THE STARS

English Teacher, il Mercato Centrale, old books

★★★★★ Stephanie Alexander’s The Cook’s Companion

Recently, your editors were meandering along a suburban side street when a box of free books stopped us in our tracks. Most were dross—the usual unloved mix of out-of-date investment advice, interior decoration inspo, and political analysis centred on long-ousted players. But then, out of the dusty pile, gold emerged: a 2004 copy of Stephanie Alexander’s The Cook’s Companion: The complete book of ingredients and recipes for the Australian kitchen. We already own Nana Delys’ (RIP) old copy of the original (first published 1996), which is charmingly rustic, with a terracotta fabric-wrapped spine and a burgundy cover featuring little illustrations of a red apple, green beans, and a chook drawn in a whimsical style that seemed to exist only in the ‘90s. This was the Y2K redesign, with a bright gradient colour cover and glitzy silver-gilded pages. But the encyclopaedic contents are more or less the same. The Cook’s Companion isn’t a particularly cool book; there’s no Ottolenghian verve, or Alison Roman empire virality, or acknowledgement of kimchi. Many of the recipes are fairly simple, old-fashioned, even basic. But this lack of trendiness is also the book’s best quality. It’s a solid, trusty companion, not a celeb, and its value lies in instruction at the level of ingredient and method. The book is primarily organised around alphabetised ingredients, from “Abalone” to “Zucchini and Squash.” These are introduced with historical trivia—broccoli was first cultivated as Brassica oleracea by Venetians in the sixteenth century—as well as suggested flavour combos—broccoli goes with almonds, anchovies, bacon, breadcrumbs and butter, as well as olives and oyster sauce—and personal reminiscences. Stephanie's many anecdotes give insight into bizarre Anglo family food cultural practices of yesteryear: “My first broccoli was bought from the Cincotta greengrocer in Rosebud in about 1960. I remember it being presented with much ceremony at the family table. It was the vegetable that heralded The Change!” Aye, the change, the change… In the “Fish” section, Alexander advises on the types of fish one should buy in Australia, how many kilograms one should purchase for different purposes, and the different ways one can steam, bake, grill, poach, or fry the stuff. She genuinely makes you feel like you can—and should—hit the market to confidently purchase a whole snapper. Whoever threw this book out is a moron. Not only is it a timeless classic, it’s also really expensive—new copies are $130, and one rare edition is currently going for $800 in the Books for Cooks shop at the Queen Vic Market. So, in the spirit of a community kitchen garden trade, we would like to regift this dumpster-dived Cook’s Companion to one of you, dear readers. To be in the running, reply to this email or comment on our IG post with the three people you'd invite to dinner for your Stephanie Alexander soufflé.

★★★★ City Basement Books

Speaking of dusty tomes…TPE recently paid a long-overdue visit to a beloved secondhand bookshop, City Basement Books. Opposite Flinders St Station—down past Flora, past the squat little 7-Eleven on the corner of Elizabeth Street and Flinders, and just before Queen Street—you walk down a set of eerie, concrete stairs, then enter an incongruously calm space. Hushed, carpeted, comfortably messy, we felt as if we’d entered a cosier version of the Manhattan bookshop in Mary Gaitskill’s “Daisy’s Valentine” (from her inimitable 1998 short story collection, Bad Behavior). Similar to in Gaitskill’s story, City Basement Books was sparsely populated by an assortment of shuffling older men and furtive, stooping young people with pierced faces and heavy backpacks. The counter was presided over by two plump, cheerful women half-hidden by towers of books and papers. CBB is a general bookstore, meaning that the collection includes “Poetry” and “History” but also “Insects” and “Glass.” The “Media” section had some gems: an anthology from Overland’s early years, compiled by its founder Stephen Murray-Smith; two copies of the pervert Norman Lindsay’s Bohemians of the Bulletin. The general fiction shelves zig-zagged the entire length of the shop and boasted slept-on stalwarts, popular fiction, and utter unknowns. While browsing, we were overcome by an intense feeling of protectiveness; you just know some developer is itching to absorb this place into an underground carpark. Protect CBB. Pop an antihistamine and enjoy.