There was a house on Cassland Road, east London, that would produce the most fantastic cooking smells. This is more than two decades ago now, when I would pass the house once or twice a week, usually on my way to catch the bus. It didn’t matter what time it was – early morning, late afternoon or evening – evidence of something baking, simmering or roasting was almost always drifting through the kitchen window, over the wall and across the pavement. What made the situation even more intriguing, (and slightly Roald Dahl) was that I never saw anyone at the window, or going in or out. Who was responsible? And why? Did they have a large family, lots of friends, or run a small catering company? Were they happy cooking, or exhausted, or both? Whatever the reason, their repertoire was wonderful, and the smell of fruit cakes, things covered in pastry, burnt sugar, rice and peas, full roast dinners and even fuller curries circled like low-flying aircraft before being whisked away on the east London breeze.
Twenty years later in Rome, the smell of burnt jam and frying chicken brought back memories of Cassland Road. I was cooking in my dressing gown at 9am, an attempt to beat the heat and stickiness that moves in by mid-morning, a state not helped by watermelon, which turns every surface into adhesive. The burnt jam had leaked out of a tart, and the chicken was for this week’s recipe: minestrone estivo freddo, or cold summer minestrone.
