THE GLOOBLES DIET: Hayley Daen in Blog

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Have you ever wanted to see how somebody else lives? When they wake up in the morning & the people they see during the week? And, most importantly, what they eat? Us, too. & that's why we're bringing you THE GLOOBLES DIET, a deep dive into all of the munching & imbibing of our dearest gloobles friends.

Remember our content creator Hayley Daen? You might recall her interview not too long ago, where she spilled the beans on weekend brunching in her own kitchen, her favourite culinary child NOPI & the irresistibly juicy beats thumping from Tel Aviv clubs. We don't know about you, but we were curious how one of Amsterdam's finest fills her days & her belly. This week on THE GLOOBLES DIET, Hayley tells all, from drinking her mushrooms to the unsung allure of broccoli slop & everything in between.

Friday, November 2

When my alarm goes off at what feels like a truly ungodly hour (in the name of transparency, I should probably tell you it was only 7:00), I shake my head in protest before peeling myself out of bed. A text from a colleague reminding me my boss, aka my father, won't be in the office today sees me fixing myself a cup of matcha with some collagen whisked in & hopping back into bed. I'm not really sure the collagen does anything, but I've already drunk the Kool-Aid so there's no turning back now.

It may indeed be the most important meal of the day, but I guess I have to add it to the laundry list of important things to which I pay no heed. What can I say - I'm a rebel! I head out the door, breakfast-less, & begin the arduous 4 minute commute to my office. I settle in at my desk with a mug of Four Sigmatic Mushroom Hot Cacao, which sounds vile but is actually reasonably delicious. 10:00 rolls around, & I start thinking about lunch. The homemade kitchari I'd planned to have for lunch today became my boyfriend's dinner last night, so my hunter-gatherer instincts kick in. If I don't find something fast, I may wither away.

I end up enjoying a sad desk lunch of Thai red curry soup with chicken from Soup en Zo, slurped down alongside roast potatoes, cucumber in a sort of whipped avocado situatie & hummus. I pride myself on beautiful, coherent meals. Today, I am not proud. I wash away the memory of a Spartan lunch with a matcha latte with coconut milk & a coconut macaroon. How tropical!

When I pop into Tromp to pick up a wheel of Tête de Moine, I sneak more than one & fewer than eight samples of black truffle Gouda every time the cheesemonger looks away. I snatch a nugget of Old Amsterdam on my way out for good measure.

It's the first weekend I've been in Amsterdam in aeons, & my sofa looks awfully tempting. I brush visions of Lombardo's burgers & mind-numbing television out of my mind & head out to meet TT at Steve's new apartment over in East. Steve & I watch from the window as TT rolls up toting piping hot pies from De Pizzabakkers, so I suppose not all is lost. TT tucks into a white pizza with chestnut mushrooms, pancetta, onion marmalade, fontina & parsley, while I inhale a Caprese pie with tomato sauce, mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella & green pesto. Steve has white wine. They're not the best, but really, how bad can pizza be?

We head to a friend's going away party at Mama Dough & indulge in a little pizza nightcap. The tuna pizza looks just a little too terrifying, so I alternate between the four cheese & the Margherita with equal enthusiasm.

Saturday, November 3

Though I'd ambitiously set my alarm for 11:15, my eyes pop open just shy of 8:00. I'm on Day 3 of Dry November (impressive, no?), so it's the easiest wakeup call I've had in quite some time. I settle in for a morning in bed like the Victorian invalid that I am with a matcha & my new book, Invitation to a Beheading. 

Despite my early rise, I head for a late lunch at the new Cecconi's with my boyfriend. I pick at an unremarkable kale salad with pulled chicken, ricotta salata, fennel & almonds. Did they forget the dressing? Philip struggles to shuttle spaghetti bolognese from his plate to his mouth. The gluten-free spaghetti (he's a celiac, the poor unfortunate soul) is on the rock hard side of al dente. 

Come dinnertime, a craving for greasy takeout sneaks up on me, but I've made a solemn vow to divorce UberEats. That being said, I'm no good at denying myself, so I make Jean-Georges Vongerichten & Mark Bittman's ginger fried rice. It's slick & comforting. Let's not forget that salty, crunchy fried ginger & garlic sprinkle. Some cookie dough ice cream sends me off to bed in a sugar-induced stupor.

Sunday, November 4

Honestly, I've never felt so human in my life. Dry November for the win. I struggle through an early spin class, only kept on my bike by the promise of breakfast. When I finally emerge sticky & red-faced, I scoop up a bracing green juice & some blueberry & ashwagandha steel cut oats from The Cold Pressed Juicery. I am positively saintly.

I dash home to shower & pick up the persimmon torte I made last night & forgot to tell you about to tote over to TT's house. Being the mature, responsible adults we are, we decided to host a wholesome Sunday roast, rather than a liquor-fuelled Saturday night DP (that's dinner party, for the uninitiated). I balance the cake - a slight riff on Marion Burros's famed plum torte - in one hand & grab a tote jam packed with new potatoes begging to be Hasselbacked with the other & go.

My favourite co-hostess is already hard at work when I arrive, & the apartment is giving off major gezellig vibes. She's roasted the Brussels sprouts & made the fish sauce vinaigrette that we'll later douse them in, as well as the "crispy, crunchy salad." The butcher scored & seasoned the pork butt for us, so we slip it into the oven before tackling the potatoes. Shit! We realise we're out of garlic so head to her corner Moroccan deli & grab oat milk chai lattes on the way. They edge dangerously near cloying, but really, they're pretty perfect. With garlic & lattes in hand, we head back to the house. We drown our beautiful little potatoes in olive oil, minced garlic, thyme & flaky salt & pop them into the oven beneath the pork.  

TT whisks up the batter for our Yorkshire pudding, & we leave it to rest while we panic that we won't have enough food. We head back out to grab broccoli & some anchovies to make Roy Finamore's Broccoli Cooked Forever. If there were ever a dish to prove you should not judge a book by its cover it would have to be this one. One look at this mossy, formless amoeba would probably have you turning up your nose in disgust. But those willing to overlook its profound unsexiness will be rewarded. Almost confited, the broccoli melts down into this luscious, silken mess that is deeply savoury, thanks to the anchovies, & has a gentle tickle of heat & freshness from fresh hot peppers & a squeeze of lemon.

With all the things doing their thing, we can, well, do our thing. TT enters full boy scout mode & builds a roaring fire. I document her progress on Instagram. To each her own. We graze on an old Dutch cheese & a funky blue with fig jam & purple grapes.

When our friends finally arrive, the rouge flows (tea for me; I'm boring, remember?) & the feasting begins. The uncontested winner of the meal is not the juicy pork nor the pillowy Yorkshire pudding. Not even the shatteringly crisp Hasselback potatoes! No, the winner is the underdog, the true dark horse: our beloved broccoli slop. Once the plates have been cleared, people dive between sips of red wine & milky builders tea, occasionally coming up for air or a tender forkful of the persimmon torte. I snap off a boulder of sea salt dark chocolate before escorting my food baby home.

I fear I may starve to death if I skip dinner altogether, so I stuff a few fistfuls of oily Pom-Bears down my gob & some fizzy laces for good measure. This, my friends, is how winter bodies are made.