Five-hour steak

The perfectly cooked steak is the holy grail of many chefs and home cooks.

For me a steak is a treat, a rare (no pun intended) but glorious treat. As a result if I cut into one that is overdone the disappointment can easily ruin the entire meal and the next thirty minutes will be spent in a deep sulk that only time and some well-cooked chips can offset.

The happy inverse of that is slicing through a piece of beef that is cooked to the ideal doneness – a quivering pink throughout with a crisp, charred and heavily seasoned exterior. Oh, the sheer delight.

I can think of few other gustatory pleasures that can measure up to a perfectly cooked steak.

Fillet, for so long the posterboy of the steak world, doesn’t quite measure up for me.

It may be tender but its leanness is also its Achilles’ heel. For the fat is where the flavour is and a muscle that has done no work (its position in the anatomy of the cow ensures this is the case) hasn’t enough depth for the truly discerning steak lover.

Instead I prefer a muscle that has worked, one that has led a life of hardship and built up a rich marbling and intense flavour as a result. Give me an onglet or bavette to work my teeth into over a chateaubriand any day of the week.

The problem with these cuts is they can be a little too tough. Served beyond rare they turn into slabs of meat that could resole a rudeboy’s Doc Martens. Even cooked momentarily, with a brief kiss of a searingly hot frying pan, the presence of connective tissue and sinew can offer a mandible workout of intense proportions.

Enter the water bath – a way of cooking meat to perfection. Every. Single. Time.

High end restaurants have long known about the benefits of cooking sous vide. Four or five years ago I ate a piece of lamb at Midsummer House, a two-star restaurant in Cambridge. It was delightfully tender and so flavourful I can still recall it now. I couldn’t quite believe it when I was told it had cooked for six hours. How was it still so pink inside? And uniformly so?

Thomas Keller is such a convert that he has written an entire book about the method. More top shelf gastro porn from the author of The French Laundry Cookbook and Bouchon.

I’d looked into buying the kit (called immersion circulators) to achieve the results at home but they were bulky and astronomically expensive – designed for commercial kitchens rather than the shoebox I have at home.

But then a couple of weeks ago I was sent one aimed at home cooks from these guys. It’s small, easy to use and delivers results you would expect in top restaurants.

And as someone who delights in the science of cooking and the potential of gastronomic experimentation, it is fast becoming my new favourite toy.

For beef junkies, skirt steak is the ideal cut. It’s incredibly tasty and bargain basement cheap. Cooked right it’s a joy to eat but its window of deliciousness is small. In other words, the perfect guinea pig for my first forays into sous vide.

Each piece was well seasoned with black pepper and sea salt then placed into a plastic zip-lock bag. Apparently sous-vide means ‘under vacuum’ so enter the vacuum cleaner. I sucked out as much air as I could then quickly sealed the top before dropping the whole lot into a stockpot full of water at 52 degrees.

Why 52? 50-60 degrees is the temperature window at which the meat proteins co-agulate, or cook. Pick a point between these two magic numbers and your steak will be between rare and medium rare and gloriously juicy.

And there it remained for five hours, bobbing up and down and gradually turning an unappetising shade of grey-brown before being removed and shocked in an ice bath to stop the cooking process.

A frying pan was heated to ‘scorching’ and a small drizzle of cooking oil – enough to cover the bottom – was poured in. Whilst it was coming up to temperature, the steak was seasoned again then cooked on either side for about a minute until a generously dark colour covered each side.

After a five minute rest on a warmed plate it was time to cut and see if experiment one had worked:

What surprised me most was the uniformity of the cooking. The meat was at the rarer end of medium rare all the way through. There was no gradation towards a pinker centre but the same colour throughout, aside from the dark brown crunch of the exterior.

The flavour was assuredly beefy, intense and unmistakably steak like. The outside crisp, rich and earthy and the interior almost sweetly bovine and wonderfully soft. Whilst the meat could have been slightly tenderer – which could be achieved over a longer cooking period – it offered enough resistance to be satisfyingly chewy.

It was, easily, one of the best pieces of meat I’ve ever tasted. From now on, for me, there is only one way to cook steak. Now, I wonder if pork belly will work…?

On Molecular Mishaps (and why not to pour Algin baths down the sink)

Occasionally triumph arises out of adversity.

More often, though, things happen the other way around.

After successfully recreating el Bulli type spheres of deliciousness (about sixteen different varieties – including a pea sphere which was turned into the filling of some fresh ravioli), I was left with a couple of pints of algin bath.

Which I absentmindedly poured down the sink without so much as a blink before commencing with Mount Washmore (seriously, I don’t know how two of us create so much washing up).

‘Hon, why won’t the shower water drain away?’ my girlfriend asked, her tone heavy with innocent confusion come Sunday morning.

‘I’m not too sure,’ I replied, ‘but the sink is taking ages to empty as well.’

The answer didn’t elude us for long.

‘Erm, the outside drain seems to be full of jelly,’ she shouted through the kitchen window. I went cold and turned a distinct shade of rose that can only be associated with a realisation coupled with guilt and a heavy dose of stupidity.

She was right. It looked like a jellyfish massacre had taken place just outside the back door.

Forgetting my initial travails regarding the effects of hard water on alginate solution, it was with gay abandon that I’d disposed of the liquid down the sink. More than once.

‘Oh my god,’ she said. ‘You’ve blocked our drains with molecular gastronomy. YOU’VE BLOCKED OUR DRAINS WITH MOLECULAR GASTRONOMY.’ If the entire scenario hadn’t been so comical I’d have been more scared.

As it was, she could do little to stop the beginnings of a smile gently touching at the corners of her mouth. My fear gradually fell away.

But it didn’t alter the fact that our drains were blocked with what looked like the contents of the world’s largest sneeze.

‘Do you not remember what happened when you tried to mix that stuff with tap water?

I hadn’t. But now I did.

‘Oops,’ was pretty much all I could manage. It was followed by a sheepish ‘Shit.’

Google was no assistance. Results for ‘dissolve calcium alginate gel’ were unhelpful aside from telling me that it wasn’t heat soluble. The four kettle-fulls of water I’d already poured through the drain cover had probably exacerbated the problem then.

I turned to eGullet and posted my query.

And the good folks there brought answers like the postman delivering a letter to a wartime bride.

‘You could try using an auger or drain snake,’ came one outstanding suggestion.

It’s good to know that when all else fails, brute force is still a veritable option.

After much pushing, shoving, wiggling and dry-heaving the blockage was dislodged and came sailing down the pipe followed swiftly by assorted detritus. No details necessary. I’m sure your imagination can stretch to picturing a giant ball of jelly that had possibly been clogging the pipes for weeks.

And all that followed in its wake.

Success. And like an episode of Thundercats I shall end with a moral. Perhaps one that I should have learnt after watching ‘The Fly’ aged 8: Those with only a rudimentary understanding of science shouldn’t play with forces whose power remains unknown

Jeff Goldblum should probably have taken heed too. Honestly, he should have known Jurassic Park was going to go wrong.

For more acts of occasional idiocy, follow me on Twitter.

Spherification: Why Inverse?

Oh, you lot ask some good questions. Aren’t you a bright bunch?

In response to last week’s post about mozzarella spheres, I received literally two (possibly three if you include Twitter) requests for explanations regarding the ‘inverse’ part of ‘inverse spherification’.

So, how does this differ from regular (!) spherification?

The original method Adria used for creating these suspended ravilo (singular for ravoli, apparently) was first developed back in 2003 and kept hush-hush secret for quite some time.

He discovered that salts and alginates reacted to each other and created colourless, flavourless ‘skins’ capable of holding flavoured liquids within them.

The alginate would be dissolved into the liquid to be sphere-ized and then dropped into a calcium carbonate solution where the two would react thus creating the famous orbs.

For example, alginates would be added to a puree of peas, spoonfuls of which would be dropped into a calic bath.

But there was a problem.

Even when rinsed clean in fresh water, the reaction continued.

Over a period of five minutes the sphere solidified and the diner was left with a rather disappointing ‘jelly’ as opposed to a satisfying ‘pop’ as the skin burst and filled the mouth with essence of pea, mango or mozzarella cheese.

How to get round this?

Well, simply switch the two elements. Inverse them.

Instead of adding the alginates (derived from seaweeds, much like agar agar) to the desired flavour, Adria developed an algin solution which would react with the calcium salts inside the foodstuff.

The reaction produced an almost identical outcome with the benefit of being able to halt it by rinsing the spheres in plain water. No more disappointing jellies.

Instead the result was a more stable sphere whose inside remained liquid for much longer and inverse spherification was born.

Inverse Spherification – Mozzarella Spheres

You want to do what to my sphere? Inverse it? Well, that’s quite enough of that, thank you very much.

Despite sounding like the name of a prog rock group from the mid 70s or the title of an obscure drum and bass album, inverse spherification is a rather nifty culinary technique.

It may sound scientific (partly because it is) but fear not. There is as much chance of me boggling you with science as there is of George Bush being named Iraq’s Man of the Century.

Spherification is a principle whereby a flavoured liquid is encased in a flavourless skin. Imagine ravioli with invisible pasta and you’re somewhere close. It is a technique perfected by Ferran Adria and one he uses to great effect with his ‘olives’.

Here fresh olives are juiced then strained before being mixed with calcic gluconolactato. The mixture is then spooned into an algin bath where the two chemicals react together, instantly forming a translucent skin which holds in the liquid.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKWgmx0kc1A]

Phew. Still with me? Good.

The effect can be repeated with almost any liquid thus creating a tasty burst of flavour with near infinite possibilities. Imagine dishes that ‘self-sauce’ at exactly the right moment or cocktails that mix in the mouth rather than the shaker. Oh what fun to be had.

For the cauliflower cheese dish, the inspiration came in the form of incredible buffalo mozzarella from Laverstoke Park Farm (A British made mozzarella? Believe it).

Whilst it tastes superb unadorned, oozing freshness from within the delicious pale orb, I was desperate to try Adria’s method for making mozzarella spheres.

Previous attempts at spherification had yielded mixed results varying from partial failure to complete and utter failure. Only when I found a thread on eGullet about the effect of hardwater on algin baths did I realise what was going wrong. The natural lime present in the water was setting the algae extract and creating a jelly.

Enter bottled water and, huzzah! Success. No more jellies.

The cheese (125g) was blended with a little cream then passed through a sieve before being mixed with about 2g calcic gluconolactato. Spoonfuls were then dropped into the waiting algin bath and fingers were crossed.

The excitement of seeing the spheres set for the first time was truly palpable. I couldn’t hide the smile from my face, neither did I want to. Half expecting the white liquid to ooze out, it was fantastic to see it set instantly into a neat little orb that looked exactly like a mini mozzarella cheese.

The surprise comes when you bite into it – instead of the slight resistance of a semi-solid cheese you get a burst of mozzarella flavour in liquid form. A real revelation and certainly one to try again.

For more bursts of flavour, follow me on Twitter .

For UK supplies of the necessary bits and bobs to re-create some Adria inspired dishes try Cream Supplies who have a incredible range.

Chocolate Mousse

To those of you with a vague understanding of scientific principles, this will probably make sense.

For those in the opposite camp (and I put myself firmly in this bracket), this will probably seem a little bit like sorcery.

If this technique had been demonstrated by an enterprising 16th century chef, he would probably have been burnt at the stake for dancing with the devil and engaging in nefarious culinary exploits.

This is a chocolate mousse made entirely out of chocolate and water.

There is nothing else involved. No binders, no emulsifiers, no eggs, no eye of newt or bollock of bat. Nada. Zilch.

Chocolate and water.

It is one of the few ‘experiments’ I’ve attempted from Hervé This’ book Molecular Gastronomy: Exploring the Science of Flavour (Columbia University Press, 2006).

Despite references to ‘metabotropic glutamate’ and ‘sugar chains forming molecular skeletons to carry carboxylic acid’ much of the book remains within the grasp of the average home cook and offers some valuable material to those looking to improve their cooking, or at least seeking a more thorough understanding of what goes on when frying pan meets egg.

When I read about the possibility of making a chocolate mousse within seconds and only two elements, I had to try it.

The lack of any extra ingredients in this chocolate mousse enables the purity of the chocolate to really shine, important if you’re working with high quality produce or single estate chocolate, for example.

The flavours aren’t dulled and there is an intensity of flavour I’ve not experienced before. It also opens up all sorts of possibilities for adding additional flavours, if you so wanted.

Perhaps a drop of chilli or a little vanilla extract.

So, how do you go about making this magic mousse?

Melt equal parts (by weight) of chocolate and water together in a double boiler. Remove the bowl, place it in some iced water and, using a good old fashioned balloon whisk, start beating the liquid.

You should notice a change in the texture almost immediately.

Keep whisking and then remove the bowl from the water to stop it from cooling too much and solidifying again.

Stop whisking once the ‘mousse’ is at the required consistency. If you go too far, don’t worry – just re-melt the chocolate and keep trying until you get the texture you want.

For my ‘cauliflower cheese’ I kept going until I had a slightly grainy texture but for a dessert you probably want something a little lighter.

Food sorcery at its finest, and most simple. Now all I have to do is avoid visiting Salem.

I’m on Twitter…

Cauliflower Cheese

One of the challenges facing molecular gastronomy is knowing where to draw the line between innovation and tradition.

Some dishes have become classic for good reason – they taste really good just the way they are. As such, alterations can be seen as pointless frippery. Experimentation for the sake of change.

Why ‘deconstruct’ a guacamole when regular guacamole is pretty close to perfection?

For culinary innovation to be successful, the resultant dish must maintain the integrity of the inspiration, or else the point has been missed and all that remains on the plate, and on the palate, is the bitter taste of disappointment and a hunger for the original.

Even Ferran Adria et al accept that not all dishes are a success. Granted, he scores more hits than misses but I’m sure his team have an awful lot of fun along the way.

And much of what this is about is having fun.

Eating (and cooking) is one of only two pan-sensory activities in which we, as humans, engage. Why shouldn’t it delight, amuse, surprise, tease or even arouse rather than just fuel?

Balancing these twin objectives – integrity and amusement against innovation and satisfaction – is a real challenge. But one that is enormously satisfying when it works. This was my first effort

Cauliflower Cheese

Cauliflower cheese is one of those big classics. Done right it is like being wrapped in a warm duvet and watching a Frank Capra film. Bite-sized florets of cauliflower, still carrying some bite, covered in a cheesey white sauce and topped with even more melty cheese, just turning that slightly crispy/chewy shade of brown. Give me the dish and a fork. No plates or napkins necessary.

Stripped down it has three main elements – the sauce, the cheese and the cauliflower. It also has three textures – soft, chewy and slightly crunchy. Finally, there are three flavours – saltiness from the cheese, caulifloweryness from the cauliflower and a slight bitterness from the topping.

The challenge was to keep all these fundamentals in place without compromising the flavour or satisfying nature of the inspiration.

After much head scratching, musing and mulling, this is what I came up with:

Mozzarella spheres with deep-fried cauliflower and bitter chocolate and a cauliflower and Parmesan puree with Parmesan crisps.

I think it ticks all the boxes. And you’re going to want the recipe aren’t you? I shall make it so…

For more little nibbles, follow me on Twitter

Salt and Vinegar Crisps

With the intro out of the way, we can crack on. Let’s begin with air. Or maybe foam. Anyone know when an air becomes a foam? Answers below please.

For the uninitiated, and those without access to liquid nitrogen, vacuum packaging devices, Large Hydron Colliders and other assorted machinery, airs and foams seem to be an excellent point of entry into the seemingly murky (and achingly complex) world of molecular gastronomy.

They are also relatively easy to create and apparently hard to fuck up (although, as expected, I did manage. You shan’t be seeing my ‘poached egg with paprika foam and roasted chickpeas’ because it looked like something from low budget Korean horror movie, circa 1983).

Airs and foams have come in for a bit of stick recently with some chefs apparently desperate to adorn all their dishes with a garnish that looks like gargled frog spawn. This is a bad thing.

But they do have their uses. They are light, delicate and carry flavours in a completely unexpected way. They’re also tremendous fun.

If you think you’ve never experienced such a level of gastronomy, think again. Unless, of course, you’ve never had a cappuccino – foam at its most famous. Or Foamous. *Sigh*

Using milk is one way to create the effect. Another is to use a chemical derived from soya beans or egg yolks called lecithin.

Although predominantly used in food production as an emulsifier (a go-between that helps the combining of fats and water – as in a béarnaise sauce), lecithin can also be added to virtually any liquid then whizzed up to create delicate bubbles of flavour.

Not wanting to ruin another perfectly good egg (see above), I thought about other possibilities and came round to the idea of using an air to flavour homemade crisps – something I first encountered at Midsummer House in Cambridge where we had crisps with a sweet balsamic foam as a pre-lunch nibble.

It was a neat twist on olive oil and balsamic vinegar, so often a satisfying starter when served with crusty bread. Time to get experimental.

With this in mind, instead of deep-frying the thin slices of potato, they were brushed on both sides with extra virgin olive oil and put into a hot oven.

Meanwhile, I mixed 75g of balsamic vinegar (not the good stuff) with the same amount of water, added 0.5g of lecithin and let it dissolve into the liquid.

Using a ‘wide mouthed container’, as recommended by another blogger, I then applied a hand blender to the surface of the liquid in an effort to create the small, stable, bubbles that form the ‘air.’

Oops.

There are still dots of balsamic vinegar on the ceiling, the fridge, the kettle and, probably, my hair.

Panicking, I plunged the blender deeper into the dark liquid.

Oops. Again.

The blade managed to cut cleanly through a small raised nipple in the base of the plastic tub and all I could do was watch as foamy (hooray!) vinegar and water slowly leached out onto the surface and down onto my socks.

Sometimes all you can do is watch as the horror unfolds. So that’s what I did.

Two towels later I remembered the potatoes, now a slightly darker shade of brown than I’d anticipated.

Oops thrice. Time for coffee.

Composure and cool regained I forgot everything that had gone before and started again.

Peel potato. Slice thinly on mandolin (carefully avoiding the cutting off of fingertips). Brush lightly with EVOO and bake in a slightly cooler oven for about four minutes on either side. Salt with Malden sea salt on emergence and leave to cool on something slightly absorbent. Like David Guest’s face. Or some kitchen paper. I tend to use the latter.

Meanwhile: mix vinegar and water with weird yellow powder and blitz carefully with a hand mixer. Leave for five minutes then collect the resultant bubbles into a small receptacle. A shot glass or small espresso cup will suffice.

Phew.

Dip each crisp into the foam and then shove it into your expectant mouth. Prepare yourself for a flavour explosion and a melding of textures so wondrous you’ll want to streak naked through the streets. Or at least have another. And then keep going until they are all gone.

For more delicate morsels, follow me on Twitter.

What Might Have Been…(an introduction to ‘Molecular Gastronomy’)

Between the ages of about 12 and 16 we spent, as a family, three summers in a tiny coastal town on Spain’s northern Costa Brava.

At the time, the resort of Roses was known for few things apart from the inevitable mini golf course, a go-karting track and perfectly serviceable stretch of beach. It was bustling enough in the evenings without feeling oppressive and enjoyed a steady trickle of tourists, predominantly from Germany and Britain.

How things change.

Sort of.

Roses’ most famous landmark is now a restaurant. But not just any restaurant: the best restaurant in the world. Officially. Ferran Adria’s El Bulli has once again been awarded the accolade of serving the best food of any establishment on the planet.

The restaurant’s name (meaning ‘bulldog’ in honour of the orginal owner’s pets) has become a by-word for culinary experimentation, as well as excellence, and Adria’s influence continues to make its mark on menus all over the world.

His, now notorious, style of cooking has been dubbed ‘molecular gastronomy’ but the name is considered to be something of a misnomer with even the founding fathers of this new cuisine trying to throw off the tenacious label to try and make it sound less inaccessible.

Where is all this going? Well, sadly, at the time I was holidaying there, El Bulli, despite having notched up two Michelin stars, was not the place of gastronomic pilgrimage it now is. It was known amongst the tightly knit fraternity of the foodie elite, but certainly didn’t feature on my culinary radar, nor that of my parents.

As a result, we never went.

It saddens me to know that at the time, there were some nights the restaurant would struggle to make ten bookings.

They now receive about two million requests a year with only a tiny handful – 8,000 – lucky enough to bag themselves a place during the six months it is open.

But, whilst I might not have direct experience, or even a reservation, I am in possession of the next best thing.

A while back I wrote about receiving the Texturas starter kit, the equivalent of a foodist’s chemistry set to allow budding ‘molecular gastronomists’ (since no better term has been invented I’ll struggle on with this one) to replicate some of the cutting edge techniques that have made Ferran Adria truly famous.

And I’ve finally got round to paying with it.

So, this is by way of introduction. And, hopefully a justification for the slightly – erm – unusual nature of the next few posts.

For more verbal foams, airs, spheres and purees, follow me on Twitter.

A return to the molecular kitchen

A while ago I wrote about the el Bulli Texturas kit which was (and still is) probably the best present I have ever received.

Initial experiments resulted in, erm, indeterminate results and my attempts at spherification seemed to be as successful as a Mormon monogamy pledge.

I soon discovered (ok, ok, my girlfriend discovered) that as we live in a hard water area, the algin was likely reacting with the salt we use in our water softener which was what was causing the less than successful blobs as opposed to the smooth orbs of perfection that grace the plates of restaurants that espouse such methods.

Since the initial failures, I have had little time to ponce about with edible chemicals in an attempt to create new and wonderful bursts of flavour, preferring instead to concentrate on meals that have a little more nutritional value.

Part of the problem was the, shall we say, vague nature of the book that the kit came with. I say book, but leaflet would be a more accurate description.

It simply wasn’t detailed enough.

And being somewhat limited in the understanding of chemistry I felt a little out of my depth.

Which was why I was delighted and excited and babbling like Ralph Wiggum on crystal meth when I spotted this particular tome in a Parisian bookshop.

But not just any bookshop, a bookshop dedicated entirely to food and drink and cooking and gastronomy and all things wonderful.

Although their English language section was small, there was plenty to keep me interested and I even managed to get my grubby eager paws on a copy of The Fat Duck Cookbook – the first time I’ve ever seen the silver gilded oversized bible.

But back to Librairie Gourmonde and Anne Cazor’s excellent little book, Petit Precis de Cuisine Moleculaire which explains 20 techniques (including the thus far elusive spherification) and 40 recipes to those who aren’t in possession of a lab coat, let alone a PhD in bio-chemistry.

This is swiftly going onto my Christmas list and I can’t wait to share the results come the New Year.

Oh, and Paris? It was freaking awesome. I’ll tell you about it sometime…

Sheer Awesomeness – molecular gastronomy in the home

Of all the culinary fads and fashions and phases and phenomena, molecular gastronomy is perhaps the one that excites me most. Of course, I adore and pursue simplicity in much of my cooking and gastronomic pursuits but there is something so wondrous, so exciting and almost ethereal about re-imaging food in way propounded by Heston Blumethal, Ferran Adria, Hervé This et al.

Molecular gastronomy is oft misunderstood and seen as over-complicating cooking purely for the sake of it, merely for showmanship and bravado. Its deriders see it as a pointless addition or fleeting distraction from the tried and tested elements of classical cuisine: a bastard off-spring of that much parodied style nouvelle cuisine.

Granted, in the wrong hands, this form of cooking can lead to gross misrepresentations and laughable creations. I dare say that there are a number of enthusiastic young chefs who feel as if they can forego learning about the base elements of cooking and move directly into the world of culinary alchemy with some horrendous Dr. Frankenstein style creations ensuing. Words like ‘deconstructed’ and ‘emulsified’ appear on menus as chefs allow their egos to pollute their food.

But this is not what molecular gastronomy is about. It is about understanding. It is about breaking things down to see why they work, how they work and how they can be improved. How flavours, textures, tastes can be made better and new combinations created. It is about finding how much truth there is in kitchen folklore, such as should you salt your steak before cooking and does searing meat help retain juices (the answers are yes and no, respectively). It is an exciting and wonderful way of cooking that utilises new techniques and complicated sounding ingredients which has thus far been the preserve of chefs and scientists and unavailable to the home cook.

Until now.

Ferran Adria is one of the founding fathers of molecular gastronomy. As the chef/owner of El Bulli, deep in the heart of Catalan country close to Spain’s northern most tip, he has been the recipient of the prestigious ‘World’s Best Restaurant’ award no less than four times. His 30-some course tasting menus have become legendary and it is close to impossible to book a table at this place of gastro-pilgrimage during the six months of the year that it is open.

For the second half of the year, Adria and his team of chefs spend countless hours in the restaurant’s lab kitchen creating new dishes, refining old ones and conjuring up exciting new techniques to stay ahead of the game. They use a selection of weird and wonderful ingredients to achieve the remarkable techniques that they showcase in the restaurant: airs, jellies, spheres, caviars and numerous others. And they’ve recently made them available in quantities suitable for home use.

I had no idea that they were available until I picked up my (fabulous) girlfriend from work on Friday. She was clutching a box wrapped tightly in bubble wrap and smiling a broad and slightly cheeky smile. ‘I’ve got you a present’ she announced. I had to wait until we got home and we were sat down before she would let me open it, which was probably a good job because I might easily have fallen over had I not been on the sofa.

It was a sleek black box with the words ‘Minikit Sferificacion’ picked out in stark white lettering on the front. Although not immediately obvious what I was holding, the words ‘Albert y Ferran Adria’ made things clearer. Cut into the cardboard housing were five round holes, each offering a tantalising glimpse of the contents.

I’d previously only read words like ‘lecite’, ‘algin’ and ‘xantana’ in This’s books and on sites like Ideas in Food. Now I had five intricately packaged tins on my lap each containing one of these magical ingredients. This was exciting stuff, seriously exciting stuff. As well as the powders, the package contained a set of precision measuring spoons and a plastic syringe.

All those amazing creations I’d admired and read about are quite suddenly within reach. Spheres, jellies, airs, foams, suspensions and other intensely flavoured delights are no longer in the realm of impossibility but available to any enthusiastic home cook.

This is where the line between cooking and science becomes very blurred indeed and I cannot wait to start experimenting with these strange and alien additions to my kitchen.