I was worried that me and callaloo were doomed from the start. The soup always seems to contain a healthy amount of okra and I had a problem with this for two reasons: firstly, those hairy little fingers irritate the hell out of my (thankfully not so hairy) little fingers, bringing me out in a rash, and secondly, most callaloo recipes called for them to simmer in the liquid for at least half an hour. This to me says one thing and one thing only: slime. Eating overcooked okra is like eating a fat slimy bogey; a big glutinous bowl of snot soup. Yum. Can’t wait.

After a bit of mental wrestling I came to the conclusion that omitting them entirely was not acceptable and so I fried the sappy slices until they were sappy no more, sealed instead by a crispy outer crust. They were added back at the last minute. Other than these (literally) irritating beasties, the soup contains pork, prawns, scotch bonnet chilli, thyme, two types of onion and of course, the callaloo. I think it’s safe to say there’s a lot going on.

The flavour of the callaloo, which I bought tinned, is described somewhere on the great interwebz as, ‘a cross between spinach and cabbage’. That is exactly what it tastes like. Perhaps there’s a bit of asparagus in there as well. You get the idea. This predominantly ‘green’ flavour, makes for a very vegetal soup. At first. Then comes pork and then, even-better-joy-of-joys, pork fat; melty pieces cling to each pink nugget with a seductive wobble. There is the odd surprise of shrimp but it’s not unpleasant.

At first I find the soup musty but as the spoonfuls pass this transforms into an intriguing peppery complexity. The coconut milk is not really discernible as its usual overwhelming self but instead sort of lingers around keeping things in order. The okra keep themselves to themselves.

There’s no getting away from it – this is some seriously hearty fare and I’m amazed that it is usually served as a side dish, to act as a sort of gravy for other foods. Most of my Rye Lane dishes have been similar in weight and intensity. They are the kind of dishes that stick to your ribs; fortify, bolster and sustain.

That said, this soup also has an aromatic quality from the little love triangle going on between chilli, coconut and thyme; a surprising delicacy underneath it all really. But then that was the problem right there: so much in the mix, so many flavours and contrasts that all got a little bit muddy and confused. I really should have started with a simple version (no meat or fish) like the family recipe sent to me by a friend and blogger yesterday.

Although I enjoyed the taste of the callaloo vegetable itself, I’m not sure I’ll be cooking with it that often. A green leafy vegetable from a tin is not really any contender for fresh spinach, kale or chard for example. Well, my version isn’t anyway. I basically made a fundamental schoolgirl error by choosing to make the nitrous oxide, big-bore, super-charged version when I should have started off with the understated yet reliable runner. You live and learn.

Callaloo

325g callaloo (drained weight)
1 small white onion, finely chopped
1 tablespoon thyme leaves
3 spring onions, white and green parts, chopped
125g thick bacon cubes
225g small prawns
150ml coconut milk
200g okra, sliced
1 small scotch bonnet chilli, de-seeded and chopped
Stock – about 1 litre (I used vegetable)

Begin by frying the okra in a little oil until soft but crispy on the outside. Set aside on kitchen paper to soak up any oil. In a large pan, soften the onions and chilli gently for a few minutes before adding the callaloo, bacon, thyme and stock. Bring to the boil and then simmer for about 30 minutes before adding the prawns, okra and coconut milk for a further 2 or 3 minutes. Check the seasoning and serve.

As I stood at the butcher’s counter waiting for my goat meat to be diced, I could sense the man next to me staring intensely. A tap on my shoulder came next and I turned to face a big smile and twinkling eyes. “You are buying goat meat?” he enquired, “but usually it is only the West Indian people who buy goat meat!” The next thing I knew we were hugging and he’d told me all about his wedding (happening in January, in Trinidad), where there will be a whole roasted goat and a delicious soup made from the cooking juices. The butcher joined in with tales of his brown stewed goat, followed by a customer with their version and in a matter of moments we were well and truly united by common ground. I’m really feeling the love from the people here right now.

Goat secured, it was over the road for dried okazi vegetable (a Nigerian forest plant, also known as afang or ukazi), and salt fish. I will admit to deflating slightly under the weight of apprehension. I mean, goat and salt fish together? That just didn’t seem right. Add to the mix some dried crayfish and scary quantities of bright red palm oil and I was worried for my dining companions. Could it really work? Only one way to find out.

I started by cooking the goat, onions and a whole scotch bonnet (not chopped) in stock and immediately ran into the first of many areas of confusion. Most recipes advised cooking the meat for about 30 minutes, then for a mere 20 minutes once the other stuff goes in. Now anyone who has ever cooked goat knows that after 30 minutes cooking time, that meat is going to be about as tender as a piece of my shoe. I gave it an hour and turned my attention to the salt fish.

This time I used the boiling method, instead of soaking overnight in water as I did for the buljol. It worked an absolute treat; I’m never looking back. I boiled it three times (in fresh changes of water) for about five minutes per boil. The excess salt was removed in a fraction of the time, but even better than that, the fillets were much more tender and flaked apart like they loved it. That went into the mix, along with some dried crayfish (to thicken, apparently), chopped spinach (a substitute for ‘water leaf’) and of course, the okazi.

Next in the pot was the oil. After reading pretty much every recipe I could find, I reached the conclusion that the amount of oil added is a matter entirely of personal preference. Quantities ranged from 2 tablespoons to a cup. A whole cup! I decided to start with 2 tablespoons and work up from there, eventually adding about 50ml, which is quite a lot in my book, but it really did add a pleasing richness.

The end result then, as judged by me, Chris and our mate Joe, was a genuinely tasty, if rather unusual thick stew. Unusual in the sense that it was musty; it smelled rather like Peckham Rye actually. The flavour of the okazi is simply plant-like, but combined with the spinach to produce a satisfying earthiness. Surprisingly, the soup didn’t taste fishy at all; crayfish and salt fish just melted down to a thick, savoury base for the tender goat pieces to nestle in; each bony nugget was picked out and nibbled clean. It was also spicy. Really quite spicy indeed. We sucked air through our teeth and reached for the tissues.

If I were to make okazi soup again, I would definitely soak the vegetable in water first, and then blend to a paste before using; it was slightly reminiscent of that stuff you use to pad out packages for the post. Or, even better, I would try and lay my hands on some of the fresh leaves, which apparently are usually in stock but are significantly more expensive (my two dried bags set me back £2). The soup also traditionally contains snails, although unsurprisingly I couldn’t find any, and I bombed one final time by forgetting the essential accompaniment of pounded boiled yam; a major oversight.

These details aside, I’m going to declare the soup a success. Actually, I’m going to declare it a minor miracle. The fact that those ingredients can combine to produce something that everyone wants a second helping of, and then somehow totally disappears once you’ve gone to bed, is to be celebrated in my opinion. I also scored a triple whammy by using three ingredients that are entirely new to me (okazi, dried crayfish and palm oil). Bring on the next contender!

Okazi Soup

2 fillets of salt fish – I would say mine were about 10 x 5 cms each
2 x 25g bags of dried okazi, soaked overnight and blended to a paste with a little water
Stock (I used vegetable) – you need enough to cover the goat and top up with
50ml palm oil or to taste
700g goat meat, diced (you can also use a mixture of stewing meat and offal)
A handful of prepared snails (I could find any)
1 ounce of dried crayfish, pounded to a powder
A bunch of spinach, chopped (probably equivalent in size to one of those bags you get in the supermarket)
1 whole scotch bonnet
1 large onion, finely chopped

Put the meat in a large, heavy based pan with the onion and chilli (leave it whole) and cover with stock. Bring to the boil then turn down low and simmer gently for an hour or until tender.

At the same time, boil the salt fish in several changes of water, boiling for around 5 minutes each time. Taste the water for saltiness and if it doesn’t make your face pucker, you’re done. Skin and de-bone and flake the salt fish, then add it to the soup. You might need a bit more stock at this point.

Add the okazi, spinach, snails (if using) and crayfish. Bring to the boil, then turn low, add the oil, and simmer for 20 minutes. Check the seasoning and serve.

Peckham’s Rye Lane is a right higgle piggle of shops. Traders pile on top of one another; get your mobile phone unlocked while you wait for the butcher to dice your goat meat. There are towers of unusual vegetables, mountains of scotch bonnet chillies, the odd box of African land snails and of course yams, yams and yet more yams  (just don’t look at the frozen fish or broiler chickens). There’s so much interesting stuff down there I just can’t get through it fast enough so I’ve set myself a little challenge. For the next few weeks, I’ll pick up a new ingredient every few days – something I’ve never used before and quite possibly something I won’t recognise. A new and exciting culinary adventure.

Things kicked things off on Sunday with salt fish – something I’ve eaten many times but never got around to cooking at home. A few quid bought me the chunks you see above. I’ve no idea what type of fish it is though and didn’t have much joy communicating with the shop keeper: “do you know what type of fish it is?” “£3,” was the reply. It went on like that for a while. We’ll get there.

When researching recipes I came across a few that recommended boiling the fish in several changes of water rather than soaking it overnight. I was tempted to try it as a time saving measure but feared the flesh not tenderising enough and so plunged the pieces into (several changes) of cold water for 24 hours. If anyone has tried the boiling method then please do let me know. The next stage was rather more arduous than anticipated as I wrestled with the still rather fibrous blocks in an attempt to remove the skin and tease out bones. Again, advice most welcome.

The chosen recipe was salt fish buljol: a traditional Trinidadian dish, apparently often eaten at breakfast. It ticked the right boxes for being simple (don’t run before you can walk) and because I had all the ingredients in anyway. The mixture is cooked until most of the moisture evaporates, leaving a rich amalgamation which celebrates the slightly chewy, meaty, unusual flaky texture of the fish. It is of course salty. We found more than we bargained for in this simple, yet deeply comforting dish.

The effort of preparation was definitely worth it then – salt fish is the bomb. I think maybe fritters are in the pipeline and Chris made some stonking fish cakes with the leftovers. A very encouraging start to my little experiment. Next on the list is a vegetable called Okazi; I’ve found a recipe for it I’m really rather excited about.

Salt Fish Buljol

About as much salt fish as you see at the top of this post (sorry, didn’t weigh it)
2/3 can chopped tomatoes
2 medium onions, finely chopped
2 red peppers finely chopped
Juice of 1 lemon
Black pepper
1/2 – 1 whole scotch bonnet chilli, de-seeded and finely chopped
Lettuce, for serving (optional). Avocado slices are also a nice accompaniment, apparently
Oil for cooking

Soak the salt fish overnight in several changes of water then pull off the skin and flake the flesh. Heat the oil in a wide pan over a medium heat and add the onions, peppers, chilli and tomatoes (I thought it odd not to soften the onions and peppers first but it works out don’t worry). Let that cook for a few minutes then add the fish, half the lemon juice and a good sprinkling of black pepper.

Cook the mixture down on a low heat until the moisture is almost all gone. This probably takes about 15-20 minutes. Taste and add more lemon juice if you think it needs it. Allow to cool then arrange on top of the lettuce.

Last week I was invited to a free screening at Peckham Multiplex. The film, called Consume Peckham, was a project by students from Chelsea Art College and included 18 short films about local businesses and the people behind them (part of the I Love Peckham 2009 Development Project). The aim was to explore the complex link between culture and commercialism. Apparently the students were pretty disappointed when they found out they were coming to Peckham (as one shopkeeper said to me just yesterday, “we just can’t get away from Del Boy, and it wasn’t even filmed here”)  but soon became smitten with the warmth of the people and addictive buzzing energy of Rye Lane.

The short films focused on businesses like the many food shops, the local radio station, The Bussey Building (full of churches and artists), and my personal favourite, Ozzie’s Cafe. I’ve walked past the place nearly every day but never considered going in. The woman sat next to me in the cinema (Eileen Conn, the inspiring force behind Peckham Residents’ Network), told me she eats there all the time (egg and chips), and when I paid a visit on Saturday morning, I found people from all walks of life: students, pensioners, and of course, the hardcore regulars. One such long timer was interviewed by the students and caused much mirth in the cinema with his poetry recitations. I couldn’t help but feel that some of these people were lost souls, anchored to the community by a place like Ozzie’s. The students describe how, “customers come to sit and enjoy the company of others without even speaking a word.”

Peckham is often a place of division between the people. One of the most striking things about the film was how it so clearly portrayed the divide between the white, middle class residents and the large proportion of people (many Nigerian), who have moved here from other countries and who make up the majority of the population. Most of the well-to-do local art students for example will be found in Bar Story, Peckham’s trendiest bar, with one lamenting, “there is nowhere else to go.” We noted the same predominantly white audience in the screening and I commented that the same was apparent at Frank’s pop-up bar.

Ozzie’s is different. Ozzie’s is the kind of place everyone feels comfortable. This is the role of the local caff: all-welcoming, no pretensions, no frills, no-one hurrying you to leave. All of human life is here. The food at Ozzie’s is pretty rubbish to be honest – questionable mystery meat bangers, tinned mushrooms, cheap juice, you get the idea – but then that really isn’t the point. Places like this are part of a routine, ‘the poetic and mundane details of the everyday.’ They remind us that the world keeps turning, the caff keeps opening and life goes on, no matter what happens in individual lives, and that can be a very comforting thought.

Regular readers of London blogs will know by now that my good mate Lizzie and I are South East Londoners (other SE bloggers include tehbus, Jassy, Naomi, Ben, Monkey Gland, Petra, Rosie, Salad Club, Sharmila, Rob and Pete). We live in the sometimes dirty, smelly and ‘lively’ area of the capital and we love it. Right now, I’m living in Peckham, and you’ll often hear me sticking up for it. The high number of African and Caribbean people living here means we get some damn good grub, which by its nature is charmingly rustic and heavy on spice. Many restaurants here lack the polish and presentation of more Northerly establishments, which to be honest, is part of their charm.

Over the last few years I’ve become increasingly interested in Caribbean food, which started with a trip to the annual Jerk Cookout in the gardens of The Horniman Museum in 2007, on the off chance that it might be a nice day out. I would now never consider missing it. Holidays will be scheduled around it. I’ve picked up a few tips along the way and tried out my own recipes for jerk chicken and curry goat but as I’ve realised, these recipes are something which take a long time – years, generations even, to perfect. In the meantime I’ve dedicated my days to visiting as many Caribbean restaurants as possible and I’ve learned that you are on your own trying to work out the secrets of the good places – ask and they clam up completely; heads shake firmly and eyes widen in disbelief.

It’s not all good of course, there are always some howlers. When I was planning our recent Peckham restaurant crawl I planned to take everyone to a Caribbean place a few minutes from my doorstep: ‘God Bless Caribbean Restaurant’. Thank goodness I decided to check it out first. The jerk was incredibly bland, as was the curry goat (which was mostly bone anyway). Strangely, the rice and peas were the best I’ve ever had but not even that will make me return to sample their dry, tasteless, spiceless meat ever again. Shame, because it takes all of three minutes to get there. Lizzie on the other hand, is more fortunate. Literally a few minutes walk from her front door in New Cross stands the unassuming shack that is Smokey Jerkey. When she told me of the tantalising wafts of grill smoke she endures on a daily basis and the surly woman who turns out some of the best damn jerk she’s ever tasted, it was a done deal – I had to try it.

“Is it shut?” I asked as we approached, with more than a hint of desperation in my voice. It wasn’t – it just always looks like that. A padlocked grill covers the front and inside there are a couple of chairs and a counter where you order the food. That’s basically it. We ordered the jerk chicken with rice and peas (£3 lunch special), and scurried back to eat it.

The portion was generous and not too rice and pea heavy as can often be the case. The chicken was succulent and chopped  into hand manageable pieces in the way that Caribbean places always do. And the jerk seasoning? Brilliant. I found it pleasantly sweeter than other jerk I’ve had, sticky with caramelised crusty bits and infused with a smoky char. The flavour was fruity with scotch bonnet chillies and the heat started as a little numbing tingle on the lips and slowly built to good ‘n’ hot. We also doused on some hot sauce for good measure. The heady mix of spices was not too powerful and the extra sweetness prevented that dusty wallop that can happen when it’s a case of too much spice and not enough everything else.

All in all, this is some of the best jerk I’ve had in the South East and I highly recommend you try it if you are passing through the area.  By the way, if I’ve missed any SE London bloggers, then please do reveal yourselves – it’s always nice to find some more locals to share tips, drinks and maybe even restaurant crawls with. Also, I know I’m asking a lot of questions at the end of my posts right now but if you have some favourite jerk places anywhere in London then I’d love to hear about those too. I do venture North of the river occasionally you know…