From Michelle Gallen’s second, Factory Girls, set in 1994 Northern Ireland during the Troubles, at page 68:
“Pasta had only arrived in town when Maeve was thirteen. Her Auntie Mary’d told her mam that cooking pasta was dead easy – you just boiled it like spuds. So Maeve’s mam’d always boild their pasta as long and hard as a pot of potatoes. Until Maeve’d learned to cook pasta in school she’d no idea that pasta wasn’t supposed to be a sticky pile of porridge-colored worms on the cusp of disintegration. That experience had taught Maeve the value of following instructions – or at least reading them to get an idea of how far she could deviate from the rules without things ending in disaster. So, as the Bolognese sauce packet instructed, Maeve sliced an onion while browning minced beef. The packet advised her to splash some red wine on the meat for flavor. She’d no wine handy, so she splashed a bit of vodka into the pan, then poured herself a vodka and Coke as the meat sizzled. When it was nicely browned, she put the pasta on to boil, then opened the Bognese sauce packet and dusted the orange powder over the beef. She added another splash of vodka and stirred until the mixture turned a kind of fluorescent orange. It smelt deadly and Maeve was pleased that the whole thing had taken under fifteen minutes. She was grating cheddar when the doorbell rang.”
The Thursday Murder Club series continues. Richard Osman, The Bullet That Missed, page 254:
"Mike Waghorn pours himself a glass of cider. He doesn’t really drink cider in public; it doesn’t look right. In public, he drinks champagne, good wine, the sort of stuff people would expect Mike Waghorn to drink. A beer if he’s fitting in with the lads at a corporate do.
"But when Mike was a teenager, he would only drink cider, and as he gets older he finds himself returning to it. He has tried expensive cider, you can get that now. Waitrose does one, but really, the cheaper the better with cider. The one he is currently drinking is from a two-liter plastic bottle. He has poured it into a heavy cut-glass decanter, just for appearances, but he might stop doing that soon as well. Who is he trying to fool? There is no one here, so he can only be fooling himself.
“He washes down his arthritis pills, then his beta-blockers, and his gout medication. You’re not supposed to drink alcohol with any of them, but no one is going to stop him.”
Tim Dorsey, The Maltese Iquana, a manic reinvented Monopoly game interrupted at p. 153
"‘I forgot,’ said Jen-Jen. 'There’s a whole giant casserole dish in the oven. Nachos supreme.
"Everyone shut up and leaned forward in rapt attention. ‘Don’t be f*cking with us.’
"‘I’m not,’ said Jen-Jen. 'Mounds of melted cheddar, jalapenos, ground beef, salsa. The bowls of sour cream and guacamole are already on the counter —
"A stampede.
"Potholders landed on the playing board, followed by the serving dish. Nobody was sitting, just hunched forward at the waist with utensils and plates.
“Twenty minutes later, the neighbors were angled backward in their chairs, wiping mouths with napkins and burping. . . . Moments after that, they were again all standing manically over the ceramic casserole dish. When the onslaught was over Serge stared in resignation at a smoldering war zone. Then he memorized where all the pieces were before taking the board to the sink and gingerly scrubbing off the periodic table of nacho elements.”
Filling in the Michael Kelly series with Michael Harvey, The Governor’s Wife at page 189:
"Karen lived in an old warehouse that had been converted into lofts. . . . As promised, Karen sat me on a soft couch with a TV and a glass of Oban single malt. Pretty soon the apartment was filling with the nut smell of melted butter mingled with garlic.
. . .
"You need some help?
"She pointed to the refrigerator. 'You could get the chicken out.
"I pulled out a couple boneless chicken breasts. Karen got me a small wooden mallet and showed me how to pound the chicken flat.
"I didn’t know you could cook with a hammer.
"Go to it.
"I beat the bird into submission . . . or at least into cutlets. Karen opened a can of crushed tomatoes and dumped them into the pan. Red sauce spattered her arms, neck, and cheeks.
Almost finished with The Golden Spoon by Jessa Maxwell. It’s a murder mystery that takes place at an American version of the British Bake-Off complete with Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood type characters. It’s so mysterious that I still don’t know who was murdered and who did it. Very fluffy and fun - I’m really enjoying it!
A sweet series by Patrick Taylor, ‘An Irish Country Doctor’, in fifteen or so novels covers the coming up of two doctors and their lives in the communities around County Down in Northern Ireland c.1930’s through the 60’s. Recipes of some meals attributed to the housekeeper of the doctor’s practice are at the end of each book. There is also a companion cookbook, ‘An Irish country Cookbook:’. I’ve made a few of these ‘Irish’ dishes from the books: Guinness cake, barmbrack bread, Eton Mess, champ. The Guinness cake I made for St. Patrick’s Day this year. It is a new family favorite.
Right to Grace’s fried chicken food truck on page 5:
"A bearded man came to the window. Faded T-shirt, pinched face and cadaverous, all ribs, clavicles, and elbows. He looked like an unpublished poet.
"‘What can I get for you?’ Grace asked.
"‘Is your chicken non-GMO?’ he asked.
"‘No it’s not,’ she said. A proselytizer. Cut him short, Grace, ‘Have you decided? You’ve got a line behind you.’
"‘If your chicken is not non-GMO, you should put it on your sign,’ he said indignantly. Why do all assholes end up in this line? she wondered. She felt her temper coming on, like the creaking of a doorknob.
"'You mean we should put ‘We buy our chicken at Von’s on the sign?’ she said. ‘I’ll speak to the management. Could you please order?’
"‘What kind of oil do you use?’ he demanded.
“‘Pennzoil 10W-30,’ she said. ‘Come on dude. this a food truck, not your guru’s gluten-free commune. Order or get out of line.’ The doorknob was turning.”
Finished yesterday, in spite of unforeseen interruptions and distractions. Quasi-spoiler alert: Not much more “food on the side” of note beyond page 5.
That said, a more enjoyable offering than the preceding IQ test Smoke.
Good Bye Coast, our introduction to Mr. Ide, remains his best work.
We watch GBBS, so powered through Golden Spoon on a lukewarm recommendation. “Sue and Mel”-type characters notably absent, but then, we’re big fans of Nicola Walker, who has her history with Sue when they were younger.
In Martin Cruz Smith’s current release Independence Square, his famous protagonist Arkady Renko employs a nearly finished bag of barbecue chips as a tool of concealment and deception.
Bet Me by Jennifer Crusie will have you craving chicken marsala. Shirley Jump also has a Sweet and Savory series that is mindless romance for a beach or pool day.
The Collector is Daniel Silva’s current Gabriel Allon installment. Retired from “The Office”, Gabriel is now a full time art restorer living in Venice. Before a violin recital, he and his wife have a bite (p.16):
"It was in the Campo dei Frari, near the foot of the campanile. Inside Gabriel ordered two glasses of Lombardian white and an assortment of cicchetti. Venetian etiquette demanded that the small delectable sandwiches be consumed while standing, but Chiara suggested they take a table in the square instead.
". . .
“Gabriel devoured a cicchetto smothered in artichoke hearts and ricotta, and washed it down with some of the vino bianco. It was his second glass of the day. Like most male residents of Venice, he consumed un’ombra with his midmorning coffee.”
". . .
"She was pondering the cicchetti, deliberating between the smoked mackerel and the salmon. Both lay on a bed of creamy cheese and were sprinkled with finely chopped herbs. Gabriel settled the matter by snatching the mackerel. It paired beautifully with the flinty Lombardian wine.
"‘I wanted that one,’ said Chiara with a pout, . . . "
The second of John Sandford’s Letty Davenport series Dark Angel has a lot of food on the run.
Page 166:
"Baxter said, ‘if you’re gonna be a while, I might hit the deli.’
“‘Go for it,’ she said. ‘Get me a chicken sandwich with something spicy on it, and a root beer if they have it. We’re gonna be stuck at FBI headquarters for a while.’”
. . .
P.168:
"Letty had to wait in the car for five minutes, until Baxter came out of the deli with a sack of sandwiches and a root beer. Hers was a grilled chicken on a ciabatta roll, with green pepper sauce that set her mouth on fire. ‘This is fuckin’ great,’ she said as they drove out to the 45 freeway. ‘I may hire you as my culinary advisor.’
“‘I’d be happy to do it, and ask only s modest compensation,’ Baxter said.”
I haven’t started , but looking forward to it.