Olive oil cake
I was around 16 or 17 when I first ate a meal alone in a restaurant. I was working a part-time checkout job at Safeway, earning my own money, meeting new, older, cooler people. My world was expanding beyond the high school cafeteria, but not so much that I didn’t have to rely on my parents to pick me up after a shift. One evening, for reasons I can’t remember, they were going to be late, so I decided to take myself out for dinner. At the time, my work uniform consisted of scratchy black polyester trousers, a washed-out green shirt, and a baggy red fleece. I’d planned to go straight home after work, and so, without a change of clothes, I dined in my uniform. I ate chicken fajitas in a restaurant that doesn’t exist anymore, and I paid for it with my first ever debit card (appropriately called a Solo card). I felt grown-up and confident and only mildly embarrassed when I realized I’d forgotten to take the name tag off my shirt.
I’m very content in my own company. I particularly like to work alone, and I've traveled a lot by myself too. When I was 22, I spent several months on an exchange program in Phoenix, leaving ancient Edinburgh for a desert city only 140 years old. Though everyone else drove, I bought a bike and rode around, drawing and taking photos on my Polaroid. During spring break, while the other students headed to Florida, I flew by myself to New York City to see the Shins play at Madison Square Garden. It was 32ºC in Phoenix, and I packed for cooler weather, but I hadn’t bargained for the sudden drop to below freezing. The snow fell, then melted into lochs of gray slush on every street corner, too big to leap over. That’s when I discovered that the cowboy boots I’d bought on a trip to the Grand Canyon were not waterproof.
At 28, I quit my job in London to spend a few months apprenticing at a bakery in Paris. When I wasn’t learning how to make brioche and croissants, I walked around the city, getting to know the streets and the light and the far corners. I'd walk from my tiny studio apartment in the Bastille along the Canal St Martin and up into Belleville. I’d pack a baguette and a book and sit in the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. Sometimes I’d head in the opposite direction, along the Promenade Plantée, the Parisian version of New York’s High Line. I liked to glimpse people in their apartments, a floor or two above the street, quietly going about their day.
I returned to London, where I’d go to Ottolenghi on Sunday mornings by myself. I’d drink a couple of cappuccinos and eat a brioche with lots of butter and jam. I grew up in the Scottish Highlands where the sky stretches endlessly above your head: gray, blue, deep purple. A big sky grounds me, and I’d often take long walks in Regent’s Park just to see the sky open, pushing the relentless city right out to the periphery. I walked great lengths of the Regent’s Canal too. I’d start near my house in Angel, following the water to Broadway Market and beyond. And if you’re going to walk from Angel to Broadway Market along the Regent’s Canal, you might as well do yourself a favor and stop at the Towpath Cafe on the way.
The Towpath Cafe was open from March until November, and, in my memory, the sun was always shining. The menu was small and seasonal with lots of local produce, and baked goods were served directly from the counter. There were plenty of options, but only one cake stuck in my mind: the olive oil cake. No topping, no filling or fruit, no cream on the side. Just an orange-scented sponge, served by the slice. It became part of my ritual. Walking and looking and noticing, then pausing for reflection with a slice of cake. A joyful, gentle kindness.
I’m drawn to what can be made simply and well. A good piece of cake is reassuring, steadying, and it’s always good to know where you can find one. I often think about the Towpath olive oil cake. But I live in Berlin now, so I have to re-create it myself. Lately, I’ve been working on a wedding cake for a friend, meaning lots of rich toppings and fillings and not much bare-bones baking. Thrilling, but I’ve felt the need to counter it with a simple snack cake to bring my blood sugar back down to earth. It seemed as good a time as any to come up with my own olive oil cake. So here it is. Light, a little fruity, and reminiscent of sunny days by the Regent’s Canal. Only now I’m eating it with my seven-month-old baby next to me. He can’t have a taste yet, but it’s never too early to introduce the idea of simple pleasure. Then again, he’s the one who finds prolonged amusement in playing with a tupperware lid. Perhaps I should be learning from him.
This cake truly doesn’t need any accompaniment, but a dollop of whipped mascarpone cream wouldn’t be wrong. Add to that some fresh or poached fruit and you have yourself a lovely dessert. Otherwise, I’d recommend enjoying a slice any time of day with a nice cup of coffee.
Olive oil cake
Makes a 20 cm round cake
170 g fine sugar
160 g olive oil
3 eggs – 1 whole, 2 separated into yolks and whites
200 g plain flour
1 level tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
60 g buttermilk at room temperature
½ tsp vanilla extract
grated zest of ½ large orange
grated zest of ½ lemon
Grease a 20-centimeter, round baking tin and line it with baking paper. Preheat the oven to 160ºC.
In a large bowl, add the sugar, olive oil, one whole egg, and the two yolks. Put the whites in a separate large bowl and set them aside for later. Using an electric hand mixer, beat the sugar, oil, egg, and yolks for two minutes until they're lighter in color and a little more voluminous.
Sift in the flour, baking powder, and salt, then add the buttermilk, vanilla and zests. Beat together until combined.
Change the hand-mixer attachment to the whisk (or use a stand mixer if you prefer) and whip the whites until they form stiff peaks. Add a third of the whipped whites to the cake mixture and use a metal spoon to fold in. This will loosen the mixture for you. Add another third, folding in gently to avoid losing too much air, and finally add the remaining third in the same way.
Transfer the mixture to your prepared baking tin, then bake in the centre of the oven for 45 minutes or until a skewer inserted through the middle of the cake comes out clean.
Allow the cake to cool in the tin for at least 15 minutes before turning out and cooling on a rack. This cake keeps extremely well at room temperature. Simply transfer to a sealed box or a plate with an upturned mixing bowl to cover.
To make a simple mascarpone cream, whip 150 grams of heavy cream until thick, then mix with 75 grams of mascarpone and 10 grams of powdered sugar.
Amazingly written 🙏
Belatedly reading this and thinking of my own youthful solo meals in new cities — a sweet, awkward rite of passage (or at least I always felt a little awkward dining solo, though not so much anymore). What a lovely first issue, can't wait for more!