The Lambshank Redemption

Soba On A Saturday Night

2012-01-20T06:14:00.000-08:00

I have spent the last couple of days flicking through photos from last week. Japan had long been at the top of my wish list and, while some longed-for destinations can't help but disappoint, Japan exceeded every expectation.

Since landing back at Heathrow last Sunday, I've been thinking where to start in terms of posts. And, five days later, I'm still scratching my head. There is so much to cover, so many incredible dishes to talk about, so many unique experiences to try and make sense of... I could probably spend the next month or more blogging about just four remarkable, densely packed days and barely dent the surface. I've then got to condense that down to 1200 words for a feature. If that sounds like a very middle class moan, you've probably got a point: it is undoubtedly a wonderful dilemma to be facing.

So, while I beat myself up in a middle class fashion (a T M Lewin hair shirt, perhaps?), I reckon the place to start is not with one of the six kaiseki (multiple course) meals we (mostly) enjoyed or with the eye-popping sights and sounds of Tsukiji, Tokyo's remarkable fish market, but with the final - and simplest - meal of the trip. Our last night was spent wandering "Yakitori Alley", a hotchpotch of stalls and shops offering bowls of noodles, grilled meats and assorted odd things (well, by Western standards) on skewers. The place has remarkable energy, thanks to a mix of tourists, locals and some remarkably drunk men, and the smells Oh, the smells! Smoke and steam billow from holes in the wall, hot coals glow, and the sweet, enticing aroma of hot fat teases and excites.

For me, after one circuit, there was only one possible destination: the little corner stall, where a ridiculous 380 Yen (about £3.50) would get you a bowl of steaming broth, noodles, a tempura vegetable fritter and a soft-boiled egg. Staff fried, steamed, scooped and served with easy grace in the small space, customers went shoulder to shoulder on the tiny stools outside. It was food that takes a minute to prepare, five minutes to eat and a lifetime to forget.

And So...

2012-01-09T11:35:00.000-08:00

There are a few more (read "a lot of") catch up posts still to come for 2011 but one is slightly more pressing than the others: a very enjoyable lunch at So.

In this line of work - or "work" if you prefer / are one of my friends who ALWAYS does the air quotation mark thing when discussing my "job" (they do it on that too) - there are a few questions you ALWAYS get asked. One is 'how do I get your "job" you jammy bastard?'. The other is 'where should I take my husband / wife / boyfriend / girlfriend / colleague / mother / etc.?'

The problem with the second question is I can never remember anywhere when put on the spot. I'm not one of these people who rushes off to every new opening (dear god, can you imagine my size if I did?), nor do I do a lot of repeat visits (unless we're talking lunch time sandwich and change from a tenner). In addition, work often dictates where I'm eating. If that sounds like a complaint, it's not meant to: rarely have the words "jammy" and "bastard" been so accurately applied.

Being of sieve-like brain, I've put together a short mental list of those stalwart places you know you can confidently recommend to anyone. It's a mix of the expected and the local, the conventional and the eclectic, the expensive and the pocket-friendly and all points inbetween. So sits very neatly on that list and, remarkably for a sushi place, it also sits closer to the pocket-friendly side of the list.

The smoked duck is a generous portion of delicious tenderness for a fiver. The same applies to the wings (same price) and the scallop and daikon salad (a quid more). You can eat very well for sensible figures here. You can also push the proverbial out for black cod in miso (a dish that's available in many places but not always to this standard) and 15 pieces of sashimi. They're £20 and £25 respectively: not cheap then, but not excessive either.Regardless, £30 a head will send you back onto the Soho streets feeling well-fed, refreshed and enjoying a bit of a protein rush.

So why the pressing need to talk about So now? Because tomorrow - and you haters of smugness (you know who you are and hey, so do I) may need to look away now - I'm off to Tokyo with the owner, Tetsuro Hama, and his chef, Kaoru Yamamoto. Yeah. I know. Jammy bastard. On the assumption Tokyo has a bit of wifi (yeah, it does seem like a pretty safe assumption, doesn't it?), stand by for some serious Tweeted food porn and, hopefully, a bit of live(ish) blogging...

The Lost Post

2012-01-03T08:05:00.000-08:00

New Year, new resolve... The plan, as you've probably all guessed or, er, remember from previous years, is to blog more regularly. The reality will no doubt be that reality gets in the way. However, having seen the benefits of planning in 2011, I've managed to keep January mostly free in order to give 2012 some structure and catch up on some long outstanding posts from 2011. Part of the deal is also the chance to review what was probably my finest ever year of eating and, let's face it, it's had some serious competition.

Even so, 2011 was a landmark year, from the joys of handheld snackage to a surprisingly large number of Michelin stars, via many memorable experiences, remarkable people and lots of travel. There were many unexpected pleasures in there (two of the year's finest meals occurred in Latvia and Estonia), and at least one of those happened in Dubai.

I'd been to Dubai before and came away slightly bemused. The place is so gloriously odd and artificial that you can't help but wish they'd stop taking themselves so seriously and just admit that: a) they're not fooling anyone; and b) are effectively Vegas. While I'd certainly recommend it for those of you who want a hotel break - you're guaranteed insane heat, great food and impeccable service - the official line of Dubai being full of culture seemed a slightly misguided claim. It wasn't therefore on my list of places I wanted to return to... and then the invite came through to spend a weekend at Atlantis The Palm.

Like I say, Dubai is a brilliant place if you just want to stay on resort and revel in luxury. And there is nowhere more glorious to do that than at Atlantis. The Palm bit of the address refers to the man-made, reclaimed land that juts out into the Gulf in the shape of that tree. If you were trying to think of something that just shouted wondrous excess, you couldn't come up with anything better. The hotel occupies many acres - many, many, MANY acres - of the top bit of the palm, giving views, through the haze, of downtown Dubai and also out to sea.

Quite a lot of that footprint is taken up by the aquarium (and I apologise for the assorted "Ray!" injokes that pop up on Twitter quite a lot), the incredible rooms (I could have got my London flat into my suite at least twice) and multiple dining opportunities. My colleagues on the trip have already commented on some of the dining / experiences here, here and here (and the latter two with much better photography than I could muster) and, like Chris and Jeanne, I could wax lyrical on the joy of (snogging) playful dolphins and the incredible and incredibly delicious tuna collar, for hours (not to mention the sheer brilliance of the tahini fountain).

So I won't. Instead, I'm going to show the other side of Atlantis because, while it's possible to eat like a king (at least) three times a day, there's some much lighter-hearted dining available too. This includes an outpost of American chain Coldstone Creamery where you can choose for all sorts of sticky treats to be smooshed into scoops of rich ice cream and also enjoy the antics of the servers who'll flick your scoops around the room and slam dunk them into cups... with, admittedly, the occasional mishap.

It also includes TBJ which stands for The Burger Joint. Yep, you guessed it, even Dubai is going through the burger craze. TBJ has a slight advantage over many downtown places in that the hotel's demand for the best ingredients means that, thanks to executive chef Mark Patten, they're breeding their own heavily marbled, Wagyu-like cattle in Australia. At any given moment, there's a shipment of beef headed their way and that boat journey is an incredibly effective way of ageing meat to their requirements. The net effect is that the steaks in their dedicated beef restaurant Seafire are the best in the city and - surprisingly - the best value. The knock on effect is that the burgers served in TBJ are made with offcuts of this beef.

Does it work? Oh dear God, yes. In a year of regular Goodman burgers and several meanders through the menu at Meateasy and Meatliquor, TBJ was a stand out experience, with intense beefiness (undoubtedly bolstered by the fact that, in a Moslem country, the "bacon" is also made out of cow), slices of the sort of cheese even Mr Pople would approve of, a good ratio of (slightly sweet brioche-like) bun to burger (and bread that held its shape as the burger gave up its juices) and just enough salad. Chips too were excellent, ditto the thick milkshakes and the surroundings: the chance to "graffiti" your name on the wall isn't the sort of behaviour you might associate with a famously strict country such as Dubai which probably makes it all the more satisfying.

Quick Follow Up

2011-12-21T01:51:00.000-08:00

Just dawned on me that the official results of the Great Charity Cookery Book Exchange / Sale Bring and Buy whatsit weren't revealed here.

While the crowds weren't quite at the level anticipated - note to selves, check whether Farringdon Station is open next time you organise an event - a fine time was had by all, the NSPCC coffers were increased by a pretty damned decent £1126 and, somehow, we ended up with more books than we started with so we're going to have to do it all again in the New Year. Oh, and those figures don't include the raffle which will continue via the pub and at the forthcoming Food & Drink quizzes (next one January 31st 2012).

Right. End of year posts ahoy.

Pass The Plate(s)

2011-11-14T13:17:00.000-08:00

Further to the previous post, things are steaming ahead. We're collecting more signed books for the raffle (details to follow when we get our mitts on 'em all), The Observer Food Monthly have donated a huge pile of recent review copies and The Coach and Horses have announced a special menu for during the event.

At £1.85

Homemade black pudding sausage roll

The C & H cheese straws

Cashel Blue arancini

Crostini of chicken liver parfait with hazelnuts

At £3.65

Cured salmon, potato and dill salad, sweet mustard

The C & H Scotch egg

Heritage pumpkin & sunflower seed salad, Swaledale cream dressing

At £5.50

Cockles mariniere

Proper salt beef sandwich with pickles

Gnocchi a la pomadoro

Ox cheek, mash & red cabbage

Bargains, one and all, right? Plus EVERY PENNY, not just the profit, goes to the NSPCC. Eat, drink, help a charity and pick up some book bargains. That's got to be worth a look, hasn't it?

The Great Coach & Horses Charity Book Exchange & Sale

2011-11-10T08:19:00.000-08:00

As you may know, I'm a little bit fond of The Coach & Horses in Clerkenwell.

As you may not know, the landlady, the lovely Col, is running the London Marathon next year to raise cash for the NSPCC,

As a result of that, over the - ahem - occasional pint, Giles and I have been thinking of other things we could do to raise some money for this very worthy cause. And when you do that surrounded by loads of cookery books that you realise you've NEVER ACTUALLY COOKED ANYTHING FROM, eventually the penny drops. And that's why we're holding the first Great Coach & Hoses Charity Book Exchange & Sale on November 19th 2011.

Having e mailed the details to various people that have asked for them, it dawned on me, ooh, about an hour ago, that it would be so much easier to just post them here. Hey, don't judge. I get there in the end...

Where: The Coach & Horses, 26-28 Ray Street, Clerkenwell, London EC1R 3DJ (Tel: 020 7278 8990)

Entry: £5 (all proceeds to the NSPCC) which will include a welcoming drink, nibbles and a raffle ticket. (More tickets will be on sale at very reasonable prices. And all proceeds will go to the NSPCC.)

When: November 19th 2011, at 4pm

The Exchange / Sale: We've all got cookery books we just don't use. How about turning them into new books while doing something for a good cause? Bring your unwanted cookery books along and our panel of experts - ahem - will value them. You'll receive a percentage of the value - typically 25% of face value - in C&H 'tokens' which you can then spend on other books that have been brought in / donated.

These will be on sale for slightly more than we "purchased" them (around 50% of face value) and you can pay the difference in tokens or in real cash.

The difference in cash then goes directly to the NSPCC. We'll also encourage bidding on popular titles to drive prices up. We like doing things like that.

Alternatively, if you don't want to exchange a book, that's fine too. Come and buy in cash. I mean, new cookery books at half price this side of Christmas? That's got to be a good deal, right? Plus we like cash because all the cash goes directly to the NSPCC.

You can also spend tokens on food and drink at the Coach and Horses instead, either on the 19th (there's a special menu available) or during January and February 2012.

The Auction: At the end of the event, we'll be auctioning off some of the remaining books. For cash. Which goes to the NSPCC.

The Raffle: We'll also be raffling signed books and champagne and other goodies. So far we've got / have been promised signed books from the likes of Nigel Slater, Bill Grainger, Eric Lanlard, Hawksmoor, Jason Atherton, Laura Santtini, Signe Johansen, Niamh Shields, James Ramsden, Edd Kimber and Felicity Cloake, to name but a few.

If you have any questions, please drop me a line / comment here. If you've got lots of books to exchange, shout and I can even collect by car in the next few days. Support so far has been amazing. As well as the signed books mentioned above, the lovely people at delicious have donated a whopping 14 boxes of lovely new books and today The Observer Food Monthly contacted us and have donated a fabulous collection of recent review titles. Cheers all.

See you on the 19th then? Oh, and bring your canvas bags...

Simple Pleasures

2011-11-06T02:34:00.001-08:00

Wow. Been very slack on this little thread, haven't I? And I fear I may have done this one before but: a) it's a blog not a bloody encyclopedia; and b) it's worth repeating anyway.

This year has been perhaps the best year I've ever had in terms of memorable culinary experiences. There have been amazing opportunities, amazing flavour combinations, amazing skills in amazing countries from all sorts of amazing chefs. Man cannot live by Michelin Stars alone, however. Sometimes man just fancies ham, egg & chips - especially if it comes with a pint of Doom Bar and the company of my Dad.

Arizona & Out

2011-10-31T06:54:00.001-07:00

As I write this post, I'm sitting on a wall in Tempe, AZ. It's a funky, studenty district of Phoenix, dotted with great little shops, a couple of chains, some fun food places and a marvellous store called Old Town Books who've just sold me a copy of The Playboy Gourmet for $13 after mentally calculating the sales tax and writing the receipt by hand.
I'm also slightly regretting the last burger but it might be some time before I get to enjoy a Five Guys again: this wall in Tempe is pretty much my last 'stop' before I fly back home. In my vague defence, it means I won't have to eat on the plane, I went for the 'Little Burger' option (a single patty), shunned 90% of the bun, didn't order fries and had already undertaken the vow to diet hard during November. The case-building falls apart, however, when you consider in the hour before Five Guys I'd had a great mixed ice cream (caramel, apple and pumpkin and cinnamon ice creams with added Graham Cracker crust and chocolate chips) at Sparky's Old Town Creamery and - sorry colon - the apparently ironically-named 'medium' option at a new chain (well, for me) called, not inappropriately, Fatburger. Both were what you'd expect from a mid-range US burger outlet: freshly prepared, beefy, dense, well-charred and utterly delicious (if a little under-seasoned: thank you very much US salt police).
While I stand by my earlier theory that much of the enjoyment of such a handheld snack is the location and setting - being in America makes me happy, good burgers make me happy, the combination of the two makes me very happy - you can't help but wonder why we don't get this quality of mainstream burgers in the UK. There is the separate issue of local food culture, of course, and I'd also argue my support of that until I'm blue in the face. I'm not one for 'authentic' - I think I've made that clear before - and stand by my flippant response of hoping there's a blogger / writer in Bangkok attempting to hunt down Thailand's best pork pie. That's often greeted with the responses along the lines of 'why would they want to do that when their local food is so good?' to which I can reply with an exasperated 'exactly!'
Er... I digress. I'll expand on this at a later date - or ramble on in a pub about it some time. Again. My 'quest' isn't for 'authentic' though: it's the quest for 'delicious' and a sense of the sheer enjoyment of food.
On this trip, even when things haven't been delicious (a piece of deep fried rattlesnake springs to mind) they've always been enjoyable, thanks to the setting, the weather and, most of all, the impeccable company. I often get a little maudlin on the last day of holiday or one of these trips, as there's a sense of reality creeping back in and that feeling is far more intense with this trip than with most. Last Sunday, we were a bunch of strangers brought together by fate (and the Arizona CVB). This weekend, as we head back to our homes in the UK, Corsica, Montreal and Germany, it's a group of, I hope, genuine, long-term, proper friends saying a heartfelt goodbye.
So, dear general reader, I hope you'll indulge me (and Team Arizona will forgive me for any omissions) as I raise an imaginary glass (and throw in an in-joke or two) to the impeccable company of Peter, Claire, Nadia, Caroline, Marina and the violent Laura: whatever Adele may reckon, however many times a day, I don't think I could ever find someone like you...
And Kara, Marjorie, Jackie, Scott, Jerry and, particularly, the legendary Curt. Massive thanks for your enthusiasm, company, organisational skills and all-round loveliness: I'd whoop a little and high five the lot of you but, as we've established, that's not going to end very impressively...
I regularly say you can slap me if I ever appear to be taking my life and career for granted (and that's a general invitation to anyone out there). If I ever appear to have taken last week for granted, I'd probably deserve to be shot too. Cheers all. You - and Arizona - have been incredible.

Home On The Range

2011-10-28T06:17:00.001-07:00

I have mentioned to many people over the years that, if I ever take what I do for a living for granted, they are allowed / encouraged to slap me. Hard.

They can also refer me back to this post, if they'd prefer a less violent intervention. Mind you, if I ever take a day like yesterday for granted, I should probably slap myself. Harder.

The day ended with a mostly decent dinner in the breathtaking, Frank Lloyd-Wright inspired Arizona Biltmore Hotel. Before that, it involved a couple of hours at MIM, Phoenix's Musical Instrument Museum, which turned out to be one of the most impressive, educational and unifying museum experiences I've had in years. And before that came one of the best mornings I can remember.

I'll long argue that food isn't just about the quality of what's on the plate, but also the context. Breakfast at Tanque Verde outside Tucson had both. In spades.

It began with a horse ride across Arizona's ruggedly beautiful terrain. Yes, they found a horse big enough, no it didn't need a 'spare' after ferrying me up and downhill: seriously, I did most of those jokes myself. There had been speculation that I'd get a huge horse, probably jet black, with a terrifyingly masculine name like Thunder or Braveheart. Well, he wasn't jet black but Ricochet certainly scored on the other counts...

While I was never really in control, I think we came to an understanding and Ricochet tolerated me for an hour as we gently made our way to Tanque Verde's Old Homestead, where exec chef Ben had created the sort of breakfast that defies logic and makes me very happy indeed. Somehow, on a few open ranges, Ben and colleagues had produced chilaquiles, bacon, homemade sausage, New York strips, a hash, beans, biscuits, apple butter, lime-and-raspberry butter, kickass 'Cowboy' coffee, cranberry and pumpkin pancakes and, most remarkably, pumpkin souffles. Actually, his souffle thunder was promptly stolen by the colleague who caramelised buns and crisp doughnuts in a pan of melted sugar over an open campfire...

There's little more to add. Words can't do it justice, the pictures I know don't do it justice. By the time Ricochet brought me back, I was relaxed, content and beaming - and will probably be doing the latter until the end of next week.
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The Generation Game

2011-10-27T04:19:00.001-07:00

When a restaurant has run since 1922, chances are it's doing something right. Tucson's El Charro is the 89-year old in question and, yes, they're doing something right. Hell, if the plates we were served today are indicative of El Charro's whole menu, they're doing everything right.

In preparation for this lunch - Mexican food the closest I've (yet) been to Mexico - I skipped breakfast, instead nursing a coffee on the balcony, while watching hummingbirds flit about oh so prettily in the sun. The appetite was boosted by a gentle walking tour of Tucson, which is a fascinating and rather pretty place. Well, certainly Downtown, which is full of funky old buildings, many of which have been turned into trendy hang outs... Or, in the case of Hotel Congress, remains as ubercool as it's always been.

After a wander, some fine ghostly tales at the Congress and an all-too-short trip to a rock and roll photo exhibition (which, among other things, reminded me how bloody good Bjork's Big Time Sensuality was - and how bizarrely adorable she was in the video(s)) the local history took on an edible theme as we came round the back of El Charro. That way, we could see the cages of beef that they leave drying outside for their signature carne seca.

That, like everything else, was punchily flavoured and 'simple' - but the kind of simplicity that implies (and undoubtedly involves) painstaking levels of preparation. Tortilla chips were crisp, light and a perfect vehicle for the sassy, boldly garlic-heavy, downright gorgeous, drinkable-by-the-pint salsa. Guacamole was unadulterated save for, I believe, coriander and lime, which let the avocados sing. Cheese crisp - essentially a huge crisp tortilla base covered in cheese and grilled - was as crazily good as the description sounds.

And then it got better. Tortilla soup rivalled Dean Fearing's more complex version from last year (a Feb post - as useful as this e mail blogging is, I can't do links). Chicken mole was silky, warming and rich, the chocolate evident but not overpowering... This tasted like a mole with history. Rice and beans satisfied in their unflashy, but perfectly cooked / deeply flavoured way (which no doubt means years of practice and a grasp of spices and seasoning most of us can nly dream of). Underneath those sat a tasty little corn fritter with the texture of a good Thai fish cake and admirably lacking in greasiness. And then there was the carne, the dried meat falling apart in deeply flavoured, spicy strands that defied all logic. Well, all my western, English logic anyway.

As we attempted to squeeze in rich, sweet mouthfuls of pumpkin and pecan tamales, the current owner told us charming, very affectionate tales of her great aunt Monica Flin who founded the restaurant, beat the Great Depression, neatly avoided Prohibition (the old booze in a teapot trick), spoiled 28 god children and vast numbers of nephews and nieces and just enjoyed life to the full. I'll raise a glass - salt-rimmed, of course - to that.
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A Good Heat

2011-10-25T20:08:00.001-07:00

Today has been a day for American classics and spice. In the case of breakfast and a fine, messy, almost shirt-staining Huevos Rancheros at the hotel, it was both.

You have to like a kitchen that offers two 'grades' of HR: green or red. Green is the mild, red 'has some spice to it' warned the waitress. She wasn't kidding. Some places virtually apologise in advance for chilli heat but then ignore a dish's heritage and turn it into something indifferent and polite. Not the case here. Eggs were rich, bright yellow and gleefully runny, the tortilla crisp and light and, one assumes, freshly made, while the sauce and meat packed the sort of punch that'll wake you up more then a double ristretto in a cold shower..

To be fair, we probably shouldn't have been hungry after five mostly impressive courses at Icha Maajoh last night. The stand out was the alleged main, a loin of young venison, served with matchsticks of colourful winter vegetables and on a 'salad' (my word, not theirs) of Brussels sprout leaves. I'd had venison and sprout leaves in Houston last year and it's a very good combination. This was better for two reasons. The first was pancetta, the crispy / chewy saltiness always a great foil for sprouts. The second? Hands up who said chestnuts? Wrong although, to be fair, that would have worked. Intriguingly - and doctor-worryingly - Chef Adams had thrown some nuggets of exquisitely cooked lobster into the mix. It may not have done much for my cholestrol but my tastebuds did a little bit of a Snoopy dance.

Happily - and necessarily - the morning then involved a gentle hike around the Highlands Center, a wander around the Phippen Museum (an excellent collection of cowboy artists, including some stunning bronzes) and another, brisker hike around some spectacular scenery. And then we undid all the good with a classic diner lunch at Prescott's charming Lone Spur Cafe, the sort of local eaterie you've seen in a thousand movies. Big salads, onion rings, soup (chipotle chicken), pastrami sandwiches and burgers filled the table. For me though, I resisted the lure or the French Dip (even with memories of Meateasy's version ringing in my mind) and snarfed a grand, messy, oozing Tuna Melt. It needed a little livening up but that was easy as Lone Spur is the kind of place to offer Tabasco, Chipotle Tabasco and Cholula sauces on the table. For that alone I'd applaud them, let alone for the excellent cheery service, the calorific delights of the huge portions, the regular soft drink top-ups and the cowboy-themed surroundings. Quite literally a fine bunch of chaps...
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AZ Shade of Winter

2011-10-24T22:57:00.000-07:00

'It's perfect here.' If I had a dollar for everytime a resident of Arizona had told me that - or words to that effect - in the last 24 hours, I'd have... Well, three dollars. But you can see the appeal.

I'm currently in Prescott - pronounced Pres-kit by the locals and like the rotund nonsense-spouting Labour man by visitors and newcomers - and it's a charming little spot. The average age is, apparently, over 50 as the climate - nicely warm all year round, bugger all rain, pleasant levels of humidity - make it highly appealing. It is, perhaps, a little twee; on first walk through, it appears easier to buy a souvenir desk sign, a cowboy hat or some funky popcorn than it does groceries or a pair of jeans. But hey, while I wouldn't want to live there (but ask me again in, er, seven years) it's a perfectly lovely spot to while away a few days. Local pride is obvious, the pace of life is instantly relaxing and while I'm still not convinced by caramel-covered cheese popcorn, they know how to mince a decent bit of Aberdeen Angus and smother it in cheese and spicy stuff. And that, my friends, is the definition of civilised.

The photos are from lunch at The Palace, which is like stepping into a Western - down to the good time girl (a dummy, happily) overlooking the dark woods, guns and cowboy memorabilia. And in that sort of scenario, what else can you do but sip on a sasparilla (still not sure, but sort of root-beery), sprinkle on their own brand of hot sauce and consume a large chunk of cow in a bun?

Whether it was the best preparation for an hour of canoeing around a spectacularly beautiful lake is debatable (the 'almost impossible to capsize' declaration made by Dave, our kayaking expert, got a thorough test, that's for sure) but it was a fine, non-sinky sort of afternoon. It probably doesn't justify dinner either but hey, when has that ever stopped me?

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Testing...

2011-10-23T23:06:00.000-07:00

So, apparently, Blogspot will allow me to post directly by e mail? Well, let's see if it's true.

After several years of hearing how marvellous In N Out Burgers are, last night in Tempe Arizona I got to experience it firsthand. I'd been cynical that much of the enjoyment of what is a pretty basic burger comes from being on the West Coast of America while eating one: In N Out's spread over the last 60+ years has been slightly geographically limited.

I still stand by that a little but, unlike that two Euro bottle of wine that tasted wonderful on your balcony in Greece last summer and like vinegar when you tried to recapture the feeling in the Home Counties, the In N Out burger IS a thing of simple, messy, salty, fatty joy. Fries were not my cup of tea but hey, that just means I'll shun them next time and swap in another Double Double. I'd call that Win Win.

Mmmmmm

2011-09-11T08:14:00.000-07:00

To get the full effect of that headline, click here. Well, how else do you describe a meal at Simpsons?

As hinted in the last post - and painfully bleeding obvious from the current state of the waistline - I've got a lot of food-related things to write up, both professionally and / or here. Simpsons is one that straddles both and I'll come back and link to the "proper" review in due course.

Thanks to Simon Majumdar's extensive UK research and various Saturday Kitchen personalities, I was aware that the Birmingham food scene was on the up. I also had some inside knowledge, again thanks to Simon, who kindly introduced me to James Day, one of the Midlands' leading marketing and media chaps, on an otherwise disappointing day at the Real Food Festival. James had long been suggesting a day of Birmingham eating - something I mentally referred to as "Brum Yum Yum" but would never admit to that in public - and, finally, earlier this summer, James, Adam and I got collective arses into gear and met for a day of eating.

We started at the excellent Beef, another venture from Simpsons owner Andreas Antona. Adam has thoroughly dissected this experience here so I'll just chip in and agree with his verdict. It's an excellent spot, tremendous value and can hold its own against pretty much any spot in the UK. I might still give Goodman my first place rosette (if I had one. Which I don't. Yet) if only because of the level of char that Josper grill can give. However, young chef Iain Miller has an infectious enthusiasm, a fine charcoal grill and some brilliantly sourced meat. After the 100 day "vertical tasting" I was lucky to experience, this was a "horizontal" version: three different sirloins cooked in identical fashion. The Wagyu was tender and rich, the marbling on the USDA gave that a deep flavour but, for me, the straightforward Scottish, with its grassy tones and almost old-fashioned beefiness, edged it. The other bits on offer - a cracking gazpacho (the one that inspired this post as it happens), the fries, a black pudding salad, bone marrow... - were also pretty damned good. You're a lucky little borough, Kenilworth. Make sure you look after Beef.

Anyway, after that little bit of excess - very few carbs were harmed in the making of that lunch - and a canalside beer or two, James took us to Simpsons. It's a smart looking building, but unprepossessing: indeed, at first glance you'd assume it was home to a software firm or architect practice. Step inside, however, and you instantly realise you're in very safe hands. Rooms are airy, service is that oh-so-tricky blend of informality and efficiency and it's shaming that I can't remember the maitre d's name because he can probably still remember mine, and there's only one of his and he's had several thousand customers since.

As Adam says, a Michelin star can imply horrible formality or, worse, that sense you're there to worship the food. The best thing about Simpsons, aside from the atmosphere, is that, in addition to fancying everything on the menu, there's also nothing there you don't feel you couldn't have a stab at when you got home. That's not to say it's easy or that Simpsons are making money out of old rope, it's just that the flourishes, as clever and delicious as they are, would be within the scope of most reasonable amateur cooks. They'd take you hours, of course, but it's quite inspiring nonetheless (and means the Simpsons book comes highly recommended).

So, to the food. An amuse of squid ink, Israeli cous cous, squid, Greek lemons and a flash of silver leaf was both pretty and a clear hint of the clever combinations and big flavours that were to follow. The same applies to a small roll of fennel, goats cheese and tomato bread: in fact, that roll may be the best thing I ate that day. Stunning.

Foie gras terrine, fresh almonds, cherries and chocolate syrup. Nothing there to terrify, nothing overtly "cheffy", but what a combination. Big flavours but all exquisitely judged and beautifully restrained, and the same applies to my main, a fillet of turbot, with confit chicken thigh, sweetcorn ravioli,coconut cream, curry oil and coriander. That's a big old collection of tastes and textures - the exquisite softness of the turbot, the slight resistance of the ravioli, the soft crunch of the confit - but all came together to incredible effect.

After another dazzling palate teaser - blackberry compote, yoghurt, lavender syrup and granola - Simpsons went up even more in my estimation with a savoury option: a "dessert" salad of warm goats cheese, beetroot "tartar", endive and pistachio vinaigrette. Again, it's a combination that you could easily recreate at home but you probably wouldn't match this presentation. I mean, look at the uniformity of the beetroot discs! I've attempted to make beetroot look pretty and all I've done is turn my clothes, hands, face and kitchen pink.

A plate of tremendous petit fours later and a good espresso finished everything off in style. Could feasibly have passed on the run for the last train - it's very easy to lose track of time in a good restaurant - but, once the panic subsided, it was a very contented journey...

Float On

2011-09-04T05:19:00.000-07:00

This morning I've been perusing the various photo files on the laptop, and making little whimpering noises as I realise quite how many posts I should write / have already written. There's a lot of them. And I mean a LOT. And some will no doubt be unbearably smug, but hey, you guessed that, right?

There's a weird dinner in Pas de Calais: cardboard pasty served on damp rope anyone? There are wings and things from Florida. Elaborate meals from Estonia, Latvia and Champagne. Sushi experiences in London and beef and Michelin star experiences in Birmingham. There's my attempts to make Buffalo Chicken Kievs (using chicken and pork crackling as breadcrumbs). There's Nobu and Locatelli and one of the best burgers of the year in Dubai. No. Really. There are more adventures in barbecue. A ludicrously good lunch at Mark Greenaway's in Edinburgh... followed by a similarly stunning dinner at Number One. More from Le Manoir, other things from France - an unforgettable afternoon at a snail farm included - and various bits of London dining. A cheeseburger experiment with Yianni and Niamh of, ahem, varying degrees of success...

I WILL get to them, really I will. In the meantime, however, I've just got back from a few days on The Nile which was: a) stupidly relaxing; b) incredibly hot; c) stunningly beautiful; and d) just great fun. It was also e) very well fed. There's nothing like a bit of sun to show off ripe fruit and veg, is there?

Sell Out? No, Cook Out

2011-08-24T10:35:00.000-07:00

As many people will be aware, me and Tesco don't generally get on. Back in the day we did: there's a huge Tesco between the station and home, and we'd often pop in for some basics. Then I had a problem and a 30 minute wait at the till one Bank Holiday morning, a row that ended up with me chasing a manager around the aisles as they tried to dodge my questions. It wasn't Tesco's - or my - proudest moment, to be frank.

After that, we started walking the other way to our local Waitrose: that's the thing about Finchley, we're spoiled for choice. There's a Sainsburys a few hundred yards past Waitrose, an Aldi in between them (should we ever need to buy a wetsuit, a calculator AND a pint of milk), as well as 20 or so small, independent food places representing pretty much every continent, and it''s all in walking distance.

It was that latter group we were thinking of when we joined the campaign to stop a Tesco Metro moving in to the disused petrol station opposite. It was all a little underhand frankly, with mysterious shell companies, misquoted planning regulations and a bizarre logic that it would only affect the footfall from the big supermarkets. That seemed unlikely and, given that a father and son team from Romania had just spent their life-savings on a convenience store four doors away from the proposed Tesco site, we joined the protest. Not only did "we" win - the first time Tesco had been refused permission in London, apparently - the father and son are still trading AND the site became a Majestic Wine warehouse.

All of this is a long way of building up to the fact that... I'm taking part in the Tesco BBQ Challenge. Yeah, that's got you spluttering, hasn't it? Nah, I know it hasn't. I'm grateful if anyone reads this, and I very much doubt anyone's hanging on my every word or - Gawd help 'em - is looking to me for advice, moral guidance and life lessons.

The thing is... I like barbecue. I like anything that gives me an excuse to build fires (or shove a can up a chicken's bottom). I like a good, old-fashioned, battle of the sexes. And, while I might rant after a pint or three and tilt at corporate windmills, I can appreciate that supermarkets have a part to play in modern life. Also, having judged at the Quality Food Awards for the last five years, I know there are some blooming good supermarket products out there.

Most of all though, with the annual show approaching at our allotment, we needed a new barbecue so, when Tesco came knocking offering a new grill in exchange for a few ideas and recipes, I wasn't going to say no. Cheap? Maybe, but I much prefer to think of it as "practical"

So, in the coming weeks, I shall be researching marinades, testing some recipes, making a LOT of spicy, sticky sauces and, let's face it, eating a lot of sausages. My, that will make a change, won't it?

If you've got any suggestions, ideas or killer recipes, feel free to send 'em across. Or, of course, join the challenge yourself...

Broadcast (Old) News

2011-08-12T09:47:00.000-07:00

With an ever growing list of outstanding blogposts to write, I'm trying to pull my finger out a little. There's a slight concern that I'm going to look somewhat piggy: quite frankly, it's going to look like I'm the sort of person who eats like Michael Winner every day when, actually, I only do that about, er, every other day. Oh well. If the cap fits... it's doing better than the trousers. Obviously.

First though, a little self-blowing of brass instruments, and a long overdue post. Back in May, I was invited on to the Hawksbee & Jacobs show on Talksport to chat about the life of the food writer. Andy Jacobs referred to me at one point as a food enthusiast which could be a euphemism for fat but is probably the closest anyone's come to describing what I do.

Apart from the top of my head appearing on TV during an old Mary Whitehouse Experience ("see the back of that head? That's you, that is") and offering drunken approval of a Giancarlo Caldesi cookery course on an episode of Return To Tuscany, I've not done anything remotely like this before, so the nerves were chirping away as I got the to the studio. However Andy and colleague Paul Hawksbee put me at ease and the planned 15 minutes or so flew - to the extent that the actual tasting bit at the end was a bit of a rush.

Still, a big thank you to the chaps at Mooli's for the full collection of wraps, Gelupo Gelato for the six flavours of ice cream and Petra at WEST for a few bottles of the excellent St Mungo. Judging by the expression, Andy seemed to enjoy the chicken Mooli.

Should you be interested, the show's still online and I'm on just after 3pm... A brilliant experience. Cheers gents.

Grillers In The Mist

2011-08-04T02:54:00.000-07:00

There is something about a barbecue, isn't there? From the strange allure it has over all men, to the inevitable over-ordering of food, via the increased chances of rain, the barbecue casts an undoubted spell. I'm sure someone can throw some psychological light on the subject - man come, make fire, etc., - but that's not important right now. What is important is to say yes when somebody e mails and says would you like some steaks and red wine? Is this trick question? You do know me, right? What do YOU think?

The offer came from the lovely people of Septima, makers of a warm and peppery, dangerously drinkable Malbec, who were offering large chunks of Agentinean beef and bottles of their ruby-coloured elixir in return for a bit of a blogpost and a few Tweets as we were cooking. In other words, it was free meat and booze to do exactly what I would have done anyway.

As a flat-dweller, with only limited access to a garden, I decided the grilling would be a little wasted in the normal run of things and so arranged it for a weekend I'd be in Stoke, where Adam and I could enjoy a drink or two, kick start proceedings with some bacon-stuffed oatcakes, put some proper music on, prep a load of food and then borrow his parents' garden for a cook-out. And that's exactly what we did. Obviously the weather didn't play ball - in fact, it slung it down for the best part of 24 hours - so the views of the surrounding countryside were somewhat restricted but the grilling area was sheltered, the Septima warmed and, in fact, the only real difference was we ate inside instead of in the garden.

A few days before heading to Stoke, I'd read a line about the true difference between men and women being that men can't cater for small numbers. I was reminded of that as Ad and I stepped back from the kitchen after an afternoon of shopping and prepping. Over there, the beer can chicken. Here a pork loin, happily marinating away in red wine and spices. Besides that, a couple of plates of enormous homemade burgers. Next to them, a couple of packs of sausages, a platter of ribs, a huge bowl of guacamole, a dish of feisty Asian-style coleslaw (cheers Sabrina) and, last but definitely not least, six fist sized lumps of excellent South American cow. "How many are we cooking for again?" I asked. "Eight adults, four kids," came the reply. "Although my mum will have sorted stuff for the kids." Score one then for whoever came up with that above mentioned quote - unless a sensible daily intake involves a massive piece of fillet, a lump of pork tenderloin, three burgers, several slices of chicken, half a pig's worth of ribs and two-and-a-bit sausages per head.

I shall let Ad discuss the joys of his excellent, oh-so-moist beer can chicken - after all, it was his nephews and nieces most likely to be traumatised by the sight of their uncle shoving a can of lager up a chicken's bottom - and I'll get to the tenderloin and Niamh's excellent ribs another time, because the main event - certainly as far as the chaps were concerned - was the steak, and damned fine it was too.

Wet aged, they cooked beautifully for both the requested rare and medium / well, developing a nice, even crust but retaining a soft pink centre, even after 15-20 minutes on the grill. With a few minutes rest, they sliced with ease, and the flavour was excellent, with the beef taste backed up with a delicious hint of iron / slight gaminess. Unsurprisingly, the Malbec - well, the little bit we'd managed to save - was a fine match, ditto the beetroot and horseradish sauce kindly donated by the chaps at The Kitchens at Horsley. It was a very good day.

Pot Luck

2011-07-21T03:49:00.000-07:00

It's funny this straddling of worlds. The whole journalist / blogger debate rages on and on and probably always will do - with the odd break before AA Gill or a chef kicks it all off again with a soundbite bit of goading.

The thing is neither side has superiority: there are great journalists and awful bloggers and vice versa. For me, the rise of the good blogs is keeping me on my toes, professionally speaking, and has helped me forge some fine friendships along the way. It also gives me an outlet for the bits that I can't always squeeze in anywhere else. I still get a buzz from seeing my name in"proper" print but I also get a buzz when someone posts a comment here, for something that I've written for fun. And when a complete stranger e mails you and offers you free crab, well, that's just the icing on the cake. Well, the free crab on a bit of brown bread to be more accurate, but you get the point.

The "stranger" in question was Tony Grant of The Fish Society who'd come across this blog somehow and decided - possibly based on a mutual love of smoke-filled single malts - that he had to send me some potted crab. The delivery came at the date and time requested which alone makes me happy to endorse The Fish Society. If I had a pound for every time I've waited around for a delivery that never happened or walked into the hall after hours of waiting to discover a card telling me "we tried to deliver" - really? how? by ninja? - I'd have seventeen quid. And that's just 2011. The gits.

So, there was already quite a lot of love heading The Fish Society's way. The fact that they also make all the right sustainable and organic noises upped that, while the buttery, mace-laced joys of the potted crab was yet more icing / seafood on the, ahem, flour-based product of your preference. And (he adds smugly) there's an endorsement from Rose Prince on their site too.

Having enjoyed a delicious gazpacho topped with shreds of prawn at Beef in Birmingham last week (full post to follow), the idea of fish and gazpacho was fresh in the mind. The beef-heavy joys of that restaurant had prompted a conversation about other beefy restaurants, and that made me think of the time I'd visited Gaucho with a vegetarian. The answer to the question you're thinking of is "yes, and surprisingly well", including a lovely rich tomato soup finished with butter.

So, gazpacho and fish, soup finished with butter... you're probably ahead of me on this one. A little of the potted crab stirred into some homemade gazpacho, and a spoonful, atop some diced avocado, for a more traditional serving of this classic summer dish. Healthy? Possibly not. Rich and lovely? Oh yes.

Tony has very kindly offered readers of this blog a 10% discount on orders over £40. Just visit the website and type the code LAMBSHANK at the relevant point.

Spring Greens

2011-07-14T11:41:00.000-07:00

While you wouldn't know it to look at me, I do like a bit of design. It might not have translated to expensive labels in my shirt - though the day Armani do fleeces, I'm there - but I do appreciate a bit of thought-through cleverness and simplicity.

Which brings me - several months late, as it happens, and I have no excuse - to Australian online shop Dreamfarm and some of their devices. The site is excellent fun, full of innovative (and solidly made) gadgets that you probably never knew you needed, all with delightfully silly names.

Take this masher, for example. They call it a Smood, I call it the single greatest guacamole maker in the history of things that need mashing. The spring design, apparently, eliminates wrist problems (stop sniggering at the back). What I've found is it isn't quite as efficient as the potato ricer for the sort of texture-free mash Mrs L demands but it IS: a) a damn sight easier to wash; b) brilliant for things that don't "need" to be thoroughly pureed, guacamole being the prime example; and c) dead clever with that little spatula attachment that makes it easy to scrape out the bowl.

Dreamfarm also kindly sent me a pair of Clongs and a Vebo. The former are brilliant: tongs with a click lock AND a little "kink" in the handle that means your work surfaces stay cleaner. The latter is equally brilliant: a squishy plastic pot that turns any saucepan into a steamer and doubles as a strainer. Head-slappingly simple but bloody useful.

Le Manoir, Part II

2011-07-07T02:04:00.000-07:00

This week, Philip Newman-Hall picked up the Manager of the Year award at The Cateys. As mentioned below, this doesn't come as a big blooming surprise: the service at Le Manoir... is as good as anything I've experienced and, over the last couple of years, I've been privileged to stay in some of the world's best hotels. I promised an example though so here's one that maybe illustrates why Mr. Newman-Hall is so celebrated...

In an industry that's all too often obsessed about mini-bars and Kit Kats that cost about the same as a secondhand car, it's always lovely when you find a hotel that understands the bigger picture. The room at Le Manoir had a little bottle of champagne chilling down, a box of beautiful chocolates and the above decanter of Madeira. The champagne we left. The chocolates made it home - well, about half of them. The Madeira though took a pretty decent hammering. I'm not always the biggest fan of Madeira but this was a cracker, and a fine way to chill out during the afternoon. I took a photo on the phone, uploaded it to Twitter and made some comment about how I'd like every room I now go into to have a bottle of Madeira.

The room had a little patio-like area outside, which opened up into a lovely quiet garden. I had a couple of calls to make, it was a pleasant afternoon, so I went outside, with my glass, to make them. A few minutes after I'd finished my drink, Philip was walking past the other end of the garden.. I waved, he waved back, I carried on with my call and he disappeared into a room.

Logging back onto Twitter a few minutes later, I noticed that Philip had responded to my message about the wine. "Yes, but your Madeira glass is empty" he'd joked. He was right. But he'd clocked that from about 40 yards while moving at reasonable speed. Now that, my friends, is attention to detail...

To Le Manoir Born

2011-07-02T06:31:00.000-07:00

New vow. Even if the year is hurtling past at a rate that has me convinced the Tories are nicking an hour of every day under some spurious "Big Society" plan, I will blog more regularly. I simply have no idea where June went. Still, Mr Whittaker and myself have decided to nag one another to write more often, particularly as we've got a few blog-related obligations to fulfill. And yes, by that I do mean free stuff I've promised to write about.

I've also got a stack of great meals - and otherwise - to reminisce - and otherwise - over and, given that July has been earmarked, somewhat inevitably, as a month of eating sensibly and very little alcohol, I'll appreciate the food porn pics even more.

With that stack of great meals in mind, I figured start with the best: Le Manoir aux Quat' Saisons, Raymond Blanc's two Michelin starred Oxfordshire outpost. Before going there, my impression was of something undoubtedly lovely but: a) expensive; and b) "safe". It's certainly the former but, on balance and if I win tonight's Euromillions, I'd be back like a shot.

M. Blanc is something of a legend, but not necessarily always for the right reasons. He is the only person I know of to get more French the longer he stays in the UK. I once saw him speak at the launch of The Real Food Festival where he blamed "Essex" for the UK's poor reputation for food. Hmm, we thought, it's true that outside of London things get a little patchier, but it seems harsh to single out just the one county... About five minutes later, we realised he was discussing "ethics". I've also heard someone refer to that speech with the comment "you'd have thought he'd have spoken in English" who then took considerable persuading that, actually, Raymond was talking in English.

The thing is though, the man can cook. As in REALLY cook. The hugely enjoyable Kitchen Secrets programme was a perfectly timed reminder of just why Raymond is famous, and the accompanying book is terrific, a collection of recipes (with regular nods to Maman Blanc) that you can't help but read and think "yep, I'm going to make that" with instructions that are clear and concise: I predict it's going to end up at least as stained as my Simon Hopkinson.

The man can also run a hotel. As in REALLY run a hotel. As for any suggestion that Raymond is a control freak? He clearly is, but for the best possible reasons. You don't get a hotel / restaurant / cooking school running with the apparently effortless efficiency of Le Manoir without someone obsessing about every detail. Le Manoir is a swan: what you see above the surface is smooth and graceful, but to get that effect something out of sight is clearly going like the clappers. Over the last two years, I've been lucky to stay in some glorious places and Le Manoir is up there with the best. There are so many little stories I could tell you about the quality of the service but this post is already threatening to expand to Biblical levels. I'll drop a couple as a separate post later in the week then and, instead, focus here on the dinner.

I was expecting something traditional, a crowd-pleasing tasting menu that wouldn't scare the (mostly) Mercedes-driving clientele. To some extent, that's what you get, albeit with some dazzling wine matches and a sense of playfulness that I hadn't predicted. At a technical level, it's faultless. To take that and make it creative and fun, is something else entirely. I've often argued - and no doubt will again - that it's not just about what's on the plate. It's the company, the room, the service, the mood, those little flashes of nostalgia that certain flavours can bring... So, without further ado, and in the manner of the Le Bernardin post earlier this year, I'll shut up and let the pictures do the talking. Well, with the odd bit of annotation.

Over a glass of champagne in the lounge, you get to peruse the menu. A friend and recent guest had told us to "go decouverte and let them do the wine" so we did. Things kicked off with some very good olives and popcorn - rapidly becoming a bit of a cliche but I still like it - and a plate of amuses, the best of which was the tuna and sesame...

Best thing about French-led places? Bread. Lots and lots of bread. The one slathered in butter is studded with bits of bacon. The other is flavoured with beer and mash potato. Exactly.

First course "proper": escabeche of vegetables and tuna. Pretty huh? All the flowers - like most of the vegetables, in fact - come from Le Manoir's exquisite gardens. The liquid is a slow-drained essence of tomato and one of the most intensely flavoured spoonfuls I've ever tasted. If anything, it was better than it looked and that's saying something. It was paired - beautifully / simply - with a Vin de Pays des Cotes Catalanes le Soula 2006.

This delightful little block of salmon is from Loch Duart and served with elderflower, radish and, for a slight alternative to the usual citrus pairing, a yuzu cream - with a divine salty note from that little mound of Oscietra. A knockout.

Course three then and, to my mind, a small misfire, relatively-speaking. It's a slow cooked egg, with watercress puree and smoked bacon - and a great, nutty and seedy, biscotti-like slice. It was accomplished, the textures pleasing but I think egg dishes have recently had the bar raised by the simple joys of Spuntino's truffled egg toast. After the eye rolling that had gone before, maybe this should just be considered a palate refresher? Pleasant but... Still, it was paired, if my notes are correct (and by this point that's highly unlikely) with a Chassagne-Montrachet, Domaine Gauby 2008. The following wine notes may be slightly patchy but that was part of a conscious decision to kick back and enjoy rather than be totally anal.

Any sense of "disappointment" - and it was only in light of what had gone before anyway - was soon forgotten by this little beauty. Pan-fried Cornish sea bass, creel-caught langoustine, smoked mash and star anise jus. Just contemplate that for a few seconds, the textures, the mix of flavours, the varying degrees of richness. Then imagine it even better than it sounds. This, for me, was about as good as food gets. I think this also came with a generous glass of Montrachet. Or possibly something else delicious. Look, it's dinner not an exam...

Assiette of Rhug Estate lamb, peas, broad beans, baby onions. Until a recent meal in Estonia of all places (and I'll get to that one day soon, really I will), this was probably the best bit of lamb I'd ever eaten. It was just really, well, lamb-y. You know that taste you can imagine when you think about lamb, the taste that all too many shoulders don't quite deliver? It was here in one tiny, powerful bundle. That onion was stupidly good too, a nice burst of acid to cut through the fatty richness, and so beautifully soft and opaque. Genius. Similar words apply to the Au Bon Climat 2008, a Pinot Noir - with that sort of slight earthy, damp edge I love in a PN - from California.

Want to hear something scary? There are still four courses to go, five if you include coffee and petit fours. Oof. Well, it should be very oof but, as is so often the case with a tasting menu of this quality, the portion control and planning left you feeling sated but not stuffed. The palate certainly got a reboot with this - fresh goat's cheese, kalamata olive, olive oil jelly and Acacia honey - and more generous pours, this time a Tinto Pesquera 2006. I think.

This is billed as "Raspberry and strawberry soup with fresh mint and basil". That doesn't tell the whole story. That cube is an incredibly sour-dusted marshmallow on an edible sugar stick. The basil and mint, as you can squint and see, comes as a cube of jelly. The whole thing revived memories of childhood sherberts and made me giggle.

No such giggling with the more serious desserts. This is billed, simply, as "Citrus" which is a bit like renaming War & Peace "Book": it's an accurate description but doesn't really describe the work that's gone into it. It's very impressive and refreshing, a perfect interim before the final course...

Chocolate. But of course. Manjari and cinnamon crumble, passion fruit and Alphonso mango to be precise, with the fruit and spice of the chocolate neatly underlined and teased by the cinnamon and tropical flavours. Maculan Torcolato 2007, a Sauterne-esque wine from Italy, did everything a sticky should and then some. I'm not a big fan of dessert wines generally (unless it's against a slab of foie gras or something a little more medicinal, like the Elysium) but this was delightful.

And then came the petit fours. There was a photo but, like the cameraman by this point, it was a bit fuzzy: pleasantly so, in my case. The only thing left was to retire, prepare for the following morning's patisserie class (post to follow) and hope that one day those numbers come up.

Simple Pleasures No. 15

2011-05-31T07:49:00.000-07:00

I don't generally follow a Simple Pleasure with a Simple Pleasure but, having been a bit flat out, the other posts I HAVE to do - including a celebration of 24 joyous hours at Le Manoir - will have to wait a day or two. Plus, the subject in this post doesn't happen as often as you'd like it to.

Guacamole is, to my mind, one of the joys of life. Those big bursts of flavour, the contrasting textures, the way it brightens a plate or oozes out of a burrito... it's a lovely and simple dish, a real taste of summer. The pain is the quality of the avocados that you can generally find over here or the fact that they ripen, as Eddie Izzard says of other pears, the second you leave the room. Still, every now and again, you get your hand on one that yields its delicious flesh in a delightfully wanton manner and it's one of those that I'd like to celebrate here. So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Simple Pleasure No. 15: peeling a perfectly ripe avocado.

Simple Pleasures No. 14

2011-05-07T07:44:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I did a "simple pleasure" but hey, that's the point of occasional strands, right? You can't necessarily rush these things, you have to wait for inspiration to strike and strike it did earlier this week.

It was always likely though: a couple of days learning about my one of my favourite drinks, on its beautiful home turf? You'd have to be made of stone not to feel some sort of stirring although that might have been the oysters.

Anyway, the drink in question is single malt whisky. The home turf in question is Islay. After a tour of Caol Ila we retired to the office for the aforementioned bivalves and a leisurely sampling of some of their peaty finest. As well as being perhaps the best office in Islay (huge bar, huge windows with a view across the water to Jura) there was a little balcony to sit and contemplate the purpose of life. Or just sit and enjoy some beautiful whisky in the prettiest of surroundings. And sometimes, you luck into a photo which pretty much encapsulates both. Simple Pleasures No. 14 is then a glass of whisky in the Scottish sunshine.

200 Posts, Eight Courses, Three Stars...

2011-04-27T07:41:00.000-07:00

New York seems a long time ago now - probably because it was - but, because I'm a bad blogger, there are still a few memories to cover here. As the title suggests, this post is, remarkably, the 200th in Lambshank history and, accordingly, it calls for something a bit special. Fortunately, thanks to Le Bernardin, there was only one contender for that "honour".

While I can understand Will's comment that, as good as Le Bernardin was, he'd generally just prefer a burger, I'm not sure I'd always agree. Sure, there's a purity to the burger that almost always hits the spot - particularly the sort of oozing, drippy delights sold by the likes of 5 Napkin or The Meatwagon - and Michelin's idea of fine dining doesn't always match my own. But sometimes, the effortless class of a restaurant that has it all absolutely spot on just can't be beaten and, after eight dazzling courses (plus the usual extra bits and pieces you'd expect), the greatest wine matches it's ever been my privilege to sample, and service that's graceful, efficient and supremely friendly, I would have to declare Le Bernardin as one of the best meals of my life. That it also achieved it after years of expectation speaks volumes. A couple of years ago, Iqbal Wahhab introduced me to the wonderful Mandy Oser, right hand woman to Le Bernardin's Eric Ripert (and now also owner of her own excellent Hell's Kitchen bar, Ardesia). After that, any journalist or business contact I knew going to New York got an intro. Le Bernardin got some good coverage, friends got great meals and I got e mails telling me how I really needed to eat there. To say then I was anticipating something amazing when Will, Iqbal and I rocked up to the door would be something an understatement... but Eric and all his staff excelled at every possible opportunity.

I could go on. I could rave about each individual course. I could sigh repeatedly about Aldo Sohm's wine matching. I could repeat my overused line about the freshness of the fish ("a decent vet could have revived some of the ingredients"). I could even order you to buy Eric's excellent book, but, basically, superlatives are slightly tedious to read. So, instead, here are some photos of the sort of food that warrants three Michelin stars, some brief annotation, the occasional "wibble" and an assurance that there are few better ways of spending $325 anywhere in the world...

Poached Winter Point oyster, Braised Leeks, Leek Foam, Crispy Potato Tuile. A little amuse that immediately refuted Eric's claim that "fish is the star of the plate, not the chef." Yes, you'd really have to struggle to bugger up an oyster this good but the sweetness of the leeks, the delicacy of the foam, the crisp contrast of the tuile? That's not nature, that's knowledge and talent.

Smoked Yellowfin Tuna "Prosciutto", Japanese Pickled Vegetables and Crispy Kombu. Yeah. Exactly. And the Vielles Vignees Chablis? Stonking.

Seared Langoustine, Mache and Wild Mushroom Salad, Shaved Foie Gras, Wild Balsamic Vinaigrette. I know, I know. This came paired with a glass of Riesling, Kabinett "Rotlack". If I close my eyes, I can still taste this dish / combination. Mind you, that's also true of the next three courses and at least two of the desserts...

Osetra Caviar Nestled in Tagliolini, Warm Sea Urchin Sauce. The more time that passes, the more I'm naming this the absolute stand out dish. As well as featuring some of the best pasta that's ever passed these lips (and is no doubt beginning a lifetime on the hips), every aspect stood out and combined to something that made the world stop for a few minutes. The silky textures, the extreme, well, fishiness of the caviar, the subtle depths of the sauce... And sweetness (and slight saltiness) of the Greek wine - Thalassitis, Gaia Estate - gave it yet another dimension. Oh, and before you question how a dish this rich and glistening fits into my attempts at healthy eating, let me give you another picture to demonstrate the scale involved.

Now THAT'S a lesson in quality over quantity, if ever I saw one...

Warm Nantucket Bay Scallops, Baby Leeks, Kaffir Lime Mariniere. I have never eaten anything quite like this, from the incredible, Liliputian air of the tiny scallops (the biggest in the picture was barely a centimetre across) to the sharp bite of the lime. Cue more reeling and whimpering (into a glass of Chassagne Montrachet 1er Cru Les Caillerets, seeing as you asked).

Bread Crusted Snapper, Saffron Fideos, Smoked Sweet Paprika Sauce. Ah, such precision... More of that incredible pasta, a crust of incredible uniformity, fish of nigh-revivable freshness (well, yeah, with a bit of stitching as well) and a glass of Chiroubles, Christophe Pacalet.

Poached Turbot, Wild Mushroom-Black Truffle Custard, Spiced Squab Jus. No comment necessary.

Ah, the pre-dessert. By this point, the note taking had been shunned in favour of just sitting back and enjoying every mouthful (and some fine company: never underestimate the power of fine company). That's why all I can tell you about this little extra course is that it involved milk chocolate and a caramel of some description and came in a hollowed-out egg shell (a trick I know Tristan Welch uses to fine effect too). It also demonstrated just how brilliant Mr Sohm is with the pairing. He approached the table with a bottle of quite evil looking Trappist beer and poured a small measure for each of us. Sweetness and incredibly strong, dark beer? Surely some mistake... and then the fireworks started. Unbelievable. The rest of the night was then taken up watching other tables as they experienced the same revelatory, borderline When Harry Met Sally moments.

Into the home stretch now with this clever take on the Panna Cotta: Greek Yogurt, Candied Walnut, "Red Hot" Apple Gelee. And yes, it was pretty spicy, another quirk that shouldn't have worked but did. Mr Sohm demonstrated his geographical knowledge with a Torrontez Sparkling - Deseado Familia Schroeder, from Patagonia. It was perfect but hey, you probably guessed that by now.

And finally... this little chocolate mortarboard is actually a Dominican Cremeux, Vanilla-Sweet Potato Sorbet, Bourbon Caramel. Sweet potato sorbet? By this point, M. Ripert could have served me Marmite meringue pie with a tripe and Marmite sauce and I'd have willingly spooned it into my mouth. It was, of course, delicious.

While I try not to get obsessed with the notion of "best ever meals" - it's timing, it's circumstance, it's so much more than what's on the plate, etc - the memory of Le Bernardin is going to be one that lingers long.

Veni Verde Vici

2011-04-03T04:55:00.000-07:00

I was asked recently - by Daniel Young as it happens - where, in dining terms, I thought London is better than New York and vice versa. When you're discussing New York with one of its experts you don't want to come across as a complete arse so I panicked for a second or two as arsedom is quite possibly my natural state. Well, when I'm not being smug, obviously... But we're not going there again.

Actually, I'd spent a bit of time in the previous weeks trying to draw the parallels and the differences between these two great culinary cities. At the highest level, I think London holds its own. In terms of hole-in-the-wall places and neighbourhood secrets, we're able to hold our own too. If you'll excuse the rather clunky analogy, and the obvious exceptions that will spring to mind, I'd liken South London to the Lower East Side and North London to the Upper West Side. London's problem is the stupid psychological barrier the Thames throws up: if we had rivers on either side - and access to the brilliant Overland line - we'd be zipping about all over the capital. The Thames is a barrier that, frankly, is stopping too many people enjoying the good things in the other half of London.

Anyway, that doesn't really answer Daniel's question. What did - and, happily, in a satisfactory manner - was my recollection of Locanda Verde. Aside from gastropubs of varying quality, London, to my mind, stutters in the mid-range, those places where you could go and sit in charming surroundings, spend under £20 and enjoy a couple of courses and an excellent bottle of wine. That's not to say they don't exist (before you get all commenty on my arse - though suggestions are welcome) but my perception is you have to seek them out. In New York, you can't help but stumble on half a dozen every time you go out.

To some extent, Locanda Verde is the perfect New York restaurant. Looking back on the trip, there were so many highlights - and yes, the Le Bernardin worship will follow soon - but Verde is probably the one I'd like to repeat first and the one I'd recommend to any visitor. Le Bernardin was bloody amazing but then at $325 a head it blooming well should be. Locanda Verde was a fraction of that for four people, with some excellent wine choices, delicious hearty, Italian-influenced fare, an energy and atmosphere that just yell "New York" (all dark woods, white linens, A frame chairs and that distinctive "buzz") and some very happy staff. At the end of the meal, we even discovered that our waiter had got married that morning, was heading off on honeymoon after lunch but didn't want to miss his shift. That's either insane or indicative of extreme pride and a very nice place to work.

Starters come billed as Antipasti and arrive in portions that encourage sharing. Lamb meatball sliders were probably the stand outs (and the ones that encouraged Will to play "Land of the Giants"), although a fine Steak Tartare Piedmontese, mushroom-topped crostino and - yes, I do like vegetables actually - a vibrant beetroot and citrus salad gave them a run for the money.

The one "duff" note of the meal came as a shared pasta course. "My Grandmother's Ravioli" may hit the spot for chef / patron Andrew Camellini but didn't really press our buttons. That's not to say it wasn't nice - we still polished off each meaty little parcel presented - but the chef's obvious personal nostalgia didn't translate in the way, say, Douglas Santi's does with his mum's gobsmacking lasagne recipe at Babbo. Less a duff note then, more a very minor hiccup.

No such complaints with the "secondi" dishes. Hanger steak was as good as we'd eaten anywhere else this trip (and Lord knows how many cows died to make it all possible), fire-roasted garlic chicken was big, succulent and pungent, shaved porchetta sandwich was a fat-oozing joy, and the roasted scallops were rich, perfectly cooked and elegantly underscored and undercut with more citrus flavours. It was also good to see sprouts as a side dish and very tasty they were too: most vegetables are though if you roast them with pancetta and pecorino shavings.

Cheese (superbly kept) and a moist sticky pudding (of dates and toffee if I remember rightly, not that I got much of a look in) finished the meal, and us, off in belly patting style, fuelling Will and Iqbal for a return to the UK and Mrs L and me until, er, dinner at Le Caprice. Yes, it IS a tough job actually...

Got Milk?

2011-03-09T07:06:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure how I first heard about David Chang or his Momofuku restaurant group. Since 2004 though, Chang has been building a fine and creative restaurant empire across Manhattan, creating a stir worldwide and publishing a book - a brilliantly no-nonsense book, as it happens. A visit to one of the restaurants was always likely this trip and, when you're travelling with a renowned sugar addict, the restaurant most likely to get visited was always going to be Milk Bar.

As the name suggests, savoury items are probably not going to play a major part on this menu. They're not completely absent, and the Pork Buns were every bit as rich, punchily flavoured and addictive as I'd been led to believe, but the main event here is cake, ice cream, cookies and other guilty pleasures.

Ice creams come as soft whipped swirls of eccentric flavours (with sides of sugary cereals and nuts), cakes come as calorie-packed slabs of sweetness(pictured is the candy bar pie: chocolate crust, caramel, peanut butter nougat, pretzels,) cookies are moist and pliable, drinks are either thick and dairy based or alcoholic with amusing names...

And it's all stupidly delicious. You might not be able to look yourself in the eye the morning after - The Cakewalk of Shame, perhaps? - but for those intense, fleeting moments of sugar rushy pleasures, the guilt is a small price to pay. Here's hoping the Atherton dessert bar presses similar buttons when it finally opens next month.

Burger Joint

2011-03-07T11:54:00.000-08:00

There are so many meals to be discussed from the infamous / smug New York trip that it's been quite a difficult decision deciding what goes next. At some point this week I actually need to sit down and write my "proper" article on the trip so I'm saving a lot of the higher end dining for that first (and to trickle down here shortly after). In the meantime, after much deliberation, I decided there can be only one choice: Burger Joint.

Yeah, big flipping surprise. Davey's talking about burgers. Again. There are more to come as well (the exemplary Caprice one, the repeated delights of 5 Napkins, even the delightful little lamb meatball sliders at Locanda Verde) but the stand-out burger experience was to be found in the unlikeliest of settings: behind a curtain in the foyer of the Parker Meridien Hotel on 57th (between 6th and Broadway).

For London eaters, there's an obvious analogy for this experience. You know the Soho Hotel, right? That big foyer, the exquisite design, the bar area, the media types quaffing away, the works of art...? Right. Now imagine #MEATEASY located behind a curtain somewhere off that room. That was exactly the thought Burger Joint inspired.

I was there - at a dash, about 45 minutes before I had to get back to JFK for the flight home - thanks to a tip off from the marvellous Mandy Oser. It was Mandy who'd set up Le Bernardin for us, and kindly hosted us for a couple of beers at her own Hell's Kitchen bar, Ardesia. As with all chats with local foodies, the conversation swiftly turned to other things we should eat and she recommended Burger Joint. She was right. In terms of food, energy, eccentricity, Burger Joint is the sort of place that leaves you beaming and feeling like you very possibly dreamed the whole experience.

The only clue that it exists is a tiny neon sign tucked away at the end of a corridor (or, possibly, at certain times of the day, the enormous queue). Walk towards that and you'll see a handwritten sign on the door frame. Turn right through the door frame and... wow. It's burger bedlam.

A huge counter and grill area takes up the middle of the back wall, surrounded by tables, chairs and a mass of New Yorkers chowing down. Families, couples, friends, random solo tourists (hello) all vied for space in a crammed room that bustled with life. A couple of guys flipped burgers, another assembled the finished sandwiches, a girl took orders while a big poster instructed the customer, in true New York style, not to hesitate. These are your choices. This is how we can cook them. These are the things you can have on it and if you want all of them just say "The Works". This sort of thing probably comes as second nature to New Yorkers used to ordering at deli counters but added a certain amount of pressure to a Brit just trying to enjoy a final cheeseburger. However, I got the order out in reasonable form, handed over a remarkably small sum of money - hamburgers are c. $7, cheeseburgers around $8 - and joined the other queue.

Within a few minutes, I was handed a waxed paper parcel containing my sandwich. With no table available, I balanced it precariously on a ledge to take some (bad) photos, before taking a bite. Like so much of the meat tried in NY - who are clearly on a citywide health kick - it was a little underseasoned but better that way than overseasoned. With a hefty sprinkle of salt, the results were as good as I've had: the crust of the char, the fantastically artificial cheese-like slice melting into the meat, crispy onions giving a sharp boost, very good ripe tomato adding sweetness, while mustard and ketchup and beefy juices oozed into the sturdy, slightly toasted bun. It was over in a matter of seconds. It wasn't a #MEATEASY Chilli Challenge speed, but it certainly didn't take long. As a final experience for this trip, it was great, the perfect encapsulation of the trip as a whole. A little luxury, a lot of great people, and a damned fine, meat-based, handheld snack.

Graze Expectations

2011-02-26T14:11:00.001-08:00

It recently came to my attention that a "friend" of mine - and someone I'd known for a decade or more - decided to unfollow me on Twitter because I was "smug". If they're reading this, they may wish to look away now because, frankly, it's not going to get any better.

As some readers are aware, I started life as a private banker before somehow stumbling into the world of journalism. I often jest that the difference between my current job and the old job is that I tried work and didn't like it and this is much better. And it is. Without a doubt. Whatever the problems, the cashflow issues, the occasional frustrations, it's easily forgotten when, for example, I'm writing this in a hotel room in New York where I've been sent to do a feature about food and get to travel with two of my favourite people, foodie or otherwise: Iqbal Wahhab of Roast and William Leigh of, well, anyone who'll have him. The tart.

I'm not going to do the usual thing of extolling New York as the greatest food city in the world. It is, of course, excellent but, frankly, just as capable of delivering up something rubbish as any other city. The thing is, of course, that once you decide to travel the thousands of miles to get here, you're rather likely to have done a little preplanning in terms of where you're going. That, inevitably, goes double if you have a moderate claim to put "food journalist" down as your job description.

As many have noticed, it's been one of those funny spells where EVERYONE appears to be going to New York, or has just returned. That meant a large number of recommendations on where to eat and, inevitably, too few days to do them all. Unless, that is, you split dishes with a colleague or two and do as much as you can in the time available. And that's how dinner at Blue Smoke on Saturday night became my tenth food stop in 24 hours.

Friday Night

With Iqbal otherwise detained (as I would have been if a beautiful TV presenter wanted to have dinner with me), Will and I were on a mission to graze New York's finest handheld snacks. We had a hell of a list but, with a map, our walking shoes on and a couple of beers inside us (and thank you, international mega-corporation for the regular McWees), we headed from Midtown to the low numbers for several highly recommended things to eat.

First up, Shake Shack, one of New York's recent sudden successes. Fries were shunned and the milkshakes / frozen custard concoctions left for another day (hopefully Thursday...). There was just one thing on our minds. A burger, namely the signature Shack Stack: the standard burger, cheese, all the usual stuff, topped with a cheese stuffed, breadcrumbed mushroom. It was torn in half, photographed to within an inch of its life and consumed with gusto. Damned good.

Over an earlier glass of wine, an associate and the waiter agreed that the best pizza to be found in New York was at Artichoke, a little hole-in-the-wall place on 14th Street, between 2nd and 3rd. I've not got much else to compare it to as far as NYC goes but Jesus, this was great pizza. At the suggestion of the actress in the queue ahead of us and the very nice girl who sold the beers, we opted for a slice of signature / titular artichoke pizza. Cheese, oil and bits of dried chilli smeared our faces as we crunched our ways through the carefully dissected slice, whimpering at the quality of the dough, the differing textures, the blend of flavours...

According to our careful planning, Luke's Lobster was just a few blocks away and, at various people's behest, we headed to E 7th for the signature lobster roll. This being New York, however, and us being us, there was a distraction en route in the form of New York stalwart Atomic Wings. What is it about the wing that's so damn appealing? These would turn out not to be the best example New York has to offer but pretty bloody good nonetheless. We wanted heat but not, as Will described it, "anything nuclear." That was, inevitably, the point we discovered one of their heatlevels was actually called "nuclear". The very nice chap behind the till allowed us to bend the rules and share five wings rather than the normal ten, with a "medium" heat setting, but also threw in a little tub of their "suicidal" sauce... which turned out to be anything but. Never mind, they were hot, crispy, left the lips with a decent tingle and fuelled the short walk to Luke's where the (yet more) charming staff threw us a load more dining suggestions, posed for a pic and served up some very well cooked lobster in a lightly toasted milk roll. It's not going to jangle all the tastebuds in the way a spicy wing does, of course, but this was a very good sandwich indeed.

The next scheduled stop was Banh Mi Zon but, due to lack of planning (and, probably, that unscheduled wing detour) we missed closing time by a few minutes. Never mind: just around the corner we'd stumbled across another that had been on our original list which we hadn't factored in for this snack trek across the low numbers, the highly recommended Porchetta. It wasn't as good as people had said. It was considerably better, prompting a relatively sober tweet from me involving the words "holy" "piggy" and "fuck". The roll had been finished with a little cornmeal dusting to give it an excellent crunch when toasted. The meat was rich, succulent and suggested a pig that had enjoyed a short but gratifying life. The whole thing - particularly with a smear of their home made sriracha - was probably the best thing of that evening. Lovely staff too and the piggy tip "jar" was the sort of item that brought out my latent kleptomania

There's a lot more to be written up from this trip - the tasting menu from Le Bernardin, the delights of Locanda Verde, the brilliance of Kyochon's wings and the messy delights of the to name but a few - but Snack Night takes some beating. If that makes me smug, then stuff it, smug I'll be...

The Smashing Dumplings

2011-02-13T10:46:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago - alright, it was longer but I won't tell if you won't - I talked about "discovering" a great coffee bar called 3 Little Pigs in a shoe shop on Warren Street. The reason for discovering said coffee bar was an invite to lunch at Mushu, a new Asian restaurant that's giving the street a much needed kick into 21st Century eating.

"Fast fresh oriental food" is how the Mushu website puts it and I can't describe it any better. At lunchtime, the emphasis is on speedy, hearty and healthy eating. In the evening, the vibe is more "izakaya" in style. Yep, exactly... No, to be honest, I needed to look it up too. It's basically a point where bar meets restaurant, where you can linger over a beer or a bottle of wine and graze as the mood takes you or attack the menu in more conventional dining-style. Either way, it's an open, well-lit space, sensibly priced and, while not reinventing any culinary wheels, certainly giving them a decent spin.

To some extent, after the rise of Mooli's (no, I'm not going on about them again. Well, not for a day or two) and Koya, Mushu feels like a very natural next step and a very welcome addition for those of us who head northwards. Lunch for us took an agreeable hour plus but there were plenty around us rattling through in their permitted 60 minutes. All of us, I imagine, left feeling agreeably full and positively refuelled. I hate this idea of food as fuel - yes, it is, but it's also a great source of pleasure - but there's that lovely sense of being re-energised by certain decent food, rather than being left lethargic / like you're walking through treacle. You'll leave Mushu feeling set for whatever the afternoon or evening can bring.

We idled our way through a few of the menu's "must have" choices. Potstickers - oh dear god I love those things - were excellent, although the title of this piece refers mostly to the beef and kimchi water dumplings, which burst in a delightfully messy, spicy manner. A plate of those and a couple of beers is a very good night out in my book. Delicious aubergine came sticky, sweet and sprinkled with sesame seeds, kara age had decent crunch and bite, while in contrast the "Lions Head" meatballs had virtually no texture and were equally marvellous as a result. Over in katsu curry corner, well, everything there was as comforting and addictive as you'd expect...

Anything original? No. Really nicely executed, well priced and just plain tasty? Absolutely. Another simple and valuable addition to the London dining scene.

Simple Pleasures...

2011-01-22T05:31:00.000-08:00

Sometimes things are staring you right in the face. There are lots of things to come on the Simple Pleasures theme but, given how many of them involve pig in its myriad forms, fried things and cheese, I wanted the next one to be something different. I was contemplating it yesterday on and off and it was lurking in the back of my mind when I met up with Kavey and Pete at the Euston Tap last night. Having been lucky enough to stay at Thornbridge one (predictably messy) night (in the Jaipur Suite, dontyouknow), I was delighted to see a couple of their newer beers on the cask list - among many other lovely beers. It was after a deep swig and a contented sigh that I decided to take a photo. I showed it to my co-drinkers, we all nodded sagely in appreciation and Kavey pointed out that I should put it in my Simple Pleasures collection. She was, of course, absolutely spot on, which is why Simple Pleasure no. 13 is the wonder of beer.

Naked Joy

2011-01-15T00:32:00.000-08:00

Where did the first half of January go? For me it's gone doing all the things I'd planned to do in December. Well, nearly all the things: I still haven't had my jerk chicken afternoon, hit Tooting for a curry and a couple of other regional London dining things. However, I have whittled my e mail inbox down to a manageable two figures from, ahem, 1486 and, in the process, set up assorted meetings and lunches with people I'd been meaning to see for months.

As a result of that process, I had lunch yesterday at Mushu and very good it was too. That deserves, and will get, a longer post shortly, once I've stopped sniggering, in Carry On style, about their smashing dumplings. Arf arf and, indeed, fnarr fnarr. First though, I had to write about the rather wonderful discovery next door to Mushu: a ladies' shoe shop called Black Truffle.

Relax. This hasn't suddenly turned into a fashion blog (you've met me, you know I'm barely on the vaguest of nodding terms with fashion) nor, you'll be delighted to hear, has it turned into a site for chunky cross dressers with beards. No. My eye wasn't caught by a divine pair of kitten heels, it was caught by the board outside offering coffee. As I peered in through the doorway, slightly confused, a very nice man appeared and said "coffee?" This turned out to be Michael, the brother of the shop owner, who's now running a coffee business called Three Little Pigs from just inside the door.

Beans, as per the title of this post, come from the excellent folk at Nude, the expertise is Michael's and the result was a cracking little shot of espresso that I could still taste several tube stops later. It also means there's finally a proper coffee option on Warren Street, a part of town that, as far as I can tell (and trust me, I've looked) has needed a proper purveyor of caffeine for a long time. There's also something appealingly quirky - and quite Greenwich Villagey - about buying decent coffee in a funky shoe shop. They open from 8am and I'd urge you to seek them out.

That Was The Year That Was...

2010-12-31T00:28:00.000-08:00

You know, I hadn't noticed the ambiguity of the headline until I wrote it. You can leave it as it stands (which was the intention for this less-than-comprehensive look back at 2010) or add a word or two to add your own slant: that was the year that was... "brilliant", for example. Or "crap". Or "delicious". Or "the year we sacrificed logic to be ruled by a spam-faced fascist robot" but hey, that's what I seethe over in the pub, not what this blog is about.

As far as this final post goes - the 69th of the year? How did THAT happen? - the focus is, of course, not on political opinions coming out of my mouth but lovely food and drink that went in. There was, inevitably, quite a lot of it: some good, some bad, some indifferent. The latter two we'll ignore in the name of positivity so, without further ado - or comments about our pauper-goading PM - here's a Top Ten (sort of) of 2010.

As with the X Factor, I'm not going for any particular order here except for the number one slot and there will be some honourable mentions along the way. There are also a few things that very nearly made it - Mrs L's Victoria Sponge for one, not to mention Mrs L's porter bread - The thing that's struck me most as I compiled this list is how simple the food is. Yes, there's some considerable patience and flair involved in getting the relevant dishes to the plate, from the time and effort involved in producing great ingredients to the assembling of said ingredients, but the actual dishes? There was a point this list included two soups, three risottos, two sandwiches, three pieces of meat and something with Bird's Custard. To paraphrase the bald one, cooking really doesn't get simpler than that.

To start then, a risotto. July saw me - luckily and happily - ensconced in the delightful South Tyrol for a few days. As well as being one of the loveliest groups of people it's been my pleasure to go away with, it was three days and nights of wonderful scenery and even better food. The area is host to something like 14 Michelin stars and we did three of them. There were many dishes that could have made it into this list - the amazing pizzas on the first night, the polenta, potato and cheese dish we were served up a mountain, a plate of superb speck on a balcony as the sun slowly set, the risotto at the very odd silent meal - but the dish I keep thinking back to was part of the final meal at Norbert Niederkofler's St Hubertus restaurant: risotto with dwarf pine needed and smoked breast of guinea fowl. As he showed us later, the risotto is cooked over a wood-fired stove as he believes that gentler heat works wonders. It does. A dish of glorious textures, magnificent flavours - fresh, warming, smoky - and a combination I've never had before. Mr Niederkofler I salute you.

Meat next I think. While first experienced in 2009, I ventured back to Norbiton's Roz-Ana twice this year, mainly for one dish: the lamb chops. I really cannot recommend them highly enough. Massive flavours, big spicing but still that lambiness shines through. Bugger it. I think I have to pop back in January. Who's in?

Somewhat inevitably, Mooli's are my next highlight. While it might look like I'm doing their PR, I'm really not. I just like Mat and Sam enormously - two of the hardest working men in food - and love the food. The fact that I have a quote in the toilets is just the icing on the cake. I always knew they'd make it to this list, my problem was for which single dish? After, ahem, extensive research, I think I've got it, that single distilled moment of perfect Mooliness. It's not, as you might suspect, the goat, although that's an excellent sandwich. It's not the zingy, hangover curing, all-is-right-with-the-world carbohydrate joy of the "secret" under-the-counter chat Mooli. It's not the sinus-clearing, lip-smacking recent addition of chick pea. Ladies and gents I give you... the final, marvellously messy mouthful of a paneer Mooli. And if I can ever bear to wait for a few seconds when I eat it, I might even take a picture.

Another sandwich next and a homemade one and, undoubtedly, the easiest thing here to recreate. If anyone needed proof that keeping it simple and using the best possible ingredients was the key to culinary happiness then they should have popped over the other Saturday. After a morning of local errands and supermarketing, we were ravenous by the time we got home. In the bag was a carton of Burford Brown eggs and a good, crusty, still warm baguette. In the fridge, some Denhay bacon. Ten minutes later after some hot pan action, we had our feet up, cups of tea steaming in front of us, and the golden, yolk-dripping joys of the perfect egg and bacon buttie. I did think about taking a photo at the time but the belly overruled that decision.

Keeping with the breakfast theme, February saw me in Texas for two fantastic weeks for a couple of features and, as a by-product, a lot of blogging. A lot of award-nominated blogging as it happens but that's not important right now. He says, smugly. Anyway, Texas was a knockout in terms of people, places and platefuls. Friends, family and regular readers will know my tastes often tend towards the spicy and Texas, with its obvious Mexican influences, satisfied that addiction with ease. As well as providing the single hottest chili I've ever eaten, it reacquainted me with that breakfast of champions, Huevos Rancheros, the best example of which came at the Mansion on Turtle Creek in Dallas. Cheers chaps.

I've long argued that the joy of food isn't just about what's on the plate. The setting, the circumstances, the company all play their part and nowhere was this better illustrated than on a beach in Kent in September. After an excellent day foraging, appetites were already running rampant: there's nothing like fresh air and exercise to make you feel you deserve a good meal. Dinner was spectacular though, from the deep-fried dangerous delights of sea weed (woks of hot oil and open fires add a certain amount of adrenaline to any appetiser), through the sea bass main course to the best pudding of the year: apple and plum crumble cooked on open flame. Yes, it was a little charred, yes, the fruit was a little sharper than you would ideally like and yes, the custard had a slight (but delicious) smoky edge. But it's still my favourite, most memorable pudding of the year.

Travel and food played a big part in 2010. Hopefully that's a pattern that will repeat in 2011 with a couple of big trips slowly shaping up, subject to commissions kicking in but, even if it doesn't, I can't complain after trips to Abu Dhabi, Texas, Italy, Greece and Rotterdam. Each had some options for this list: as well as the aforementioned Huevos Rancheros and risotto, the Hakkasan in Abu Dhabi and the herring in Rotterdam were certainly in contention. While there's more to come from Texas, Greece had to get a look in thanks to the lovely Maria Elia. She was cooking as part of the Sani Resort's Gourmet Food Festival - a resort / festival I'd recommend wholeheartedly - and, with a single shotglass of chilled tomato, peach and ginger soup, forced her way high into this list. Sweet but with a mouthwatering edge of umami and a lip-tingling bite of chili, it stopped us all in our tracks. I attempted to recreate it myself with some success, but would suggest seeking out anything Maria's doing on the offchance this soup will be part of the menu. I understand she may have her own place in London next year. As soon as I've finished typing, I shall be crossing my fingers...

Risotto make its final appearance now. In any other year, the odd but brilliant combination of maple syrup and bone marrow would have secured its place on this list but something had to go and, after tasting the truffle risotto at Gauthier just before Christmas, Italian eccentricity was always going to be the fall guy. Cooking doesn't get much more elaborate yet simple than truffle risotto, a basic dish flavoured with that most exclusive of fungi but, done well, one that has been known to bring me to tears. The first time that happened was at Chez Nico. Yes, I know that sounds deeply pretentious but sometimes food will do that, sneaking up and getting all Ratatouille on your arse. The risotto at Gauthier had damn near the same effect.

Home stretch now, chaps, and more meat. While the Roast burger nearly made it on (and the roast potato option is now on the menu), ditto Hawksmoor's crack-like Kimchi burger, the beef that blew me away the most in 2010 was a piece of ribeye in Goodman. As well as being my first "normal" meal at Goodman, after the fun of John Cadieux's In n Out tribute burger, a brilliant afternoon eating at a table in the kitchen and the unforgettable afternoon eating 100 day aged steak with Simon Majumdar, it was another confirmation that quality ingredients simply cooked are all you need. Mid-dinner I turned to my companion as another effortless slice of ribeye fell to the plate and commented that this was either the best piece of steak I've ever eaten or the best steak knife I've ever used. We decided it was probably a combination of the two.

And so, finally, to the genuine number one, the single best thing I've eaten this year. And that thing was... soup. Typically, it's perhaps the least photogenic of anything else I'm discussing so you will have to take my word for it. That, or make it, given that the chef very graciously gives away many of his secrets at his excellent website. The chef in question is Dallas legend Dean Fearing. The soup is his "Tortilla Soup with South of the Border flavors". The result is more flavour, texture and spice than I thought it possible to squeeze into an inch or so of liquid. If I had three wishes right now, one of them would be a bowl of this - or at least a commission from a friendly newspaper or magazine to go back and cook this dish with the man himself. Words cannot do this bowl of wonderfulness justice, but my mouth is watering at a Niagara-like rate as I remember those fleeting spoonfuls in what was undoubtedly the best dinner I had this year.

So that, my fellow food-lovers, was 2010 and here's to a Happy New Year. Your own reminiscences are of course welcome - not least as they might well inspire my own food memories of 2011...

A Christmas Toast

2010-12-11T06:53:00.000-08:00

It is nearly, as Noddy Holder has it, CHRISTMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS. Once again, it's managed to take me by surprise which is pretty impressive for a festival that falls on the same date every year.

Happily there's still time to get sorted, particularly for the low-key Christmas that we've got in store. While Christmas with the family is lovely, mixed schedules tends to mean a fabulous lunch - and both my mum and sister are fine cooks - but a limited window to eat it in. We've thus taken to staying at home and spreading lunch across the whole day. We'll have a luxurious breakfast - Eggs Benedict and damn the cholestrol count, or, if the budget runs to it, the tiniest commercially available tin of caviar for Mrs L - and a bottle of something, do all the phone calls, and then... just chill. We'll do a starter around 1pm, have the turkey around 4, 5ish and then, most years we've done this, haven't managed much else except cheese and biscuits with Dr Who. This year we might try and squeeze in the Heston Christmas Pudding that the lovely folk at Waitrose sent me (and which I haven't eBayed) but suspect that will have to wait for another day.

The best bit about lunch though is the advanced prep. Over the years, I've come to love the lazy, radio-assisted prep on Christmas Eve. It started with peeling and par-boiling the spuds and parsnips. Now, we've pretty much got everything done in advance. Sprouts get blanched on Christmas Eve, before we fry them up with bacon and chestnuts on the day. The carrot and swede gets cooked and mashed and seasoned in readiness for a slug of nutmeg, butter and reheating in the oven. The spuds and snips (and a few more carrots) will be par boiled and ready for, respectively, goose fat and honey and an hour of roasting Christmas afternoon - well, except for the couple of spuds that will be used, fondant style, to soak up the last splashes of the bacon fat and a spoonful of turkey stock. The cranberries will have been boiled, sugared, given a splash of port and be jarred and ready to go in the fridge. Beans have been blanched before being tossed in a pan with a little butter and garlic. Thanks to Richard Corrigan's excellent poaching suggestion, even the turkey will be mostly prepped meaning the entire lunch will take around an hour of cooking on Christmas Day.

The other trimmings are also in hand. There's a big slab of sausage meat in the freezer, and some pigs in blankets all care of Ally Pally's Farmers Market and the lovely Giggly Pig stand. And as of today, some very special breadcrumbs...

I've previously waxed lyrical on the joys of chicken toast and last time I did someone made a suggestion that stuck with me. Yesterday, thanks to a piece I was writing on Alternative Christmas Lunches, I got sent a cockerel to try. Given the lack of fridge space and the size of the bird (it's enormous), I roasted that straight away (while writing some suitably juvenile Tweets about it all) and, this morning, while freezing lots of the cooked meat (and preparing the biggest green curry I've ever seen) as per the suggestion (and I apologise because I can't remember who made it) took some of the cooking juices, slapped them on some crusty bread and grilled it all off. That left me with the above slices of golden beauty which are currently cooling in the kitchen. In a few minutes, they'll all be blitzed down to breadcrumbs which will then be used as the basis for the stuffing on Christmas Day. Yeah. Exactly.

Simple Pleasures

2010-11-28T14:00:00.000-08:00

After last week's paean to the joys of fat, I thought I should perhaps balance it out a little. It might also convince the people that have been making comments about my waistline that: a) I do eat a lot of vegetables actually (and fruit for that matter); and b) I don't spend every waking moment shuttling wheezily between Greggs and KFC.

That's why this week - Simple Pleasure No. 12, if I've got my facts right - I'm celebrating the (stupidly named) red cabbage for a number of reasons. First of all there's the colour. Look at it. Prince would kill for a shirt that colour. Secondly, there are all the myriad health benefits, from Vitamin C to fibre. Thirdly, there's the fact that this particular shining example of cabbagekind came from our allotment. Finally, there's the fact that, on a cold wintery day, nothing - and I'd probably even include mash here - can bolster a stew like a big spoonful of braised red cabbage. It's also the easiest side dish to make, one that you can get creative with (this contains homegrown red onions and garlic, a splash of Cider Brandy - which, with celery salt, is my current "go to" ingredient - a handful of past-their-sell-by dried cranberries and sultanas and nutmeg), one that will happily bubble away in a low oven for hours, one that freezes brilliantly and one that, as it's cooking, can make your entire property smell like Christmas. Not bad for a fist-sized brassica.

Simple Pleasures

2010-11-19T05:50:00.000-08:00

I've noticed a running theme with these. There's a lot of fat involved. Unfortunately, there's no getting away from the fact that, as far as edible joys go, fat is where it's at. What's pork without crackling? A scone without clotted cream? Potatoes without, er, a deep fat fryer? It's business as usual then with the latest entry into this "strand", although it also confirms another suspicion of mine, that the best bits of eating are often those fleeting moments. There will be more of those, and more fat in the future but, for now, I give you Simple Pleasure, No. 11: the point where your cheese on toast turns into the golden, bubbling stuff of dreams.

Going Dutch

2010-11-07T06:44:00.000-08:00

One thing I can't knock in this "career" of mine - inverted commas used on behalf of all those who suggest travelling, eating out, playing games and watching films is not a proper job, you cynical bastards - is the sheer variety of any given week.

Last week for example. Monday was a day of meetings to discuss web design and international liaison, amongst other things... and a screening of Jackass 3D. Tuesday was spent tidying my ridiculous inbox and playing Blood Stone so I could review it for The Guardian. Wednesday I was at the Lusso office writing about international property and private jets. Thursday I interviewed Steve McQueen's widow Barbara and discussed possible wine events while tasting wine provided by the excellent Yapp Brothers. And Friday found me in The Hague for the Dutch Fashion Awards.

To be frank, the Fashion Awards left me cold. Giggling, admittedly, at the pretentiousness of it all (seriously, how can you tell which uwearable, ugly collection is the best unwearable, ugly collection?) and speculating which of the models wouldn't have the energy to make it to the end of the catwalk? I know I'm no comparison for these girls but Jesus, how thin? If you got served a chicken that was as scrawny as a couple of them, you'd send it back.

It made me feel kind of guilty - well, for a nanosecond - for all the goodies I'd consumed that day. I'd never thought of Holland as a likely food destination (although I'm sure many do go to Amsterdam for the brownies) but perhaps we should. With the efficiency of City Airport helping, it was about two hours from home to hotel (the rather lovely Hotel Des Indes) and all of 10 minutes walk to my first revelation: broodje haring.

Since my first run in with a rollmop - an ex used to love them, we split up soon after I tried one, the events may even have been connected in some fickle teenage manner - the idea of raw herring still makes me a little uneasy. Even getting 20-odd years of sushi under the belt hasn't necessarily helped my feelings towards this particularly bit of aquatic dining (and I'm apparently not alone)but, what the hell. I can't keep quoting Bourdain - your body is not a temple, it's an amusement park - and his assertion that you should try everything once and let a small fish stop me; not even one in a soft bread roll topped with raw onions.

The "haring" had been suggested by the very helpful man at the counter, in answer to my "what should I try?" quest for semi-local authenticity. I could either have it in the traditional Dutch manner - on its own, eaten in much the same manner as a trainer feeds a sealion - or go the "broodje" route: basically, in bread. I figured the latter was the safer option and, with his warning to be careful ringing in my ears - "the locals are not the only ones who like the herring," he laughed, pointing at the seagull muggers waiting for the unwary - I nestled into a corner, next to two local businessmen.

Two very nice local businessmen, as it happened, who first laughed at my assorted photographic attempts - it really isn't easy to make broodje haring look pretty - and then beamed happily at the assorted whimpers as I ate it. Dear God, it was delicious, from the gently yielding roll - like the sort of bridge rolls my gran used to buy, only better - to the sharp onions, and under it all, the ridiculously soft, fresh, ever-so-fishy hit of the herring. The contrasts were perfect and the flavours deceptively big for something so tiny. "Did you like it?" they asked, probably unnecessarily given the speed it disappeared. "Fantastic," I replied, "what else should I have?" They ran through a couple of their favourites and insisted I try a little of the fried fish they were tucking into. That too was as fresh as I've had - and I've had stuff straight off a trawler - with the lightest of batters encasing it and steaming it to perfection. More appreciative noises escaped my lips, as they agreed I needed to try one of the spicier offerings.

The other server suggested the prawn mix, I gave a thumbs up, and another roll appeared. The sauce was effectively a Thousand Island / prawn cocktail dressing but with the heat turned up... if not to 11, certainly to a 6 or 7. Even so, the piquancy of the spice - I'd guess a generous amount of horseradish as well as a decent spoonful of Tabasco - couldn't overpower the freshness of the prawns. Impeccable.

The availability of fresh fish meant that I didn't even panic when someone suggested a shared sushi starter for dinner. Miller's is the sort of place that London's full of - bright, breezy, All Bar One-y eateries - where you don't necessarily expect a great culinary experience. Amazing what you can do in that setting when you have great ingredients at your disposal though (and some really interesting local beers).

The sushi was very good indeed - start with decent fish and you really can't balls it up - but trumped by the main course. The notion of a "vealburger" had got me very excited indeed. The arrival of not one big burger but two little veal sliders was a pleasant surprise in both visual and edible terms.

The lovely buns absorbed all the juices, the meat was charred on the outside yet still pink on the inside - an impressive achievement with something measuring in millimetres - and the trimmings, of opaquely thin slices of aged Dutch cheese, truffle mayo and a quail's egg gave it all a classy, rich spin. Chips were a bit of a disappointment (good looking but sadly lacking in crispness) but never mind, because the burgers were both little stars. They could probably have also fed the entire cast of waif-like models for a week but that's not important right now...

L'Addiction, S'Il Vous Plait...

2010-11-01T13:59:00.000-07:00

Much has been tweeted already about Hawksmoor and their new, rather impressive, gaff in Covent Garden. Much will also be written about the new addition to the burger menu. As I came late to the previous Hawksmoor Burger love-in, I'm getting in as early as possible with this one. Will Beckett, one of the co-owners, has already likened the Kimchi Burger to crack. He's got a point.

As if their juicy burger wasn't already deliciously messy enough, the addition of a generous smear of very potent kimchi gives the satisfying crunch / contrast you get from a dill pickle but adds a sour, punchy hit that makes the whole thing, well, yes, as addictive as crack. My concern - other than spending rent money on a fix and making various excuses to loved ones - is that I'm now used to the heat so the next one won't give me quite such a chilli high. I need the next one hotter and the one after that hotter still. Mr Beckett: can I suggest several degrees of kimchi and a loyalty card as a record of what the next "hit" should be? What do you mean I sound like an addict? Not at all, I just do the odd kimchi burger every now and again. I can control it...

The Centurion

2010-10-31T05:02:00.000-07:00

Much has been written, discussed and Tweeted on the subject of just how long steak should be aged in order to make it taste even better. I've never participated because, if it's a decent piece of meat, I'm just going to enjoy it because it's a decent piece of meat: whether or how it's reached beefy puberty isn't a major concern.

The thing is, if you were to eat a 28 day aged steak today, can you really remember every detail of its texture and taste in, say, a week's time when you're tucking into something aged for an extra week? If you can - and I'm sure some of you probably can - good on you. Unfortunately, my memory and palate don't really work that way which is why I keep schtum.

It is a subject that interested me though and, as proven by an enjoyable morning at Gaucho a couple of years ago, in order for me to do the comparison thing, I need all the options lined up before me. That removes some of the variables (as well as that extra week, two different restaurants are likely to use different suppliers) and also explains why I can now rank my chosen cuts of beef: ribeye first, sirloin and rump roughly equal second, fillet a surprisingly bland fourth. I needed an opportunity to do the same on aged meats - and thanks to Simon Majumdar and the good folk at Goodman, that's exactly what happened.

In a manner of speaking. With Simon carving out a career as a US TV presenter (and a US based happily married man), we'd arranged a spot of lunch for when he was back in the UK. Thrashing some options around via e mail, Simon made the sort of comment that makes any such conversation redundant: "John at Goodman did mention he had a 100 day old piece of beef with my name on it."

Which is why Simon and I found ourselves recently at Goodman in Mayfair, sipping a glass of red and a beer respectively, and ogling strange blackened lumps of beef like these. If anything was going to teach me what happens during the ageing process, it was a three-and-a-bit month old hunk of cow. "It was slaughtered on May 5," advised John of one of the pieces. Eek.

I was expecting something ripe and gamey and yes, there was a hint of cheese-like aroma to the raw meat. But it wasn't the overpowering scent I expected, more a hint of its age. John disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a plate of cuts and a comprehensive lesson in aging. A slab of belted Galloway, aged 35 days. A piece of something else - lack of notes due to over excitement - aged 45 days. And there, the fat melting softly at room temperature, strips of different 100 day steaks from Chile and Australia. There was a knowing grin from John, a few giggles of delight from yours truly, followed by a glass of splendid Rioja as we sat awaiting the results of John's expertise at meat sourcing, storage and Josper grilling.

What reappeared was delicious and educational. The 35 day was excellent and richly flavoured. The 45 day wowed with the iron-heavy, gaminess I was expecting from the 100 day. And the 100 day aged?

Unbelievably good, without a hint of the expected flavours. Instead of ripeness, there was a sweetness to the crust, partly one assumes the caramelisation, but that sweetness carried through to the flesh beneath. Soft but with some density, it was surprisingly subtle but very addictive. I try not to get into that whole "best" thing - a meal is frequently so much more than just the food - but if pushed I'd have to admit this would be in my protein top three of all time. If I was sad enough to keep that sort of mental list. Which, admittedly, I probably am.

Remarkably - or depressingly, depending on your medical position - we demolished pretty much everything on the plate, leaving only a small piece or two for a doggy bag (sorry Mrs L), and then decided that yes, actually, we felt better than we deserved (good protein, see, can't beat it) and that yes, actually, we did have room for a pudding and a glass of something sticky. This served as final proof that there are multiple stomachs within the human body (the main one, the pudding one and, my latest discovery, the hotel breakfast one) and a good reminder that while Goodman is among the very best of steak places in London, they're pretty damned adept at the other courses too.

I'm still not going to be drawn on what cut / ageing period / ageing process is the "best" but it was a hell of an educational experience. Hearty pats on the back then to Simon, John and David for the experience.

And one of these days - having now done Goodman for the In n Out tribute burger, a lunch in the kitchen and this elderly steak experiment - I'll go there for a normal meal...

Such A Beautiful Horizon

2010-10-24T03:46:00.000-07:00

I am, as I've said before, a lucky bugger. Well, provided you see a succession of low-paid journalism jobs as "luck", that is. Regardless, I seem to have stumbled into an existence where I pretty much get paid to do things I enjoy.

One of the most enjoyable of these - to some extent - has been the travel. This last year or so I've seen places I never expected to visit, and forged connections that have opened all sorts of interesting doors. I might occasionally gripe about itineraries but I hope I don't do that too much, or too loudly. Saying that, it is utter bliss when an opportunity arises to combine "work" - the quotation marks issued by pretty much everyone I know - with some proper downtime such as this week's all-too-brief jaunt to Barcelona.

It's 20 plus years since I'd last been to this welcoming city. It won't be 20 plus years until I go back. Admittedly I might not be able to afford the luxury of La Gran Hotel Florida next time but, as lovely as that was - it's on a hill overlooking the entire city - I'm pretty sure I will be able to afford the thing that gave me the most pleasure on this trip. That, inevitably, was the grazing around assorted bars and market counters. As we discovered a few years ago in New York, if you really want to get a feel for a place, you don't get it from the tourist attractions on your checklist. You get it from just hanging out.

Having sent out a message on Twitter asking for recommendations, I had a long list of places people thought I should go. After due consideration, and with the greatest thanks and respect to those kind contributors, I ignored all the advice and, together with Mrs L, we just roamed from Parc Guell down to the sea, stopping off whenever we were feeling peckish and allaying fears that places we chose might be "too touristy" with some faultless logic: what the hell, we ARE tourists.

First stop was, probably inevitably, the Boqueria and a couple of dishes with the lunch crowd at the bustling Pinotxo Bar. Elbow to elbow with market workers and business types, we savoured a cold beer while making quick work of tender baby squid with beans and a small dish of mixed mushrooms, all mopped up with fork, fingers and crusty bread.

That fuelled us for an hour or two of pleasant bimbling along La Rambla, enjoying the architecture, the crowds and the odd street entertainers (glad to see London hasn't quite cornered the market in people who are really good at standing still). Looping around, we headed slightly west, towards the Museu d'Art Contemporani through some rather studenty streets and squares, when the ramshackle charms of Bar Restaurant Romesco caught our collective eye. Perching at the counter, we wolfed through cold Estrellas, a "Catalan Salad" - essentially a regular salad topped, gracelessly but brilliantly, with chorizo, ham and other sliced meats and grilled prawns that came dotted with fresh garlic so pungent it almost burned.

It set us up for another hour or two of pottering, through boutiques and cathedrals and busy squares, before the lure of cold beer tempted us once more. Sadly, as we sipped, we learned that the kitchen had just closed, so the leg of jamon we'd spied behind the bar stopped looking tempting and started taunting. That meant the first place we found after that served jamon was going to get a new customer. That turned out to be the Taverna del Bisbe, where, contrary to some of the reports via that link, we had a very pleasant hour or more. Friendly, relaxed and, most importantly, capable of serving up jamon aplenty.

Plans to finish with pudding and sweet wine somewhere were scuppered by the lack of stomach space so, instead, we collapsed back in our room, enjoyed a little of the candied fruit we'd purchased earlier and fell asleep feeling a little bit more "Barcelonan" than we'd started the day.

Simple Pleasures

2010-10-18T14:16:00.000-07:00

Places like Patisserie Valerie are always disappointing. The cakes look impeccable, they ooze class and care, that first bite is going to be mind blowing... and then the reality sets in. It's all show. Fur coats sans undergarments, the taste never matches up to the appearance. You don't get that with a proper British cake though, do you? No, son, your British cake'll - sniff - do you proud every time. That's why I'm welling up as I give you Simple (British) Pleasure Number 10: a homemade Victoria Sponge. And Gawd bless 'em, everyone.

Anything But Disposable

2010-10-09T03:15:00.000-07:00

Anyone who followed the various Texas posts earlier this year - or, indeed, who follows me on Twitter - will know just how taken I was with the idea of the lunch truck. Austin has a fantastic number of such things, frequently owned / run by the best restaurants in the city, where they serve scaled down, takeaway versions of their best dishes for the busy lunchtime / office market.

It's a brilliant idea and can be healthy, hearty and a much appreciated change from the usual deskbound sandwich. Happily, London gets a taste of the same over the coming weeks thanks to Pearl's brilliant Jun Tanaka (seriously, Michelin, why no stars?) and Mark Jankel of the Food Initiative and their Streetkitchen project. They've got a classic Airstream trailer and turned it into a mobile kitchen, and from now until October 18 will be serving up a simple range of delicious food at Covent Garden (until October 14) and then at Old Spitalfields for the final days of the Restaurant Festival.

I sneaked a preview of the menu a few weeks ago and, while I had to run off before the cheesecake came out, can certainly vouch for the Jerusalem artichoke soup (with cob nuts and a lovely little brioche), healthy roast sweet potato and other bits vegetarian option, the faultless Loch Duart salmon with beetroot and mash and, perhaps best of all, the 16 hour braised featherblade of beef. Jun explained that all the dishes had to be capable of being eaten with a wooden fork as they wanted to make everything, from packaging to cutlery, completely biodegradable. The featherblade doesn't as much get cut by the fork as yield to it in an utterly wanton manner, the little beefy slut. It is a little bit good and about the best way of spending £6.50 I can currently think of. The entire range costs between £4.50 to £6.50 and, in order to make this a success, they need around 300 customers a day. If you're in the vicinity, be one of them. You really won't be disappointed.

A Goodman Is Hard To Find

2010-09-26T06:07:00.000-07:00

We've all had them. Those days when nothing clicks, work-wise. Or when you just can't get started. Or when a brief chat about a certain type of food plants an idea that just won't be shifted.

Friday was one of those days when "all of the above" applied. Words wouldn't flow, the excesses of earlier in the week meant a little voice kept suggesting a return to the duvet and a Google Chat with William Leigh had planted an idea that just wouldn't go away: lunch. And, specifically, the sort of lunch that sits between two halves of bun, comes smothered in cheese, gets set-off by crisp lettuce and onion, and sits happily alongside a big portion of chips.

As soon as the burger was mentioned, a) nothing else would do; and b) no more work was going to be attempted. Initial thoughts of Roast's excellent 10oz Welsh Black burger were scuppered by a key detail: they only serve them on the Saturday brunch menu. The much discussed That Burger was considered briefly... but then discarded for reasons of geography and instant gratification. One word kept popping into my mind though: Goodman.

In a move sure to shock food writers of all levels, I had only been to Goodman once, to try the In n Out / US tribute burger they sometimes offer their close associates. Thanks to Will, my first Goodman experience was a guilty, cheap cheese-covered, probably unrepeatable pleasure.

However, everyone kept telling me I needed to try the regular burger.

That's when we discovered that both their new City outpost was fully booked, ditto the original Mayfair branch. While not getting the burger of your choice is about as middle class as problems get - though not as middle class as the Islington toddler I'd heard about throwing a full-on tantrum in a deli and screaming "but I WANT sun dried tomatoes!" - it was still pretty damned devastating in the circumstances.

However, thanks to Twitter, Will's friendship with the Goodman team and just plain, old-fashioned string pulling, a message came back from head chef John Cadieux. The restaurant's fully booked and it's not an ideal solution but they could set us up a table in the kitchen if we wanted?

We wanted. My how we wanted. Even on getting there and discovering we could have a proper table in the Maddox Street restaurant, we still wanted the kitchen. And that's why Friday lunchtime was spent just over from the frier, among the incredible smells, fridges full of meat and industrious (and friendly) staff, with views like this

while dripping all the juices of this

down the front of my shirt.

It might also explain why, with four of us beaming from ear-to-ear and loving the noise, "pudding" was some of John's newly sourced Canadian steak...

It was a good Friday.

Simple Pleasures

2010-09-18T05:38:00.000-07:00

Let's face it: bits of pig will be featuring heavily in this list. There are few foodstuffs that can't be improved by the addition of a properly cooked / cured piece of a pig. Indeed, there are few days that can't be improved by the addition of the same. This one comes courtesy of the Giggly Pig - market regulars with, in founder Tracy Mackness, one of the hardest working people I've ever met, plus a fascinating background story, a very pink butcher's shop in Romford (my birthplace of Harold Hill, to be exact) and some of the best, proper, pig-related British foodstuffs I've ever sampled. And let's be honest here, I've sampled a few. As well as fuelling my Sunday mornings at Ally Pally's farmers' market, the Giggly Pig has inspired this latest - and ninth - simple pleasure: thick cut, delicious, properly crispy bacon.

No Such Thing As A Free Lunch?

2010-09-13T03:37:00.000-07:00

Oh yes there is. We're surrounded by food. I don't mean the usual high street outlets, the supermarkets (in all their shapes and sizes) or the local gems. I mean more literally. That wall over there, for example, might be covered in edible ivy. That clump of grass over there could be hiding some bristly ox-tongue. And as for those rocks when the tide goes out, why, it's a veritable feast...

Welcome then to the strange, fascinating and endlessly enjoyable world for foraging. As an offshoot of Mrs L's passionate "allotmenting" (she's the project manager and gardener, I'm in charge of destruction, strimming and other petrol-driven carnage), shes a voracious reader of gardening columns and such like. A little while back, she came across a young man named Fergus Drennan thanks to a Guardian article and, a few months later, with three friends and a lovely couple from Manchester, we found ourselves scrabbling around the Kent coast for, essentially, a free lunch. And some free garnishes, some free drink ingredients, some free things we can pickle and, indeed, most of the ingredients for a free dinner that will linger long in this mind.

The day was an education, packing in more information than I could possibly convey in a blog post. Rather than the specifics then - and a risk that someone might read this and start tucking into plants they've found on the walk to the tube - I'm going to go for broad strokes, lots of pictures, and a hearty recommendation that, if you can, get a foraging lesson from someone like the engaging, passionate Fergus who really knows their stuff - and then follow it up with a study of and constant reference to some of the excellent books that are available. Even if you never use the knowledge you glean again, the experience of standing in the pitch black, on a windswept and slightly drizzly beach, late on a Saturday night eating apple and plum crumble that's been cooked on open fires is one that, frankly, everyone should experience. It was slightly burned, a couple of rogue stones and pips had made it into the fruit (my bad, but you try peeling and coring an apple in the dark on a shingle beach) but it might just be the most delicious, warming pud I've ever eaten.

Herne Bay - or "nature's supermarket" as I shall now look at it...

Fergus talks us through the joys of seaweed harvesting

Yep, we're going to eat all of the above later.

We're also going to see this stuff later. It's a jelly made from a seaweed called carragheen that can be used as a natural gelatin replacement. For the record, this blob smelled like green tea.
Another reason to get professional advice: the speed with which the tide comes in or, as I now like to think of it, nature restocking its shelves.

Assorted edible vegetation from along the coastal path. The bottom one - sea purslane - was my favourite: crisp, salty and delicious.

Further inland, we found several rings of mushrooms

Beautiful, deep red hawthorns

Two minutes of gathering on a nearby common and we'd harvested a very fine crop of sorrel

Not to mention a decent crop of nettles - just the top three leaves or so, off non-flowering plants

Mrs L gets down and dirty with a sieve full of hawthorns, a smattering of blackberries and a splash of apple juice, to make an intense and simple fruit jelly.

The edible ivy that grows, conveniently, opposite Fergus' house.
Back to the house, we all helped prep lunch - the orange berries are the incredible, vitamin C-rich sea buckthorns

Ivy and wild rocket flowers for the salad

Within an hour or so, the hawthorn jelly had set enough to be sliced and cut, artfully, into stars.

The starter: the nettles we'd collected, plus some water cress and seaweed, blitzed with stock into a dark green, rich, hearty and tasty soup.

Something we didn't play a part in: a quiche that Fergus had made earlier with lots of garden vegetables and baked in a crust that is, remarkably, 20% acorn flour. Making that took 10 weeks of constant washing - thanks to two pillowcases and a nearby river - to remove the toxins and tannins, and a lot of grinding. An intriguing nutty flavour.

Probably the prettiest thing I'll eat this year. A flower-dotted salad made of all the things we'd collected earlier, plus a little feta and some artfully carved radishes.

Remember the seaweed gel above? The same plant was also used to set this panna cotta dessert, garnished with a star of clove-cured apple and the hawthorn jelly

A communally-churned sea buckthorn sorbet. Sharp, refreshing, oddly kumquat-like.

Cherry plums. Bemused - but glad - that the people living opposite the trees don't consider picking the fruit that grows there.

A remarkable - and huge - giant puffball, plus a few smaller examples. All secured from around a nearby go-karting track.

The beach at dusk. As dramatic a setting for supper as you could wish. Not that we could see it for long...

The "kitchen"

Wrapping sea bass fillets in seaweed

It's a brave man that deep fries seaweed in a wok over open flame.

Some of the deep fried results. The bottom one - gut weed - is the one traditionally served in Chinese restaurants. The best though was flash-fried dulse which tasted like crispy bacon.

The fruit - not a bad pile given how dark the prep time was

Dinner. Seaweed wrapped sea bass - amazingly moist, beautifully seasoned thanks to the saltiness of the seaweed - sea beet and tempura puffball. Amazing what you can do with a pan, a wok, some kindling and a lighter.

Look carefully. See the wok? That contains flour, butter, oats and nuts for the crumble topping.

Thanks to Andy's expert driftwood foraging, we had a rudimentary table to serve and eat from. This is the crumble kit: stewed fruit, the crispy topping and slightly smoky custard. Plus my empty bowl which wouldn't remain empty for long...

Best. Pudding. EVER.

Simple Pleasures

2010-09-06T06:19:00.000-07:00

I realise I might be alone in this one but I sincerely hope not. Two pieces of homemade bread, toasted on one side. Two juicy, fresh-from-the-vine, homegrown, sun-ripened, achingly sweet tomatoes. Wrist-strain inducing amounts of fresh ground black pepper. A Health Warning defying sprinkling of salt. Dollops of mayonnaise that Pret A Manger would declare "obscene". The result is Simple Pleasure, Number 8: The Tomato Sandwich.

Peaks of Gastronomy

2010-09-02T00:20:00.000-07:00

Consider me chastised. Over a glass of bubbly last night - good ol' Kettners - a friend told me that I'd been doing too many "Simple Pleasures" and not enough writing. And he was right. The original plan was a written piece AND a "Simple Pleasures" picture every week and there's been too little of the former of late.

At the risk of sounding big-headed, there's a certain amount of pressure now since more publications have identified these ramblings as worth paying attention to. The Telegraph plug was lovely and last week the highly entertaining Rhodri Marsden picked this as one of the blogs to watch for The Independent. And Olive Magazine has apparently picked up on it too, which is nice. There is a bit of an ongoing internal debate, that whole blogger v journo thing which I won't go into here because, frankly, it's deadly boring to anyone not in the industry and, unlike certain journalists, I think there's plenty of foodie fun to go around (and, actually, the rise of the bloggers has probably done more to keep me on my professional toes than anything else). There's maybe also a strange sense of creeping guilt but that's just me navel-gazing and certainly isn't fun to read - and fun, above all, is one of the main reasons I started this blog in the first place.

Enough of the over-analysis then and back to Italy for a final round-up of the breathtaking food on offer. The main purpose of the trip was billed as "The Peaks of Gastronomy". The Sudtirol area, as mentioned before, is bursting with Michelin-starred culinary talent. It's also rather mountainous and good for skiing. That means there are lovely lodges and restaurants dotted all over the hills and mountains and someone had the rather brilliant idea of taking some of these celebrated chefs up to these rest areas and having them teach the staff there one of their signature dishes. That means that you can graze your way between them, with a starter there and a main course over yonder and, presumably, a pudding somewhere in the distance.

We'd certainly planned to do that but a sudden downpour - of the sort you only get in mountains - instead saw us run in from the terrace for a graze through just the one menu at a hut called Col Alt. If all the food across the mountain is half as good as we had then, well, it's just yet another reason for anyone with the slightest interest in food to visit.

While on the terrace, we revived ourselves from the steep walk up with a "Veniziana" a prosecco-based drink reminiscent - quite appropriately - of Lucozade. It might not be quite as popular on hospital bedsides but, for weary food writers, it had a similar effect, although I perked up more with the platters of extraordinarily pretty amuses.

The inevitable speck made an appearance but you all know my love of pig by now, so that's not a complaint. That was swiftly followed by beautiful cubes of octopus and a polenta, cheese and truffle "snack" that might just be my favourite thing of the entire trip. The cheese was pungent and unctuous but married beautifully with the ballsy earthiness of the truffle, while the polenta provided texture and a slight sweetness to bring it all together.

Cue first drops of rain and a charge inside for their "Peaks" dish - a shepherd's cheese souffle with grilled courgettes and a crispy milk roll wafer with pumpkin seeds created by Claudio Melis - and a selection of the hut's regular dishes. The souffle was very good indeed but I have to say I preferred the robust nature of the hut's usual menu, particularly the spatzle, the venison burger (served on a single slice of dense, seeded bread and slathered with rich gravy) and a local "delicacy" of dumplings (with a big, messy, almost offensive cheese) served with "canederli" (cabbage salad). All were terrific and few were finished: this is hale and hearty food for walkers and skiers, and we were very aware that we had more dining to do later. It didn't stop us chipping our collective way through some puddings though: a nice enough creme brulee, a very good indeed chocolate pot and an absolutely stunning strawberry and prosecco chilled "soup" with berries that I've already attempted to pass off as my own.

After a rather scary descen t, the afternoon was spent swimming and exercising (no, really) in preparation for dinner at St Hubertus, a meal that was, the more I think about it, one of the highlights of my year so far. I'll get to that shortly.

Simple Pleasures

2010-08-22T13:19:00.000-07:00

There are many ways of expressing this one. The point where the juice of the fruit mingles with the double cream? The contrast of the soft and the crunchy? The contrast between the tartness of the apple and the sweetness of the blackberries? Whatever the reason, Simple Pleasures number seven is... crumble.

Simple Pleasures

2010-08-13T02:11:00.000-07:00

Number 6: bursting the yolk with a chip

On Speck

2010-08-12T06:03:00.000-07:00

Italy, unsurprisingly, was bursting with good food. The area, the South Tyrol (or Sudtirol if you want sound local), is an odd mix of German and Italian influences. Happily, the former has generally bowed to the latter when it comes to eating and the region boasts an incredible 18 Michelin stars across 15 restaurants.

I covered one of the stars in the silent meal post and I'll get to two more in the next post with the divine cooking of the brilliantly named Norbert Niederkofler and his St Hubertus restaurant. What a great name. Seriously, what a GREAT name. With that name he could be a chef in The Simpsons and I mean that in the nicest possible way. While I'm happy to be known as Neil Davey, it's not exactly a name that conjures culinary magic, is it? It's not a name to wrap your tongue around. But Norbert Niederkofler? That's a joy. He's also a bloody nice bloke but we'll get on to him in due course.

The thing is I was expecting to love La Stua (and,while the experience was bemusing, the food was terrific) and did. I was expecting to adore St Hubertus and did. What I wasn't expecting, however, was the jaw-dropping, belt-stretching quality of the other meals experienced.

Our first night, we'd jokingly referred to the venue as the "rubbish one": as well as housing St Hubertus, the lovely Rosa Alpina hotel also houses a straightforward brasserie / pizzeria. We'd already warmed to Sudtirol hospitality thanks to the local sparkling wine, the plate of speck (the first of many) and the plate of dark, sweet local salami that greeted us. With lungs full of mountain air, a gorgeous view over green forest and hillside, and the grimy sheen of travel removed thanks to an in-room hamam (no, really), a simple meal would really hit the spot.

And, on the surface, simple is what we got. I had soup and a pizza, for example. But what soup! What pizza! It shouldn't have been a surprise, as St Hubertus started as a pizza restaurant plus, of course, we were in Italy. But this was a different spin on the classic dish, thanks to an almost foaccacia-style base that comes from a ten-year old "mother dough". Apparently the yeasts are cultivated and massaged three times a day. This might have been a joke for the tourists but something has happened to make the base this fluffy, crisp and thoroughly delicious.

By all means argue about the joys of the thin base. I'll join you. The base of my courgette-heavy "Pizza Hugs" - pronounced "Hoogs" rather than as in the cuddle - was a wedge of dough that would normally see my shoulders slump but, having already tried their bread with the earlier speck, I couldn't wait for more. This was fluff with texture and bite, a sweet nuttiness, an ability to stand alone or support flavours as diverse as steak tartare and duck. Best of all, as befits a country famous for its tomatoes, the sauce that formed the bottom layer was incredible. Forget those watery excuses we get sold in supermarkets: a real tomato is a thing of perfection and this sauce featured several of them reduced to their intense essence.

But it still wasn't as intense as the real thing - I could live, very happily, for the rest of my days on their bruschetta - or the soup. Look at the colour of it! It tasted even more potent than it looked, albeit in a good way.

It was a simple meal, but it didn't stumble anywhere. I'm not going to bleat on about my cooking / eating philosophy yet again - oh, alright then, one last time, take good quality ingredients and don't bugger about with them - but this was the sort of meal that just reinforces that belief. Before the three days was out, it would be reinforced several more times, even when we were several hundred metres up a mountain...

Simple Pleasures

2010-08-10T13:55:00.000-07:00

Number 5: the little crunchy bits at the bottom of a portion of chips.

The Sound of Happy Eating...

2010-08-02T21:47:00.000-07:00

... is silence. Not sure where we picked that line up from but it's oft-quoted at family meals. Once the eating starts, and the tastebuds are gainfully employed, the ability to speak is greatly diminished. That's not just a bloke / multitasking thing: it's a very human reaction, particularly when confronted with something playful and delicious. But how would you fare with a deliberately silent meal?

It was a question I hadn't considered until my recent Italian trip and, to be honest, it's one I'm still struggling to answer. Removing the "distraction" of noise may well heighten a sense such as taste but I'm not convinced the way that La Stua de Michil saw it through was the best possible illustration of the point.

La Stua de Michil is a restaurant run by the wonderfully eccentric Costa family at their hotel, La Perla, which sits in the eye-wateringly beautiful Alta Badia region of the South Tyrol. The region boasts 18 Michelin stars across 15 restaurants and La Stua contributes one of those, thanks to the cooking of Arturo Spicocchi.

Current hotel proprietor Michil Costa is an unusual chap, as demonstrated by a wine cellar that features dancing champagne bottles ("because they are so happy to contain these bubbles," explained the sommelier) and a quite literal shrine to Sassicaia. He also has a fascination with all things spiritual and that, according to our lovely local experts Sabine and Nicole is how the idea of Le Chit Te Stua - the silent meal - came about.

Which is why, come 7 o'clock on the night in question we found ourselves filing out from the hotel to a house in the grounds, where Michil explained, in somewhat esoteric form, the nature of the evening ahead. "All things pass," he intoned, "we are guardians of a certain period of time" and, as such, we need to contemplate. And to contemplate, we need silence. To accept the vow of silence we hit a triangle, and then wandered around the house. Eventually all the guests, some 30,40 people, found ourselves in a large room where the head waiter and two small children dressed as elves or pixies or some such tied us, arm to leg to hand to (in at least one case) ear to one another with red wool.

And then another chap - think Mr Bean played by Adrien Brody - arrived to cut us free, which heralded another speech from Michil ("with noise around us we hear too much... take in the silence") and (finally!) some rather lovely little amuse bouches.

What did it all mean? Buggered if I know. But we couldn't discuss it - vow of silence, remember? - so, instead, returned to the restaurant (via a stop off to eat raw herbs of quite potent flavours from their ornamental garden) and the start of a four course meal. And assorted "fun" provided by the elf, a melon, and the Mr Bean-like character.

On the plus side, it provided a bonding experience for the team of British journalists on the trip, particularly via the increasingly filthy notes we were allowed to pass during the meal. On the downside, the rather forced eccentricity reminded me of the sort of deeply pretentious plays I had to review on an alarmingly regular basis at the start of my journalism career. I was all for "taking in the silence" but it's bloody hard to do that when there's a head waiter dressed as an elf juggling and trying to amuse you with a watermelon.

The food though would have stunned me into silence regardless of instruction.

The melon, as it turned out, was a visual clue for the chief (surprise) ingredient in something billed simply as Vegetarian Carpaccio, a vibrant plate of food that left us reeling and scratching our heads in wonder. How do you slice a melon so uniformly without it disintegrating to a watery pulp? And how do you leave it with a texture somewhere between "real" carpaccio and, say, roasted red pepper? Most importantly though, it was as delicious as it was clever.

Second course was an opinion splitting Maple Vinegar Risotto with veal confit and dotted with unctuous rounds of bone marrow. For me, this was the night's overwhelming stunner, a combination of flavours and textures that would have had me giggling with delight had I been allowed to giggle with delight. Others though found the sweet/savoury and soft/al dente as contrasts too far.

There's an admirable honesty to menus from the Sudtirol area. There's none of this "venison" malarkey so you call a deer exactly what it is: hence Crumbed Deer Steak with sweet and sour carrots, cherries and kohlrabi. For me it lacked the imagination of what had gone before but that's just me putting my picky hat on, as it was cooked to deep purple perfection and the combination of sweet and earthy was as satisfying as you'd expect.

To finish, came a Red Beet Cake that was alright but at least came with a delicious buttermilk ice cream and raspberries of remarkable intensity and sweetness, and was swiftly followed by some dazzling petit fours. Best of these? Another raspberry packed - and I mean to bursting point - with space dust. The whole crackly surprise thing might have become a cliche but it still makes me smile, particularly when it's taken to the nth degree as it was here. Seriously, my mouth was still popping away a minute or two after the flesh of raspberry had been consumed.

With the benefit of hindsight, I'm looking back at this "silent dinner" with rather more fondness than I felt at the time. While the food was mostly exemplary, the whole thing took a little over four hours to play out with a couple of 45-60 minute gaps between courses. That's too long for dinner, let alone a set menu. The format too, of constant silence, was rather pointless given the regular distractions of the entertainment. Pure meditation would have been a more interesting approach ditto, as two of our party suggested, a format that allowed you to eat in contemplative silence with, perhaps, a couple of minutes between courses to discuss the food.

One of the joys of such communal eating with strangers (as discovered at L'Enclume last year) is that it's a bonding experience. The palate can bust through social barriers with the brutal efficiency of an Exocet and a format that allowed you to share the experience, even if only for a minute or two, would I suspect have worked a little better. But even with its flaws, "Le Chit Te Stua" was, undeniably, a unique experience and it's not often you get to say that about a dinner.

Simple Pleasures

2010-07-25T11:18:00.000-07:00

I didn't intend to hit a vein of sweeter treats but... Simple Pleasure Number 4: A Tunnock's Caramel wafer.

Simple Pleasures

2010-07-18T09:48:00.000-07:00

Simple Pleasures, part 3: the black Jelly Baby.

Pull The Other One

2010-07-17T00:18:00.000-07:00

Pork.

Coca Cola.

Condensed milk.

Not the most obvious of bedfellows are they?

Indeed, part way though this rather unusual mission, they don't look the most appetising of bedfellows either.

But, give it time, a low heat and a few hours and the results are pretty damn good.

Next week sees us hosting a bit of a lunch party for several of the family. Thanks to recent, and not so recent moves, we now find ourselves at around the midpoint for my dad and stepmum (who live on the Kent coast) and my sister and nephews (who live in Wiltshire). So for the last few weeks I've been thinking about what cook for a three generational family feast. We wanted informal. We wanted to showcase some of our veg, now that the allotment is hitting its summery stride. We needed dishes that would appeal to the healthier minded and a nephew who, potentially, will still ignore it all and have a cheese and tomato pizza instead.

Somehow, that evolved in my odd culinary mind as sort-of-Mexican. My obsession with the Cool Chile Company's excellent products, from the frying tortillas to the black bean kit, is well documented on this site. I figured a load of those, assorted trimmings, some guacamole, etc would make for a fun, light, interactive lunch. I also thought a huge bowl of homegrown greenery and our own potato salad would give some flexibility. We just needed a meaty option that would straddle the two worlds too. And for some reason that turned into an obsession for pulled pork.

While gleefully sniggersome, pulled pork is a fine and versatile dish. Tender, bursting with flavour, delicious hot or cold, as at home with greenery and potato salad as it is topping a crisp, fresh, still warm tortilla... Yes, indeed, this was to be the dish for me. While the domestic collection of recipe books couldn't provide a recipe, at the back of my mind lurked Niamh's Lomo con Leche recipe. Hmm, I figured, that could be the start of something. And so, armed with a lump of very cheap pork shoulder from Waitrose, I decided to give it a shot.

Which is when, somewhat inevitably, I realised that, while we had milk aplenty, we'd run out of cinnamon. Also, while Niamh's recipe looks subtle and delicious, I wanted something a little more down home and feisty, like I'd had in Nashville and Kentucky. That's when I went online and discovered The Hungry Mouse's recipe for Pulled Pork... and also realised I didn't have Coca Cola or condensed milk.

That's why, a couple of weeks ago, you'd have found me attempting to combine the two dishes with what we had. Sugar and cider brandy stood in for the sweetness of the Coke, milk and a dash of nutmeg stood were the compromise between the other key ingredients. The results? Actually pretty good for a first attempt / winged version.

But all week I couldn't shake the notion of condensed milk and Coca Cola and so, last weekend, I had a proper stab at Hungry Mouse's dish with a discounted leg joint we picked up late at the supermarket. It's not, as she so rightly says, the most appealing dish you've ever seen initially or, indeed, at the end when you take it out of the oven.

but give it a few hours, when attempts to fish out the pork joint leads to the fat slipping off the meat with a satisfying "whump", and when the meat itself falls apart into soft, yielding strands of goodness between your fingers, and you'll be glad you pushed through the potential nausea.

The verdict? Both were delicious - and (almost inevitably) better after a day or two - although both needed a little more piquancy to really bring out the flavours. A coriander-heavy guacamole such as Thomasina Miers' one also helps. While you can get the extra heat from the sauce you add / stir through, I'm going to try marinating the "real" version for a day or two before the slow cook in some dried chilli, sugar, onions, maybe a little cider brandy, and perhaps up the chipotle quotient for that delicious smokiness. If it works, full recipe in due course.

Simple Pleasures, July 14

2010-07-14T00:20:00.000-07:00

The plan was a weekly photo. Having just made a rather good sandwich though, the time seemed right to illustrate my intentions slightly sooner. Ladies and gents, I give you Simple Pleasure Number Two: peeling a hard-boiled egg.

Simple Pleasures, Part 1

2010-07-11T23:35:00.000-07:00

I've been working on a number of new "strands" for the blog. It'll still be a random collection of food-related musings but I have a couple of ideas for a series of features and, given the nature of the pun, I'm aiming to work some more film connections in (more on that in a week or two). Also, as the diary calms down, the attempts to work through a cookery book may still happen.

In the meantime, however, here's the first of what I'm intending to be a weekly photographic strand on some of the more basic joys of eating. Some will be dishes, some will be ingredients, some will be fleeting moments, some will just be those oddly satisfying points of interaction... Simply put, if it a) involves food and b) makes me happy, it's in. I had planned to start with a very specific item but a Label Anglais had other ideas. So that's why, as the launch for this strand, I give you, Simple Pleasure Number One: Roast Chicken.

A Suitable Toast

2010-07-04T11:04:00.001-07:00

Today has been fun. A completely "winged" pulled pork recipe has worked pretty well for a combination of two recipes I'd wanted to try for ages, forced together due to a lack of key ingredients and given a spin of Lambshank inspiration (read "desperation") when the Cola we had in the fridge was discovered to be Diet Coke. Seriously, who let that through the door?

Better than that, and far more assured of success, Mrs L got the Sunday Baking thing going in a big way with scones (most of which didn't last as long as the photo call), a guiltily pleasurable Milk Loaf and a Stout & Currant Loaf which has delayed my planned detox by about three days. Oh well.

Broadly Speaking

2010-06-27T15:17:00.000-07:00

I'm really enjoying this "brevity" theme I've got going on. Well, occasionally: my ire at all things football-related certainly got an airing on Twitter this last couple of weeks. But when it comes to food, I find sometimes there's just nothing to add. What I will say, however, is that a large slab of Mrs King's Pork Pie made it easier to be an Englishman tonight. Even better than that though? A large salad of leaves picked barely an hour beforehand, sprinkled with the first of what looks to be a bumper crop of broad beans. Those vibrant green pulses however - quickly steamed, peeled and dressed with a pinch of rock salt - deserved a shot of their own.

On A Roll

2010-06-25T16:47:00.000-07:00

Amazing what you can do with a bit of pig and some mustard, isn't it? The mustard is, in fact, the only thing on this fine hot dog that's not made in house at the Coach & Horses in Farringdon. And people still wonder why I like it there so much.

All Greek To Me

2010-06-22T05:12:00.000-07:00

Aside from the lazy word play, I probably didn't need to mention Greek in this title. In the spirit of recent picture being worth a thousand words, I could have just shown this photo

and you'd have instinctively known the location.

Am I alone in craving mezze when I see a view like this? For me, this shot makes me think of great company, cold wine and a lovely graze through multiple small dishes of incredible big flavours.

And that, happily, is exactly what happened. This shot was taken from the outside terrace at Ouzeri, the brilliantly named, typically Greek taverna at the Sani Resort's Beach Club. With the sun attempting to break through the clouds, it was a fine location for an (almost) endless wander through some classic Greek fare.

Home made bread. Grilled halloumi (atop green olives and crisp, fresh pitta) . Calamari. The inevitable - but delicious and herb-dotted Greek Salad. Stuffed vine leaves. Mackerel. Mussels. A rich stew of vegetables and spiced sausages...

It's the sort of food you feel you could eat every day, a rainbow of tastes and textures that makes you feel healthy and happy. Why do I feel our next dinner party is going to have a distinctly Greek theme?

A 1000 Words...

2010-06-16T07:39:00.000-07:00

I didn't mean this to become a regular thing but, actually, me shutting up every now and again is no bad thing. Besides what can I say about Jamon Iberico that: a) others haven't; and b) can't be better expressed by this photo from lunch at Aqua Nueva?

Stoked Up

2010-06-14T07:59:00.000-07:00

I've just been browsing the pics from the recent Greece trip and realised that I've not written about the superb fish mezze we enjoyed. I will rectify that shortly but, in advance of that delicate, sophisticated, sunny, healthy post here's a proper blokey breakfast.

The occasion? Sunday morning in Stoke with my best friend - and keen amateur cook, budding foodie and soon-to-be-blogger Adam. The mood? Sombre, following the realisation that it WASN'T a bad dream and Rob Green had indeed flapped at a slow moving football with the sporting prowess of lard and the goalkeeping skills of a six-year old girl. The solution? We were in Stoke, so there is only one solution: a manly heart-stopping breakfast of fried stuff and oatcakes.

Forget the ones you can buy "down here", the proper Stoke oatcake is a thing of slippery, starchy beauty - and I'm not the only one who thinks so. A freshly cooked oatcake filled with bacon and cheese - and there are still cafes that make these pancake-like beauties from scratch - is something inherently British. It's also as good a hangover cure as you can get. Which is, admittedly / depressingly, probably what makes it inherently British.

Our breakfast featured great oatcakes, a fried egg, huge slabs of middle bacon, home-made cracked black pepper sausages, tinned tomatoes (all from the local butcher) and cheese (from Sainsbury). While it didn't make up for Green's rookie performance, it certainly put a smile on our faces. And people wonder why I don't update From Fat Bloke to Tough Guy as often as this one. Hmm. I think the events may be connected...

Fuzzy Logic

2010-06-08T13:51:00.000-07:00

I've had a bit of a love / hate thing with peaches over the years. Like many a child of the 70s, I grew up wolfing slippery, syrupy slices from the tin. In my naive fashion though, I couldn't face the "real" version. I think it was something to do with the fur but look, I was only five and, as my mum still loves to tell people, at that point my idea of culinary pleasure was luncheon meat and mash potato.

As this blog - and a series of discarded jeans with increasing waist sizes - proves, those days are long behind me and, with the exception of Marmite (yeast is something you'd avoid as an infection, not slather on toast), there's not much I haven't eaten / wouldn't eat.

Funnily enough, while I adored ketchup on that luncheon meat and, particularly, mixed into the mash (what can I say, I liked pink grub), I couldn't face tomatoes at that point either. Now though, I'll argue that life doesn't get much better than a ripe, sweet tom, whether sliced and drizzled in olive oil, oozing from the sides of a toasted tomato sandwich with lots of rock salt, black pepper and heart-stopping quantities of mayonnaise, or any other way you choose to worship this gorgeous fruit.

If I was to tell that chubby six-year old that one day he'd be waxing lyrical about tomatoes and peach TOGETHER, he'd have probably laughed. Or vomited. Or, most likely, a spectacularly messy combination of the two.

The combination was one of, if not the highlight of the aforementioned Sani Resort trip. Our final meal was prepared by the brilliant and scarily cheerful Maria Elia who, she informed us, has actually left Whitechapel Gallery with a view to opening her own restaurant. On this showing, it's going to become a regular haunt of mine.

Sadly - because deleting single pics and a little bit too much fine wine don't mix, kids - I managed to wipe the photographic evidence of a spectacular dinner so, as penance, I tracked down the recipe for the dazzling Chilled Tomato, Peach and Ginger soup that formed one small shot of the "Textures of Tomato" starter. It's taken from her book The Modern Vegetarian (which on this evidence is the best £10.21 you'll spend in many a week) and it's a little cracker. I've taken a small liberty in the below interpretation because I'm not one for exact measurements (it's soup, people, not science) and, while I like the heat provided by the chilli in the original recipe, Mrs L took one sip and did that eye-popping thing I'd previously only seen in Tex Avery cartoons hence I've suggested dropping it and adding a smidge more ginger, but see what your palate can take. Obviously.

Maria Elia's Chilled Tomato, Peach and Ginger Soup

Olive oil

Shallots - around eight, finely sliced

An inch (and a bit) of peeled, finely sliced ginger

A load of tomatoes - about a kilo

8-10 ripe peaches

4 sliced garlic cloves

Pinch of sugar

Salt & Pepper

Basil leaves (Thai if you can get it)

If you've made soup before, you can pretty much guess what to do here. First, heat a little oil and gently cook the shallots and ginger for around 15 minutes until soft and gently caramelised.

While they're doing their sticky, sweet thing, prep the tomatoes and peaches. Boil the kettle and, while that's happening, core the tomatoes and cut a cross in the base, and do the same thing with the peaches. Pour the boiling water into a bowl, drop in the tomatoes, leave for about 30 seconds and fish them out. Do the same with the peaches, but you'll have to leave them about a minute to loosen the skins.

Before you peel your star ingredients, throw the garlic (and single red chilli, sliced in half and de-seeded, if you're going for it) in with the shallots and give it another five minutes of cooking. While that's happening, peel and chop the tomatoes and add them, and any juices on the chopping board, to the pan. Remove the peach stones (but frankly if you need me to tell you that, you're probably not ready to cook anything) and attack your peaches with a big knife and add to the pan. Add sugar, sea salt and about 650ml of water, bring to the boil, then simmer for about 30 minutes.

If you've added the chilli, fish it out now, then puree the vibrant, colourful contents of the pan. If it's a little thick, just add a splash more water (see sarcastic aside above), then season to taste (ditto) and refrigerate. To serve, pour into bowls (yes, I am being facetious now) and garnish with the basil, a little chopped peach, tomato, etc. Sit back, enjoy, and imagine you're looking out over something like this...

Summery bliss in a bowl.

Crack(l)ing Stuff

2010-06-04T02:48:00.000-07:00

Following on from last week's steak porn - a comment which I'm sure resulted in some very disappointing web searches in teenage bedrooms around the globe - here's another picture instead of a thousand words. Lunch yesterday was a typically enjoyable afternoon at Roast. Great company, a certain amount of iPad envy, a very constructive chat and, on the plate, the Thursday special of suckling pig. Special doesn't quite cover it... but a perfect slice of insanely golden crackling did.

Super Marche

2010-05-30T04:03:00.000-07:00

The joys of my life are, it must be said, manifold. I do often have to pinch myself or take a step back and remind myself that I am, frankly, a lucky old bugger. The downside - if it can be seen as that - is that the experiences and opportunities often come so thick and fast, it's all too easy to take them for granted (and, admittedly, end up weeks behind on actually writing about them).

I will then get around to discussing the lunch at Tom Aikens (although Niamh has already written about it in her usual elegant style), last Friday's lobster session at Belgo (when I finally got to kill something and eat it in a fine afternoon already documented by Chris Osborn at The Londonist) a couple of other fantastic meals from last week's Greek trip and my own attempt to recreate one of the dishes. I will also, no doubt, do some heavy namedropping having recently interviewed the ubercool John Densmore of The Doors.

Before that though, I think a simple pleasure is needed. And they don't get much better than the weekly market in Sallanches.

Fantastic meats, fantastic fruit and vegetables, perhaps the best fish stall I've ever seen, and all in the sort of setting you can barely believe: waterside AND in the shadow of snow-capped mountains.

The smells were amazing, the stallholders charming, the products mostly incredible in the way that simple fare so often is - and today I rediscovered the 600-odd grams of beech-smoked "filet mignon de porc" we brought home. It's moist, rich, incredibly flavoursome so I'll be cooking with that a LOT in the next few weeks so if anyone has some recipe suggestions, shout. And if my plans work out - and I'm kicking the diary around a bit to try and make them happen - there will be much more cooking on these pages. Watch this space.

Oh, and the best bit about the day? Spending time with our good friends Valerie and Edward, then returning to their lovely home, their very efficient oven timer and a large pot of Valerie's excellent slow-roasted chicken and several glasses of excellent red. Because even if the career withers and dies tomorrow, the good friends and good meals will still be there. It's good to remind yourself of that every now and again.

I'll Get My Cote

2010-05-26T09:20:00.001-07:00

What do they say about a picture being worth a thousand words? I think I'll just shut up then and leave you with this slab of lunchtime beauty from Cafe du Marche. Fine company - thank you Ms Krahn - a chance to put the world to rights, a glass or two of excellent red - and then this. The words "yeah" and "baby" spring immediately to mind...

Greece Is The Word

2010-05-21T23:01:00.000-07:00

I will get back to the culinary joys of Haute Savoie and charming French markets and bread with bits of bacon in it (further proof that pig can improve all manner of foodstuffs). Indeed, I have a lot to catch up on (bad blogger, naughty blogger) and will get around to them all, honest guv.

First though, while the iron's still hot, so to speak, a quick post on the joys of last night's dinner. One of the joys of this job - or "job" as rather too many of my friends would see it - is the travel and I'm writing this in the rather charming Sani Resort near Thessaloniki. With its pastel coloured stone and on-site amenities, you could see this "faked" village as something slightly Prisoner like but that's cynical even for me. And even if my access to the beach was blocked by a large bouncing ball, I'd forgive them quite a lot for hosting the annual Sani Gourmet Festival.

Now in its fourth year, the Gourmet Festival has seen many great names cooking at the various restaurants dotted around the resort. This year's event though is the first to focus on female chefs from around the globe. Tonight, it's Maria Elia's turn to cater. Last night saw Clare Smyth taking the reins.

The low-key jewel in Ramsay's crown, Clare has held down three Michelin stars at Gordon's flagship Chelsea restaurant for the last couple of years. On last night's showing, it's easy to see why and dinner was a mix of the simple, the involved, the playful, the skillful and the downright delicious.

Things kicked off with a tomato consomme that, according to my notes, was "insanely good". That was one of the more legible comments, to be honest, as the wines - and what wines - flowed a little. Accordingly, latter courses are annotated by weird scrawls and the occasional "wibble". Still, even with the brain cells addled with the delights of Reichsgraf von Kesselstatt Riesling and Nuits Saint George, I can remember each course now.

The consomme was deceptively light, and bolstered by a poached langoustine and oscietra caviar (sorry, Mrs L). How you instil that sort of tomato hit in such a light broth is a mystery to me, but I'm glad Ms Smyth has it sussed. The hint of basil - presumably taken from one of the many, highly perfumed plants dotted around the resort - was also joyously intense.

The second course may just have been my stand out course of the night. Pressed foie gras with peppered Madeira jelly (served in a slice atop the foie gras), with a sliver of smoked duck and a peach and almond crumble. The textures of each component melded together, the sweetness of the peach kicked the foie gras into orbit, the Madeira balanced the richness, the smoked duck gave a salty hint. Spectacular stuff.

A close runner-up to my unofficial prize giving would be the fish course: pan fried scallops, broad beans, peas, crispy bacon, quail's egg and baby gem lettuce. Pig and scallop may be a little bit of a cliche now (hell, even I've cooked a variation, it must be passe) but the fleshy scallops and the crunch and saltiness of the bacon are a charming marriage. With the addition of the achingly fresh vegetable support act - who'd have thought a delicate pea shoot could hold its own in that combo? - this was textbook stuff.

Roasted poussin followed which was pleasant but overshadowed, I thought, by the morels and, particularly, the tarragon-rich confit leg. That almost bitter, almost aniseed hit of tarragon is one of my favourite flavours and it shone through here. The accompanying Nuits Saint George also had me in raptures.

Melon and champagne soup arrived next, a delightful spin on the palate cleanser, with a lovely, refreshing undercurrent of basil and, in a lovely surprise move that left me giggling like a 9-year old, salt and brown sugar mixed to a "space dust" effect. The only downside of this was my camera and my photographic abilities didn't combine to make it look particularly photogenic so apologies. You'll just have to take my word for it. And that word, somewhat inevitably, is "wibble".

And so to the end, and fromage frais, red berries, elderflower and lemon balm. Simplicity itself, but the sort of light, fresh dessert that closes a meal and sends the spirits soaring. Such fruit, such sharpness... divine.

Clare Smyth ducked in later to take her applause but it was clear the move was to keep us happy rather than milk some glory from the evening. The retiring Ms Smyth rapidly ducked out, leaving her cooking to do the talking, and it was quite the conversationalist, I can tell you.

(No) Planes, Trains & Automobiles...

2010-05-10T05:34:00.000-07:00

... And a ferry. And a cab, one bus, and the Northern Line. While the end of the France / Geneva trip didn't end in quite the simple manner we'd anticipated (thanks Iceland, we love you too), the adventure of the return didn't detract in the slightest from what was a lovely weekend.

I will shortly post snaps and reminiscences of some fine eating provided by our lovely friends Valerie and Teddy, an awful lot of cheese and how even crusty French bread can be improved by sticking bits of pig in the dough. In the meantime, however, I'm just going to leave you with a classic bit of French comfort food: Tartiflette.

Potatoes, bacon, minced onion and Reblochon cheese. After six hours on various trains between Geneva and Calais and a two hour stop over at Paris Nord, there are few more welcoming sights.