The perfect sandwich

My father had many talents. Born in 1919, he was an old-fashioned gentleman who strove all his life to be current. He wore clothes like a dandy - apple green suits with feathered hats in the 1940's, silk shirts deeply unbuttoned with a gold Buddha at his olive-brown neck in the 1970's. When he died my mother counted some 200 shirts in his closet. He wrote radio plays before television was invented, then moved on to directing cult advertising commercials for Coke in the early 80's along with music clips for AC/DC and the first cooking videos for Australia's original celebrity chef, Charmaine Solomon.

Saigon monastry tofu and lemongrass

photo by Elaine Dunstan

In the wet season the rain in Ho Chi Minh City comes without warning. One minute the streets are their usual craze of millions of motorbikes beeping and darting like a swarm of crazy wasps, then suddenly, from nowhere, riders and passengers are covered in flimsy plastic cagoules, flapping like so many wings.

An altar to the fig

Lately, the perfect form of figs have been haunting me from their marked-down tubs at Tescos. Turkish sirens reduced to 50p for three. There is something almost taboo about their bruised black skin and fleshy inners. It seems a violation not to buy them before they fade.

My favourite little cafe

Like so many people I have the dream of owning a cafe one day; although I'd probably have to open it on some small Mediterranean island customed by locals with relaxed attitudes to consistency. I want the freedom to close for a day at the beach when needed, or to change the menu daily.