrace with Chico Lindvall and his guys. Weather permitting they play outside while you enjoy a round of tapas, a glass of bubbles, a couple of glasses of wine and coffee with a selection of special Bloom goodies. You can even get your very own CD of the music Chico plays at Bloom. We open the doors (and terrace gate) at 18.00. Pre-booking is advised!

This evening of enjoyment is quite the bargain at 295 SEK per person, which includes 4 tapas (chef's choice) and a glass of bubbly. Watching Igi chase stray geese and the occasional duck is, of course, priceless.

The very deep discussions of a Friday night service

I'm going to stick to Anglais from now on, as not only is it the lingua franca of both my workplaces, it's also my mother tongue (as you might have guessed from 1) my very Joanna Lumley-accent and 2) my surname). Anyhow, one of the benefits of growing up in a practically British household in Sweden is that I'm familiar with all sorts of weird and wonderful treats. The one I'm going to tell you about today is surely wonderful for about five seconds (the first bite) and then it somehow loses its appetizing glow, probably in proportion to blood sugar levels rocketing through the roof and fat forming plaques in crucial arteries. I am speaking, of course, of the proverbial deep-fried Bounty.
Now Igi insists there's no such thing and that I've never had a Bounty in my life (which I have) and that I'm in fact referring to a deep-fried Mars bar. I'll admit that after consuming one or more of these diabetes-incurring horrors one might just have had enough sugar and other flavour-enhancing chemicals to induce some type of candy-related hallucination, but I'm quite sure that the stray wrappers left for next morning are a bit of a tell-tale. After all, Mars bars have no coconuts on or in them, as far as I know.
So we spent most of last night drawing fanciful ovoid shapes and debating whether or not the chocolate ripples on Bounty bars have a nib-shape or not. I'm sure at least one member of staff will have bought one or more for tonight so we can move on to more pressing subjects, such as the species relation between elephants and elephantfish.
Anyway, I was sure I'd seen a recipe somewhere. So when I wake up this morning I turn to my favorite site in the world (the one with almost all the answers) and lo and behold, the Queen of Deep-Fried Treats (Nigella) has one. "Deep Fried Bounty with Pinepple. It's even been translated into Swedish. So there we go. I encourage you to try it out. However, I would recommend you make them bite-size. And you should probably consult with your doctor before you eat one. As for the deep-fried Mars bar, I agree with Igi. It's of the devil. Only the Scots ("sweaty socks", as Igi likes to call them) eat that kind of crap.

We're both speaking English, right?

This is Linnéa speaking (writing?), and I’m back at Bloom. Many might say that I never really left, and they’d be quite right in saying so. However, when dues are paid for work done the monetary compensation has for some time been rolling in from Lund University’s dept of Ophthalmology (no, that’s not onomatopoeia) and the payoffs from a certain kitchen in a restaurant have taken a more... let’s say emotional form. Or, to put it as Igi would: luuuuuurve.
You’d be surprised to know how many practical advantages I get from combining my two disciplines. It leans mostly towards getting ahead as a scientist using knowledge I’ve gained in the restaurant, but every now and then someone in the restaurant will ask what the difference is between mold and bacteria - and hey presto - the Ph.D student will tell you. Down to the last morphological detail. Not that you wanted to know... right?
So, you might ask, what’s up with these academics and food? Actually, it’s not so much about foodstuffs themselves as it is having a relationship with certain foods. Some of them more or less healthy relationships, I might add. I’ve had the supreme luck of ending up with an amazing supervisor who knows everything about metabolism and is puritanical about how his food should be cooked (I’m serious, he’s the only person I know who really wants to read Modernist Cuisine...). I’ve spent the last two years in this particular lab and we’ve still not covered all the fine points of how to best cook a joint of lamb, or what wine is best to drink with it for that matter. It doesn’t help that we’re in the same corridor as this woman, who has revolutionized student lunches at the BMC.
Anyway, academics are a weird and wonderful breed of people (as we all know from “The Big Bang Theory”) and one of the easiest topics to strike up conversation is food and wine. Everyone has an intense relationship to their favourite food. Everyone has had a restaurant experience to die for. Everyone eats lunch. Everyone wants to keep conversation going in the lunchroom. So what do we talk about?
I was recently in Fort Lauderdale in Florida for a conference, and since I know Igi used to live there I asked for food advice. Apart from the obvious (eat seafood, eat fresh fruit and veg, drink good Napa wines) he also warned me that the Americans speak a different language when it comes to food. I was quite sure he was pulling my leg - we all speak English, right? - but he wasn’t. Take the concept of French Toast, “fattiga riddare” in Swedish. My very British father used to make me French Toast on special occasions when I was young. I remember it so well I can even smell it (this is what I mean about intense relationships to food) - white french bread, thinly sliced, lightly toasted, soaked in beaten eggs and fried golden in butter, served with a drizzling of maple syrup and strawberries. Delicious. In Fort Lauderdale French Toast means inch-and-a-half thick slices of sweet (!) white bread dipped quickly in batter (presumably something akin to pancake batter), quickly fried off until brown and then drenched in maple syrup, spread thick with nutella and served with whipped cream and jam. This isn’t the only thing lost in translation. When American menus say “fried”, they don’t mean in a frying pan. They mean slathered in batter and deep fried in oil. After two evening meals where I ordered some kind of “fried” seafood I reverted to “quickly pan fried in butter, please”. Now don’t get me wrong, we ate in good restaurants with excellent quality food. The fault lies with me not consulting the waitstaff on the cooking method. I put it down to clueless tourist-syndrome. Generally, Americans are very helpful and willing to make changes to the dish if you ask. However the point is that the relationship to the produce and it’s fate on your plate is quite different on this side of the pond. After just over a week with all the extra added sugar, fat and super-sized portions with the compulsory side of french fries with dipping sauce (no, it’s not something you order. It just appears with the rest of your food) I was so happy to partake at the Bloom pulpo-evening. I realized my special relationship with food lies in small portion sizes, where the pain comes from the conflicting feeling of savoring the last splendid mouthful and not from my belt digging into my abdomen. I found joy in the simple fact that when talking to Titti I didn’t need to be explicit about the exact level of springiness I mean when I say “al-dente”. Also, there was the overwhelming feeling of belonging when everyone agreed that maple syrup OR nutella is sufficient when serving French Toast...

I’m not saying European cooking is necessarily better than American. What I’m saying is that there are food culture differences between nations sharing a language and between colleagues sharing a lunchroom. The true crossing of borders happens when we learn each others foodspeak. I for one am all for the exchange. Who knew clam chowder would play such a pivotal role in my life...

(If you’re ever in Ft Lauderdale, make sure to visit “The Rustic Inn” and have their seafood tasting platter. Le Bon Dieu couldn’t make it better if he tried.)

Music in Bloom

In one of my previous posts, I spoke about my penchant for buying cookbooks from restaurants that I have visited. While I’m waiting in anticipation for Titti to put pen to paper, I was very happy to hear about Music in Bloom, the forthcoming album by Bloom’s musical duo Anders “Chico” Lindvall and Johnny Åman. If you’re fortunate to have been serenaded by these great talents at Bloom, then no doubt you will be as excited as I am by such a unique souvenir, which includes favourites, such as Utanmåla, Cecilia Lind and How Insensitive.


A former member of the Danish Radio Jazz orchestra, Chico Lindvall is one of Sweden’s greatest guitarists and has played with a number of world-renowned musicians, from Van Morrison to Dizzy Gillespie. Double base player Johnny Åman, was born in Finland. Since moving to Sweden in 2005 to study at Malmö’s Music Conservatory, he has worked with many leading Scandinavian artists, including Peter Nilsson and Jan Lundgren.


Look out for Music in Bloom, available exclusively from Bloom in the Park soon.

A new culinary capital?

Last month my sambo and I visited Paris. A Christmas gift, from me to him, I admit that my present was possibly more for me than for him. This became more apparent as we scoured the streets of the 1st arrondissement at 3pm on a Saturday afternoon in search of an open restaurant. As he bemoaned “It’s easier to get a bad meal in Paris than a good one,” it quickly became apparent that I should have chosen London instead.

Of course Spain has become one of the most important culinary destinations in recent years, but until recently, I would never have considered London, let alone the UK as a European culinary capital. Even I must admit, the economic crisis has done wonders for the country’s gastronomic scene. Last February we enjoyed a fantastic, long, boozy celebratory lunch for four at the two-star Atelier Joel Robuchon for an acceptable sum of 300 pounds, while a rather hurried, unremarkable, one-course dinner for two and a half bottle of wine in Paris’ famed Balzar brasserie was almost hit the 100 euro mark. During our holiday in England late last year, even in some of the tiniest towns in the South East we enjoyed surprisingly good meals that came without attitude, or denting the budget.

The opening of the new Heston Blumenthal restaurant, Dining at the Mandarin Oriental, can only further reinforce London's place as a culinary capital. Has France rested on its culinary laurels for too long? With the incredible selection of cuisines on offer, plus fantastic deals from discount restaurant booking sites, the French had better watch out.