Igor’s stuff

Turned out I was in NYC at the time my friends at Breakfast were gearing up to launch their iPad-controlled video blimp at the NY Design Week afterparty on Saturday night (at the Ace Hotel on West 29th Street), and so I was happily recruited in to helping with setup. Cables taped up, comms lines cleared, it went off really well, and seems to have got the guys coverage at Wired blog. Schweeet.

We built this iPad app using the Eyewitness photo series. Steve Jobs referred to it in the pre-amble to his iPhone OS 4.0 launch as "really nice", and "a cool app". I've been touched by the hand of Jobs.

Bright shoes are where it's at. They force you to be a cheery goon, which is clearly highly desirable. I've gone so far as to throw away my old dull, dark shoes. That ain't me no more.

Goose fat. That's the secret, lashings of goose fat. And when you've par-boiled the potatoes, swing 'em around in a colander so they scuff up niiice. Medium oven for an hour, regular turns, lightly steam the veg - then: stuff the whole lot in your head, quick as you can. No-one'll ever know it was there.

On Saturday I went to have yet another puncture repaired, and hopefully delay the next similar incident, by having some new tyres fitted to my bike at Lock 7 Cycle Café. On wandering along Broadway Market to pass the time while waiting for the work to be done, I chanced on the Artwords bookshop, a sister to the one on Rivington Street. It's a treasure trove. Several times I realised in the course of my visit that I was just gazing, mouth agape, at the shelf- and tablefuls of gorgeous, fascinating, beautiful books. Spent so long browsing that it would have felt really rude not to take anything with me. I love this place. I'd love to find a sort of cultural Shangri-La like this hidden in big city hills, a literary, linguistic and licentiously visual labyrinth, with room after room of tomes and quartos and lavish lithographic layouts, and spend days and weeks and months absorbing and soaking myself in the splendour, luxuriating in its lushness.

I've been to Soho Japan three times now, and had this rather unusual dish on two of those occasions. Both times the Japanese waitresses have felt it necessary to make sure that we know what we're doing, as this is clearly viewed as somewhat unpalatable to Western tastes. It's definitely strong - raw baby squid tentacles in a sauce made out of the rest of the squid, pulped with salt and spice - but I enjoyed it so much the second time that I left a sufficiently empty dish for the waitress to look really quite surprised.

I was a bit annoyed to see people pulling apart the derelict P&D Green house shop-frontage and hence dismantling the recently-added hands piece by Run, but when I saw this old signage with its presumably pre-1990 'phone number underneath, it suddenly all seemed alright. Don't ask me why.

An excellent eating venue: Soho Japan. An uninspiring pub transformed by the seemingly anomalous transplanting into the bar of a Japanese kitchen and staff, on this occasion providing not only rather wonderful starters and sumiyaki selection but this sashimi moriawase with some of the best, freshest toro sashimi I've ever eaten. Very good Beaujolais complemented the menu and the lack of human swarms lent a decidedly relaxed atmosphere. A new favourite, I wonder?

From Moshi Moshi. Been a while since I had one of those bad boys. Which reminds me of when the friendly fruit-stall guy at Old Street tube station referred to bananas: "You want two of those little bad boys do you?". Yes. That's exactly what I want. Brutal.

I took it out of the ’fridge early, rubbed on some oil and black pepper, and left it to breathe for a while. The plan was to make the best approximation I could of Jack O’Shea’s advice by giving this cross-cut onglet about 90 seconds on each side, as close as I could get it to as high as the grill would go, and then letting it rest for a good five or six minutes. It wasn’t the thickest slice I’ve seen, so I was a little concerned about over-cooking it; as it turned out, had I been in more squeamish a mood today, it probably could even have borne another 30 seconds each side, but the result was perfect for my currently vampiric mien, and the flavour - obviously largely due to the careful maturing at the ’Pig, though enhanced, I do believe, by Mr. O'Shea's tips - was quite extraordinary: a deep, broad beef, smooth and round, with a tangy edge of offal iron. This cut’ll get nowt but praise from me.