Sophie Dahl - Miss Dahl’s Voluptuous Delights

A few weeks later, I boarded a train to Paris, carrying nothing but a little basket with my nightdress, knickers and a toothbrush, and went straight from the Gare du Nord to the house of Karl Lagerfield, who was shooting a story for German Vogue about King Farouk. Gianfranco Ferré was playing the part of the erstwhile king, and I his bawdy American mistress. I was dripping in diamonds and not a great deal else. I felt incredibly shy around Mr Lagerfield, who was kind yet reticent behind his fan, until he roared with laughter, pinched my cheeks and kissed me like an uncle. We stopped for a proper French lunch, a stew heavy with red wine, oozing cheese and crusty bread and little pots of dense, dark chocolate for pudding. I was in heaven. The shoot went on long into the night, and after everyone else had gone home he photographed me waltzing around his beautiful library, which shone with swathes of waxy lilies and hundreds of candles. At 3.00 am I walked across the street to the old-fashioned hotel where I was staying, and I lay in bed with my eyes wide open, unable to summon sleep. There was so much to absorb and evoke, from the books that lined the walls from floor to ceiling, to the church-like smell of the lilies, the cool of the diamonds as they slipped around my neck, the food…

People had noticed me. Big women from all over the world wrote me congratulatory letters, commending my big bold form. Morning television shows wanted to interview me. Newspapers breathlessly reported my strange fleshy phenomena; a welcome backlash, finally, against the x-ray fashion industry. In the wake of the very angular, it seemed people wanted an anti-waif; a sensual woman who indulged in whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it. By default, this became me. But reflection on what it represented and what it might mean had escaped me; no longer reliant on waitress’s wages, I was too busy skipping around London, Paris, New York and Milan, spending my modelling money in posh restaurants, city appropriate. I went to Nobu for the first time and nearly died with pleasure—that black cod! In Italy it was risotto, in Paris remoulade, and New York was just a culinary world mecca, full stop.

I remember doing shows in the early days, happily squeezed into some mini little thing. Although a walk up and down a runway is over in minutes, you can register the faces of those you walk by in slow motion. I produced such a strange mixed reaction, one that was palpable. The more formidable fashion editors would sit there with their arms tightly crossed, looking embarrassed and rolling their eyes. Others would cheer and shout. The photographers at the end of the runway would sometimes catcall and whistle. It had been a long time since the advent of tits in fashion, so they were pretty enthused. I found a sort of sad teenage validation in this—not particularly thought-out or examined—something along the lines of ‘It’s men, whistling at me. They seem to fancy me. Hurrah! That must mean I’m kind of sexy.’

Every woman in my family had been through a tricky adolescent over-spilling phase. The difference with mine was that it became both representative and a matter of public record, rather than something to look back on with tender mirth when presented with a family album. We always joked as a family about our greediness. We described events by what we ate. There was and is, a total ease and pleasure around food and cooking. My path has been a funny one; having come from such a background, to then find myself at a formative age dropped into the middle of an industry not exactly renowned for its epicurean appreciation. There’s something sort of fun and subversive about it. It was a slightly wiggly trajectory, but one full of interesting stuff.

And guess what? I’m now right back where I was at seven, bar the penchant for coral lipstick and bad hats. I just couldn’t get away from the siren call of the kitchen that is an inherent part of me. The kitchen of which I speak is both literal and metaphoric. It’s the sum of what I’ve learnt so far, and am still learning.

This kitchen is a gentle relaxed one, where a punishing, guilt-inducing attitude towards food will not be tolerated. In this kitchen we appreciate the restorative powers of chocolate. The kitchen would have a fireplace, and possibly a few dogs from Battersea Dogs’ Home curled up next to it. There might be a small upright piano by the window, with an orchid that doesn’t wither as soon as I look at it. On long summer days, the doors to this kitchen are thrown open, while a few lazy, non-stinging bees mosey by. Children stir. When it rains, there is room in this kitchen for reading and a spoon finding its way into the cake mix. Serious cups of tea are drunk here; idle gossip occurs, balance and humour prevail. It’s the kitchen of my grandparents’, but with some Bowie thrown in. It is lingering breakfasts, it is friends with babies on their knees, it is goodbye on a Sunday with the promise of more. This kitchen is where life occurs; jumbled, messy and delicious.

There is room in this kitchen for a spoon finding its way into the cake mix

It is lovely.

SERVES 2

2 generously sized portobello mushrooms

Salt and pepper

Olive oil

2 thick rounds of soft goat’s cheese

2 eggs

1 teaspoon of white vinegar (for poaching)

1 sprig of fresh tarragon

I make this when I’m a bit breaded out, but hungry. Portobello mushrooms have a satisfying meatiness about them that sates without the heaviness of a full English.

Preheat the grill. Wash the mushrooms and remove the stalks, season with salt and pepper and give them a glug of olive oil; a spoonful should do. Crumble the goat’s cheese.

Pop the mushrooms stalk-side up under the grill for about 5 minutes. While they are searing away, poach the eggs in a pan of gently boiling water (a teaspoon of white vinegar should stop them separating).

You can do one of two things with the goat’s cheese: you can add it on top of the mushrooms when you put them under the grill, so it browns; or you can put it on just after they come out.

You should poach the eggs for about 3 minutes if you want them soft in the middle (5 if you want them stern and unyielding). Drain them, put them on top of your crumbly goat’s cheese/mushroom mix, scatter some chopped tarragon on the top, grind on a bit of pepper, and voilà !

SERVES 2

375ml/1 1/ 2cups of the milk of your choice—I’d use semi-skimmed or soya

100g/ 1/ 2a cup of basmati rice

2 cardamom pods, lightly crushed

1 stick of cinnamon

Honey or maple syrup, to taste

crème fraîche (optional)

For the compote

2 pears

60ml/ 1/ 4of a cup of apple juice

1 teaspoon of cinnamon extract

There is a theme to my cooking that tends towards baby food. This is a perfect example.

In a heavy-bottomed pan, bring the milk and rice to the boil. Add the cardamom pods and cinnamon stick. Take the heat down to its lowest flame, or use a heat diffuser, cover the rice, and simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.

While this is cooking, peel and core the pears and chop into slices. Bring the apple juice to the boil; add the pears and cinnamon extract. Cook until the pears are tender, 5 minutes or so, adding more juice if needed. Remove from the heat and transfer to a blender, or purée them with a hand-held blender.

Fluff the rice and put into a bowl. Pour the compote on top with a drizzle of honey or maple syrup and, if it’s a particularly grim morning, stick in a spoonful of crème fraîche.