Pollock Yassa – A Blast of West African Sunshine in Icy Gothenburg

The weather in Sweden right now is about as grizzly as a vagabond bear. The snow has temporarily melted leaving behind a palimpsest of grit, dark ice and illicit glimpses of pavement. In many ways I prefer Gothenburg when it’s properly cold rather than just in this manky in-between phase. Bleak conditions whip up cravings for warm memories.

One dish that never ceases to bring me comfort is Poulet Yassa, which I first had on a scorching hot day in a ramshackle restaurant in Accra. The memory of the sticky-sweet-sour, onion, lemon and mustard sauce that coated the charred chicken flesh makes my stomach smile just thinking about it. It’s the polar opposite to the taste of Gothenburg’s wintry blues.

Poulet Yassa apparently originates from the Portuguese region of Senegal, Casamance, and can be found on menus and plates across Africa from The Republic of Congo to the Gold Coast. It supposedly hails form either Portuguese or French colonialists who used the acidic lemon juice to tenderize the tough local chicken flesh and the Dijon mustard to counteract the sharpness. It offers a welcome sweet and sour tang in contrast to some of the more savoury dishes you encounter West Africa.

I decided to experiment with pollock rather than chicken and was very pleased with the results. The flavour of the sauce is gargantuan, so pollock comes into its own. And rather than rice, I thought some bulgur wheat would give the dish a more Swedish feel. The recipe below is adapted from the Congo Cookbook which is without question one of my favourite recipe websites. If you have a moment, I encourage you to lose yourself in the astounding collection of stories and recipes. But don't blame me if you stumble across some dishes requiring hippo or elephant meat.

Ingredients

1 piece of pollock
2 onions roughly chopped
Juice of 3 lemons
2 tablespoons of Dijon mustard
1 dessert spoon of honey
1 dessert spoon of fish stock
2 cloves of garlic
Splash of cider vinegar
Salt
Red chilli minced
Bulgur wheat
Sunflower or groundnut oil

Method

Sauté the onions slowly until they softened. Add the minced garlic and chilli once the onions have turned translucent. Sweat for a bit and then add the mustard, fish stock and juice of 3 lemons.

Heat and stir until it thickens and resembles a sauce. Add the honey, salt and cider vinegar to taste. You are looking for a sweet, sour, spicy amalgam that makes your mouth come alive.

Boil the bulgur wheat and take the sauce off the heat. Season the fish skin and sear flesh side up in a very hot pan. Once the skin has crisped up turn the heat down and add the sauce to the pan. Cook the fish in the yassa sauce until the fish is on the verge of being done. Then slosh it all on a plate and tuck in with a bottle of Star Lager. Bliss.



All it was missing was a side order of chilli fried plantain otherwise known as kelly welly. You can also add olives and switch the fish for either chicken thighs or some fatty pork.

Memories of Africa Flooded back at The Double Club

I often pine for Africa having spent 1/27th of my life breathing in the joys and despairs of the African continent. I’ve got giddy memories of living and working in Ghana. Of riding crocodiles. Exploring cocoa plantations. Walking with lion. I’ve got an enduring fondness for South Africa having taught in a school in Cape Town and in spite of being shot at. I’ve got a fuzzy feeling for Tanzania and Zanzibar having spent a few weeks on a beech there. And if we’re counting, I’ve had a great time in Morocco. But I’ve only scratched Africa’s surface.

Most of my foodie memories from Africa are of endless braies in Cape Town. But my favourite meals were in Ghana. Whilst I detested fufu and kenke I adored the way they cooked tilapia with onions, peppers and chilli. To this day the two-foot long tilapia we shared between 3 of us in a treehouse in Accra ranks as one of my favourite meals ever. Poullet Yasser wasn’t bad either. It’s made with a lemon and mustard sauce that makes you gasp. If you want to find some African recipes visit the Congo Cook Book.

So when Douglas and I were looking for an unusual restaurant to explore and the Double Club was mentioned, I got terribly excited and booked us a table before you could squeeze in a bad gag.

We turned left out of Angel and almost decided to retreat to the safety of Balham. The alleyway was scattered with tramps and strewn with litter. We tried to be anonymous as we walked past a bunch of scary youths handing out little plastic packets to strangers who were giving them money, but failed horrendously as Cowie’sstiletto heel got caught in a cobble! (I now know why cobblers are called cobblers.)



In contrast the door to the Double Club is guarded by two of the friendliest bouncers you’re ever likely to come across. (Bouncers, Richard. Bouncers. At a restaurant Richard. A restaurant.) But this isn’t a restaurant. This is a concept restaurant.

The Double Club is the creation of Carsten Holler who has joined forces with Prada to give birth to a restaurant that is half Congolese and half European that only has a 6 month life span. Holler’s love of Congo as a country and for its cooking sees the venture giving 50% of its profits to abused women back in Africa. It’s a remarkable idea. A refreshing change both in terms of its approach and its altruism.



I was determined to eat as much Congolese food as possible. If it meant I landed up like Kurtz then so be it. Luckily, Douglas was of very much the same opinion. Coming with girlfriends as well, meant we could explore as much of the menu as possible. European included.

The first thing that caught our attention was the smell. That languid, dusty smell you get as the sun goes down in Africa. When the guys with the hot coals burning in the middle of a car wheel start charring spiced goat kebabs. I love it. I miss it. It never ceases to amaze me how the sense of smell can transport us. Take that sight. In your face sound.

The restaurant is staffed by Prada clad models who did an exceptional job servicing us. The tables alternate from being authentically-rustic-African to glitzy-posh-European. I hate to pick holes in the styling because I think on the whole it is inspired. I just can’t help thinking that the African areas could have been more acutely African. It’s just a bit sanitised.

We ordered wildly. With wanton disregard for our appetites and wallets. A bewildering array of dishes arrived such as some enormous prawns called kossakossa. Gently spicy and slightly dirty tasting, they couldn’t have been more authentic. We almost had a fight for the last one. But, that could have been because one the other dishes of green African vegetables was depth charged with smoked, hard, grey, dry fish. Having eaten many similar things over in Africa I can vouch for its accuracy. But am also willing to testify against it in a court of law for being one of the most foul things I’ve eaten in a long time. Probably since Ghana in 2003.

Pigs trotters were fun even though you never get much meat on a trotter. The dish was more of a short essay on texture. The gelatinous sauce coated the tongue and the pulses added some body. You’ve just got to watch out for the small trottery bones that lurk in the murky depths. I imagine its one of those dishes that rewards the tactile, manual eater.

Curried goat was irresistible. It jumped around on the menu with its hand in the air yelling, “ORDER ME!” “OVER HERE!” “PICK ME!” So we did. It promised a lot. And whilst perfectly decent, it lacked the searing heat of the African cooking I remember. That said the lack of spice allowed the flavour of the goat to shine through with its sure footed charm.

Having indulged in most of the Congolese food for starter, Cowie and I chose the veal for our main course. It arrived looking resplendent. Almost regal.Without a hair out of place.It was cooked perfectly, but let down by some celeriac chips that were a step too far.

Douglas’s girlfriend wolfed down her beef ribs before the rest of us had been able to extend our telescopic forks. We can only conclude that it was, therefore, exceptionally good. Douglas put us all to shame by ordering the Congolese chicken that had been braised in a brown sauce. Now, I know that the chicken is the closest living animal in genetic terms to the T-Rex, but the size of Douglas’s chicken was absurd. I swear they mistook a Christmas turkey for a chicken. Either that, or Congolese chickens are all built like Big Bird from Sesame Street.

We somehow all had space for dessert. Douglas’s apple tarte tatin was good without being great. What it lacked in buttery pasty and oozing caramel it made up for with appliness. The highlight of all of our puddings was a goats’ milk ice cream that was quite simply brilliant. I can imagine a lot of people hating it. But not us. It managed the considerable feat of upstaging the Valhrona chocolate pudding it was accompanying. Cowie’s rhubarb pudding and my spotted dick showed the kitchen knows how to round a meal off in style.

The bill was large. But why shouldn’t it be? Especially when you consider there were as many staff as guests; the place is only here for 6 moths; they are running two menus; half the profits are going to charity; we had some lovely wine and Prada are involved. I suspect we won’t return, but we are delighted to have paid the Double Club a visit. It brought back so many fond memories and stretched our culinary frames of reference. If I ever go back, it will be to go to the bar for a beer, a goat kebab and some private time to read Cry, the Beloved Country.

For Douglas's review click here.