Where to eat in Berlin: Cocolo, Kreuzberg

This is the second installment of a series that I called ‘where to eat in Berlin’ but should really be called ‘things I like to eat in Berlin and I think you should try too if you have a chance’. To read all about the first restaurant, Tangs Kantine, go here.

I adore any cuisine that can be classed as ‘Asian’. I love plain steamed rice with glazed, sticky meat, the tender filling of dim sum dumplings, the fresh herbal notes of Vietnamese food, the crunchy, nutty quality of Thai dishes, the toungue-numbing power of Sechuan pepper,  and the clear simplicity of Japanese ramen. I love it all.

And while I adore instant ramen, of the Korean kind that comes in a red plastic cup with a sachet containing a magically savoury and spicy powder, it’s proper Japanese ramen that I find myself longing for, especially in winter.

Nothing quite like ramen to beat the cold. A beautifully crafted bowl of milky, savoury broth, silky, thin slices of pork; crispy seaweed, chewy mushrooms, starchy noodles. An this is where Cocolo comes into play.

Now, Cocolo is busy. Very busy. You may have to wait and you’ll certainly have to share long tables with strangers, but that’s ok, because Cocolo’s ramen has that shiver-down-your-spine quality which makes it all worth it.


The meal starts with the most delicious ginger lemonade, homemade, aggressively fizzy, with droplets dancing on the surface, served in a rustic, unpolished mug. I have had a lot of supposedly ‘homemade’ lemonades in my life but nothing quite like this one.

Their ramen is just beautiful. I went for tonkatsu, the creamy and milky broth that’s both savoury and delicate, the deep flavour of meat and bones and time; marbled slices of porkiness tha fall apart in their liquor, pork belly with its crunchy crackling and a layer of unapologetically trembling fat that melts in your mouth, a soft boiled egg, its sticky yolk bright orange, and finally a piercing pink slice of pickled ginger. And the humble noodles, slippery, chewy, just hard enough, to mop it all up. Ramen is a simple pleasure but it’s so much greater than the sum of its parts when done the right way.


Cocolo Ramen X-Berg

Paul-Lincke-Ufer 39-40, 10999 Berlin, Germany

Cocolo Ramen X-berg



No-churn matcha latte ice cream


As I write this, it’s an impossibly beautiful, crisp, bone-cold winter day outside. The sun, low on the horizon, fills the quiet suburban street with deceivingly golden light which masks the bitterly cold temperature.

It’s glove weather. Scarf weather. Soup and takeaway bright orange curry weather. And here I come, with an ice cream recipe.

But do people’s cravings for ice cream really depend on the temperature? Aren’t its creaminess, the tongue numbing coldness, the syrupy toppings best enjoyed in winter, in a room so warm that the windows steam up, perched at the edge of the sofa while nursing a stew or getting lost in a book or simply watching re-runs of Friends?

You may disagree. That’s fine. Just serve this alongside some warm chocolate cake. You’ll thank me later.

Let’s talk about the magic word. No, it’s probably not what you’re thinking. It’s ‘no-churn‘.


If you love cooking and food and are as lazy as I am, you’ll know that little spark of excitement you get when you see this word printed on a magazine, or perfectly enunciated by Nigella Lawson.

Yes, Nigella is back. Her kitchen looks a little different and she does too, but everything she makes is still quintessentially her, the soft focus close shots of her snow white skin and dark hair, the perfectly spoken alliterations in her recipes, the leftovers secretly eaten from the fridge at night.

Her recipes have lost a little bit of indulgence -less bacon and lard, more avocado and protein-packed oat bars – but she’s still there, under a surface of green food.

And speaking of green foods, this recipe makes the most perfect, impossibly green matcha ice cream. It’s a quintessentially Nigella recipe: surprisingly simple, indulgent, and utterly delicious. The aromatic, slightly bitter note of tea goes perfectly with the dense, thick, sugary creaminess of condensed milk, and it tastes exactly like a matcha latte – hence the name.


The recipe is so easy you’ll want to tell everyone: a can of condensed milk, some double cream, green tea powder. And that’s it. What you get is spookingly similar to proper ice cream, minus all the effort, and it’s opened a world of possibilities. Could I make this with instant coffee powder? What about normal tea? Can I basically turn every powder into luscious ice cream? Stay tuned.

I buy my matcha powder from Amazon – cooking grade is cheaper and will do just fine. I tweaked Nigella’s recipes a little as I found hers too sweet – however this may depend on the intensity of your green tea, so I would probably start with two tablespoons of powder and then add according to you taste. You could also try and add sesame seeds before freezing – I used mine as a topping, their subtle roasted nuttiness is a perfect match to the creamy sweetness of frozen condensed milk.


No-churn matcha latte ice cream

One can of condensed milk (150 ml)

300ml double cream

4 tablespoons matcha powder

Put the condensed milk in a bowl, and stir to loosen. Add the cream and whisk until it begins to thicken. Whisk in the green tea powder until you have a thick whipped green cream.

Decant into an airtight container and freeze overnight. Before serving, top with sesame seeds.

You could serve this alongside a dark chocolate cake, but for me it’s best enjoyed on its own, in a sturdy bowl, a secret childish pleasure in spooning up creamy, dense and sugary ice cream, speckled with dark sesame seeds. As well as the sesame seeds, you could grate or even melt some very dark chocolate on top.

Original recipe: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-3235621/Simply-Nigella-No-churn-matcha-ice-cream.html#ixzz3s7yaCBH9


Kiraku, Ealing: a review and a love story.

We fell in love when I was sixteen. I say we because, although many people would argue that sushi doesn’t really have feelings -it being food and all that- I like to believe that the feeling was mutual.

Before then I was a little scared and sceptical. First of all, raw fish. That just didn’t sound appealing. My mum would also love to tell me horror story whenever she read from a dubious source that this and that person had died from eating raw fish. Even though this came from my mother, a woman who had eaten her way through many barely cooked steak hachés and tartares and admitted to often eating raw sausage when she was young, those cautionary tales just put me off the whole thing.

My more adventurous friends would often try to convince me to go out and try it. ‘I don’t like it‘ – I would lie – ‘I don’t like the texture‘, I would add without ever having encountered the mysterious rolls.

And then I caved in. I still remember the place, I even remember the dish: tempura prawn uramaki. It was love at first bite. Those little pockets of savouriness, the crispiness of the tempura batter and the sesame, the mellow simplicity of the white sticky rice, the intense savouriness of thick, black soy sauce. Suddenly, I was on a mission to eat it all.

We’ve been together ten years, sushi and I. We’ve been through a lot. Or maybe I have been through a lot (of sushi). But you know what I mean. I’ve seen it all. Bad supermarket sushi, dry and bitter, filled with unlikely ingredients they clearly had a surplus of (red pepper?). I’ve been through the bland and chewy, though the nausea-inducing over-filled rolls containing tubs of mayo, through the unnecessarily expensive sushi with foie grois and caviar and gold leaves and the likes that lands you a diet of instant ramen and mash for the following weeks..

The concept of having a local sushi restaurant, though, still escaped me. I had never been to a sushi place you wouldn’t have to dress up for, somewhere where you could lazily leaf through a paper menu, have a cup of green tea on the house, and hurry home, giddy with excitement, a paper bag in your hand.

Then I moved to Ealing and stumbled upon Kiraku.


Kiraku is a tiny, unassuming place – from the outside, it looks like any other takeaway, its door covered in menus and special offers, wind chimes tinkling every time the door opens, smiley waitresses bringing you a mug of green tea, an incredibly skilled sushi chef who cuts fish and rolls it in rice which such mesmerising fluidity that I can’t help but watch every move.


Kiraku makes great sushi. Simple, great sushi. Their fatty tuna makis are made with buttery tuna and bright chives. The donburi is probably my favourite: a bowl of perfectly cooked sticky rice with generous slices of jewel-hued, marbled salmon and ikura, little dots of intense saltiness. Pickles and wasabi are there to break the pattern, lift the softness, give it all balance.


Oh, and crispy salmon skin maki, did I mention? Crispy salmon skin maki.

You can also eat in and it’s equally lovely, with its small wooden tables, a laid-back atmosphere, and free mugs of green tea to warm your hands on. The takoyakis are unmissable: crispy balls of octopus-based batter with the softest, almost creamy centre. You can even wash it down with a huge 4-liter jug of beer.

Kiraku Takoyaki Uramaki

So yeah, ten years, and going strong.

Kiraku, Ealing.