Cold, wind, rain. It may be nearly Spring, but Edinburgh is still rather bleak this time of year. It’s no wonder I’ve been craving chocolate cake for a few days.

I follow a loose, self-imposed doctrine that means I rarely eat cakes that haven’t been home baked, preferably by me. Other people’s baked goods never taste quite right. Too much sugar. Not enough dairy fat. Oily crusts and suspiciously healthy recipes. A quarter of good quality butter is what I’ma fter.

I miss the convenience of French supermarket cakes. They may not have been home baked, but the quatre-quarts and other simple buttery loafs they have on offer always hit the spot, and always tasted right. I remember rushing home on Wednesday afternoons to catch Les Cités d’Or on Récré A2 (tum tum tum, les cités d’ooooor), while munching on a marbled slice of cake. Chocolate bit first, then the vanilla portions would get squidged between two fingers before being quickly gobbled down. These days, at the corner shop, the “Cuisine de France” stand displays ageing doughnuts and disgruntled yumyums. Scotmid ain’t no Intermarché.

Last Appetite’s post about 20 second immersion blender mayo reminded me that it only takes about 15 minutes to get a cake into the oven with minimal household disruption, even if you have a tiny and, like me, often messy kitchen.

For almost-instant chocolate gratification, you will need:

- 3 eggs

- 200 g of sugar

- 200 g of self-raising flour (or 200g of flour and a heaped teaspoon of baking powder)

- 200 g of butter

- about 200 g of melted chocolate (I used 6 heaped tablespoons of dark cocoa powder from Van Houten instead)

Preheat your oven to 180 degrees celsius (I set my electric fan oven to 165). Melt the butter in the microwave on a low setting. Crack the eggs into a big plastic bowl, add the sugar. Using your immersion blender, cream this mixture together until it is thick and pale yellow. Add the flour and chocolate, then continue to stir the mixture as you slowly poor the butter in. Grease a loaf tin and dust it with flour before pouring in the mixture. The cake will cook for about 30 minutes, or however long it takes for a knife to come out clean.

While the cake is cooking, get your child/boyfriend/cat/random stranger to lick the bowl clean. If you have a bit of whipping cream in the fridge, some ganache wouldn’t go amiss. Putting away the scales and washing up the two bowls and the immersion blender will only take a few minutes, which leaves you plenty of time, while your kitchen is filling with the scent of rich, dark, bitter, comforting cake, to settle down with Youtube to see if you can find a clip of that time when Esteban, Tao and Zia first discovered the golden condor.

Tum, tum tum, les cités d’oooooor.

Leith. What a strange place. Rows of dull, bland, deluxe-luxury-exclusive penthouse apartments. Rotund, shrieking children giving their dishevelled mothers a hard time. Chinese supermarkets and polish “sausage cafés”. Toothless cronies, drunken neds, and a smattering of smart restaurants, pubs, and delis. The green of the Links, the smell of the sea, the smug smirk of the thirty-something professional - it’s a rather pleasant place to be living, really.

Walking along The Shore, where the Water of Leith ends its gentle stroll in the Firth of Forth, makes for a lovely Sunday afternoon. If the fresh air and full hour of actual daylight is too much for your fragile constitution at this time of year, stop off at the Roseleaf pub for an emergency snack. Battered chairs, typewriters and mismatched porcelain give it a comforting, welcoming feel, as does the almost extreme friendliness of its staff. So friendly in fact, that you may find yourself wondering whether you should be giving them a hug for making you feel so at home. But that would just be weird. Right?

Then again the Roseleaf is a bit weird. There’s the all-day, all-night breakfasts, a more than passing obssesion with ginger juice (try it in a hot toddy, very nose-clearing), a menu featuring a gooey cheesy box, and a varied selection of exotic bar snacks. A. had a beer, I had a jasmine tea, and we both greedily picked at a generous plate of nachos, rich with guacamole, sour cream, and lots of jalapenos, while marvelling at the serrated sporks we’d been given for cutlery.

Unfortunately, the Roseleaf does not have a fryer (which means no chips and no wedges, booh!), and their salads and salsas have been a bit sweet for my taste. But as we left, we eyed the tray of plump, golden scones on the bar counter. Next time, you weird little comfy place. Next time.

Roseleaf Bar Café

23/24 Sandport Place

Edinburgh EH6 6EW

I can’t find much to recommend the Bali Café on Sisowath Quay. It is expensive by local standards, with little ambiance, and the service is laconic at best.

But it does have the most fascinating night show in town. Armies of lizards, curling around the balustrades, jumping across gaps to catch the many mosquitoes crowding around the lamps. Munching quietly on their feast. I watched them for what seemed like hours, remembering our first visits to Cambodia in the eighties, remembering nights when the curfew was in place. Sitting on Maman’s lap, we rode quietly through the cyclo-filled streets, our skins slick with citronella oil.

The air smelled of jasmine.

Bali Café

379 Sisowath Quay

Phnom Penh

When A. and I planned a trip to Singapore and Cambodia last December, we started putting together a long list of places to visit. Food courts, hawker centres, restaurants… It pays to do a bit of research when you’re travelling with a vegetarian. I read ieatishootipost from beginning to end, salivating at the many delights that would soon be at our fingertips.

One thing particularly intrigued me. Kaya. The dark brown, creamy paste rich with coconut and egg, spread on thick, generous toast. I had never heard of it, but knew I would like it.

On our first morning, hungry, tired with jet lag and already struggling with the humidity, we headed to Food Republic at Wisma Atria on Orchard Rd. It was early and the shopping centre wasn’t really open yet, but we walked up the still escalators, crept around the edges of the floor that was being cleaned, and stepped into Toast Box at the far end of the food court.

We ordered thick kaya toast, soft boiled eggs and tea from the busy counter where frothy, milky tea was being spectacularly poured from long-spouted pots. The kaya toast was lovely, satisfyingly coconutty, the warmed jam reminding me of those yellow thai desserts my family is so fond of.

The eggs, however, were perplexing:

What are you supposed to do with two eggs, a shallow dish, some soy sauce and pepper, but no egg cup? We examined them quietly for a while. We looked around to see what other people were doing. We read the printed sheet at the bottom of our serving tray. Eventually we cracked them open into the bowl. The egg was very, very runny, and A. mixed it with a bit of pepper and soy sauce.

I think we did the right thing. At least it was breakfast, lah.

It was a simple process really. I sat, and waited. I watched wrestling on the sparkling TV set in the corner of the room. Then I sat and waited some more. Eventually I was checked for distinctive marks on my visage. I was told I was too white, too European - a last attempt to get a few extra dollars? I cast sideways glances at my anxious looking mother. She pointed quietly at the tuna cans propping up the official’s desk, and we stifled a laugh.

At 28, I can barely muster the energy for a good sulk, and so I sat, playing the role of the clueless, obedient, quiet daughter to perfection. I tried to think important thoughts, to weigh the matter at hand in the grand scale of things. I have been calling myself French all my life, in spite of some obscure origins and a lot of globetrotting. I had not asked for this, but surely there must be some significance to this day? I wanted to be happy. I wanted to feel elation, a sense of belonging, some sort of revelation and a feeling of homecoming. But as I rubbed at the stubborn ink stains left on my fingertips, all I could feel was hunger. I scanned the market stalls of this small provincial capital. I thought: Baguette. Roast Pork. Pickles.

As the car sped back towards Phnom Penh, I was handed a nom pao, a steamed bun which I hungrily bit into, hoping for warm, filling satisfaction.

It tasted of death.

Gritty, rotten-egg, sick-dog-bottom death.

I tried to eat another bite, then hid the offender at the bottom of my bag while no one was watching.

Nobody had asked me what I wanted.

Here we sit and talk and laugh. We pick at leftovers in the fridge. We argue over nothing and everything, or mutely wash the dishes and let our thoughts wander softly.

Maman’s kitchen is welcoming and out of bounds, cheerful and empty, spicy and bland.

Maman’s kitchen is far away.