I got an e-mail from Amazon.com today, asking me if I’d like to keep my order open for Ottolenghi: The Cookbook.
Well, yeah. The sheer fact that the cookbook is hard to come by makes me want it even more. It’s like this book has become my Toyota Prius, my Hermès Kelly handbag — and it ought to be far more accessible than a car or a purse (that costs as much as the car).
I dropped Ottolenghi in my cart during one of those taken-by-impulse moments, after learning about it on (where else?) someone’s food blog. Maybe it’s the Ottolenghi philosophy that brings together tradition and reinvention, vibrance and simplicity, that has me convinced. Or the blurred front cover, the shot-in-motion moment of food created, food served.
I have yet to stand in front of my counter and peruse each page, each careful photograph of food sculpture, those heaps of edible invention poised on platters. I’ve never (not yet) been to London, so I’ve never (not yet) had the opportunity of visiting an Ottolenghi branch in Islington or Notting Hill. Oh, but I will. It might take some waiting — these things do — but I will.