The Shed. No tears.

Soon we’ll be leaving this lovely part of London and if there’s a place I wish we could take with us, it’s the Shed.

No, not our shed - though I am rather fond of it now, having done a timely re-felt with the BSG last autumn before Noah’s rains arrived. I mean The Shed, a very lovely nook of a place run by a pair of cheery and talented brothers in Notting Hill. With the menu changing every week, there’s a strong emphasis on seasonal produce (many sourced from the family farm and vineyard in Sussex) and each ingredient is seldom anything but exquisitely treated. If there’s ever a place that urges you to treasure and savour every component on the plate, it’s The Shed.

Across the board, from game and fish to veg and foraged ingredients, seasonal food is the VIP. I often imagine it sitting on a plumped up cushion in its crate or box as it awaits its time to shine in the kitchen. Speaking of which, you may want to ask for a ‘comfortable’ perch when you call to book a table, especially if, like me at the moment, you can’t quite manage a tractor-seat stool, legs astride an oil barrel gracefully. But I ‘spose that’s better than you’d get in my shed…

With small sharing plates between you, you come out feeling happily sated rather than stuffed. However be warned: you may get overexcited… Even off the sauce (instead we sipped on a delicious blood orange loosener with rosemary sugar and lime), we racked up a fair amount. Four plates between two (and three quarters), plus pudding made for a very good lunch indeed.

I am hooked: I went twice this week. I realised I’d already been three times - without the BSG. Criminal. Plus, if we got in there on Saturday, he’d still be lucky enough to catch the perfection that was the pear tart I tried on Thursday, made with cooked down Comice pears alongside a hazelnut praline cream. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

(Still, I hope to take a bit with me – they tell me they’ve a cookbook coming out soon. Goody.)

 

Here’s what we ate. Purty, ain’t it?

Tempura tenderstem broccoli with chilli and a dipping sauce

 

Venison ragu and black pepper pappardelle

 

Quail and homemade BBQ sauce. Shaved sprouts, apple, cheddar and nuts.

 

Beef cigars with mustard mayonnaise.

 

Finally, that AMAZING pear tart…

(and a teeny marmalade frangipane. More about that next time…)

Bird of Smithfield

By its name it could be an age-old London song, an ancient boozer or a character in a lost Dickens novel; Bird of Smithfield sounds like it’s been around for a while. Conversely it hasn’t, and by some fluke the BSG and I have paid it a visit during its first few weeks. We’ve even beaten the website – we feel a little bit cool. Usually, we’re a couple of years down the waiting list.

I love this part of London, where ex-Ivy chef Alan Bird has chosen to make his nest: not wholly inhabited, primarily a working place with a market’s heartbeat. Strangely enough, my first job after university was in the building next door and I spent many happy fag breaks leaning against these windows, gazing at the market across the road. I think this used to be a pub, its façade now spruced with paint, the old carcass expertly crafted into a townhouse furnished with pieces of mid-century furniture, carefully considered artwork and repeats of a lattice pattern seen on the website that I very much hope is a deliberate reflection of the giant honeycomb glass-brick wall on the side of the market building opposite. (If it isn’t, it’s what my school art teacher would coin a ‘happy accident’.)

I suppose it’s like visiting parents with a new baby, when is it too early? Don’t you want to give them a bit of time to figure out which end does what, settle into a routine together, find time to wash their hair? This place has had a dodgy review in the press and perhaps this is - back to the baby analogy again - down to a few teething problems with the staff. We did notice a couple of moments. However, with 5 floors to stretch themselves between, each one with a unique feel, it’s bound to take time.

We’d stopped in the bar downstairs and had a cocktail – plus of course a snack, hot, battered chunks of perfectly cooked cod with homemade tartare sauce: delicious. As is our wont, we’d studied the menu in depth for a few days prior yet were still unsure what to order. We climbed the stairs to the small dining room with our charming host as if we were looking around her very stylish townhouse. The small roof terrace above us clinked, a gaggle chasing the last of the suns rare rays with rose.

 

In a rare role reversal, the BSG uncharacteristically plumped for a starter of crisp soused vegetables with a crispy hen’s egg, while I tucked into crumbed pork cheeks with green sauce – all of which garnered enthusiastic thumbs up and much humming with mouths full. His plate was as prettier than anything I have seen recently. I ought to mention, too, the warm sourdough loaf with nursery yellow butter I managed to devour most of. The BSG showed rare reserve; he ate rather like a bird on this occasion - me, more like a horse.

The natural order of things was restored with the mains (and my glutton’s guilt allayed); the freshest slip soles with sweet brown shrimp, cucumber and sea beets for me, pork belly with turnips, apples and watercress for the BSG. Mine was a true taste of all the best bits of the sea; sweet, salty, with lemon and pepper notes plus a light hint of mace. The BSG’s pork belly was deep, savoury and perfectly foiled by the turnips. Gilding the lily perhaps, we asked for triple cooked chips and creamed spinach on the side, the unwashed spinach being the only let down.

The list of desserts read like a roll-call of favourites. I couldn’t resist the call of the rhubarb trifle with Bird’s custard, as much for the chef’s wit as anything else. It was everything trifle should be: a cinch to eat; soft, sweet- sour on different sides of the tongue with the added bonus of crunchy praline almonds on top. By comparison, the BSG felt a little disappointed by his plum Bakewell Tart, but by this stage I was happy to share.

In twitching terms, our fellow diners were of the common corporate variety, but the BSG and I felt that with time this place will become a stronghold for a variety of species; foodies, friends, as well as rare fourth daters in the mood for something low-key and special. Chef Bird’s food is on song, in our humble opinion.

Pappardelle with Chicken Liver Ragù

I feel very lucky have grown up in a happy clan of 4 close siblings. There aren’t even five years to separate oldest (moi) from the youngest (H).

Obviously, between supermarket shops, school runs, on-tap medical assistance and missions across the house as peace envoys, Mum and Dad needed a hand occasionally. When my amazing grandparents weren’t available that help came thanks to a series of nannies, most of them memorable, though not always for the right reasons. One crashed the car and told me not to tell anyone…another used to stick her smelly feet in the bath my younger brother and sister were in and make them wash them for her. (Of course, we weren’t entirely blameless. At one stage, I’d say we were turning them over at a rate of one a month; the Von Trapp kids had nothing on us.)

However, in my book of nanny-villains, the worst of the lot made the very small H sit in front of his lunch for such a long time that he was still sitting there when Mum came home that evening. (I remember H being rather stoic about the whole ordeal; he’d managed to smuggle the bit of blanket that went everywhere with him to the table). Needless to say, she wasn’t there to apply the same rules to breakfast the next day.

But what, you may ask, was so bad that he couldn’t finish it?

Liver: normally edible in our experience, but she’d utterly nuked it. Not to mention the crinkled, sad peas scattered around the plate. Bad enough sitting there, tough grey like the sole of a shoe, H’s offal only got more… er… offal (sorry, irresistible) as the afternoon wore on. I’m not even sure how the 3 of us had managed to get ours down… Perhaps we’d conspired with the dog.

A whole 25 years later, I hope H has managed to get over what must be a crippling fear of liver at lunchtime. If he hasn’t, the BSG and I think we’ve found the remedy.

We think this is one of the best pasta sauces we’ve had outside a restaurant. You can find it in the marvellous Bocca cookbook by Jacob Kenedy (the best argument for the onset of summer I can think of):
 
Serves 2  (or 4 as a starter)

200g chicken livers
4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
½ small onion, chopped
1 celery stalk, chopped
1 garlic clove, chopped
150ml dry Marsala
100ml white wine (we used some leftover rose that was in the fridge)
1 tbsp chopped rosemary
2 tbsp chopped flat-leaf parsley
40g butter

Heat a wide frying pan over a high heat until very hot and smoking. Toss the chicken livers in a bowl with 1 tablespoon of the oil and some salt and pepper, then pour into the hot pan making sure they are in a single layer. Fry for a couple of minutes without moving, until well browned on one side. Turn and fry the second side for 2 minutes, then transfer to a plate to cool. When cool enough to handle, chop the livers finely, and keep the juices.

Sweat the onion, celery and garlic in the rest of the oil with salt and pepper in a small saucepan over a medium-low heat. When very soft (after about 10 minutes), add the chopped liver and its juices and fry for a couple of minutes until heated through. Add the Marsala and wine and cook at a very gentle simmer until the sauce is very thick (almost like a pâté) with a little oil risen to the surface, for at least an hour. Add about 100ml of water during the cooking if it starts to dry out. Stir in the rosemary and remove from the heat.

Cook 200g dried or 260g fresh pasta according to the pack and re-heat the sauce in a wide frying pan. Drain the pasta, keeping a bit of the water and add to the sauce with the parsley and butter. Cook everything together for a few minutes or until the butter has melted and the pasta is well coated. Serve with grated Parmesan.

Ratty Spanish Eggs

A couple of months back, I had breakfast at Providores on Marylebone High Street with my friend Esther, she of the highly-addictive Recipe Rifle. Spurred on by her advice (I wasn’t going to argue with a pregnant lady) and a few reviews I’d read, I plumped for a cortado – my new favourite coffee – and Turkish eggs, baked in spicy tomatoes and swimming under hot chilli butter and yogurt. They were utterly delicious and if you’re a fan of soldier-style dipping I urge you to go along and try them.

Crawling my way over the threshold after a rare hour in the gym yesterday lunchtime I was famished, yet devoid of inspiration. Honestly, I would have just eaten four pieces of toast if I’d been really stuck... However, with one egg left in the carton and a bowl of leftover ratatouille to finish off I decided to put them together.

This is more a formula than a recipe could be applied to various mushes; stews, bolognaise sauces, curries etc. Just dollop a couple of spoonfuls of whatever’s left over into an ovenproof pot or ramekin, make a comfortable nook for the egg in the middle with the back of a spoon and crack the egg into it. Drizzle over a little oil and a spice of choice – here it was paprika as I was feeling a little Spanish (Madonna’s La Isla Bonita happened to be playing on the radio). Oh, and some scrapings of a heel of Grana Padano before baking it at about 190C for 12-15 minutes or golden and slightly inflated on the top.

I ate mine with toasted wholemeal pitta, sliced into soldiers - or rather, soldados - to dip. Rather a smug working-from-home lunch I thought, when it could have so easily been Heinz Cream of Tomato...

Chelsea Snail Buns

We had grand plans for yesterday, but then the weather reverted to recent form, so we ensconced ourselves in the brilliantly local and cosy Parlour for breakfast (more about that soon), watched the mizzle draw across the window like a lace curtain and shortened our agenda. Better to be realistic, surely, when the elements are winning. I mean, how long can it last…?

The result of our brainstorming over coffee, Bircher muesli and unlimited toast with lemon curd: a spell of long-overdue exercise in the gym and a batch of home-baked Chelsea buns.

I probably should have consulted baking legends Paul Hollywood and Dan Lepard on the bun formula, but yesterday I thought I’d ask my Panasonic bread-maker manual. A great hulk of white plastic, there is nothing pretty about this gadget, which lurks on the counter – in fact it may be even too large to call it that – it is, rather, an appliance. When we bought it four years ago we were told that we’d never use it, that it’d be on Gumtree within a month or in the attic gathering dust until our grandchildren found it.

Always in the back of my mind lurks a desire to prove the naysayers wrong, so as a consequence, this weekend was a particularly pleasing one. We kicked off on Friday with homemade pizzas (made with wholemeal bread flour in the absence of white), especially thin and crispy, the crust bubbled in spots, slathered with a tomato and anchovy sauce and combos of our favourite things. Thank you, bread-maker, for your 45 minute bout of kneading and pummelling to elastic-y wondrousness (honestly, I wouldn’t want to be a lump of dough in that thing).

Flicking through the machine’s manual, largely ignored but for aforementioned pizza dough and our favourite loaf recipes, its pages stuck together in places, I lighted upon the Chelsea Bun formula. Slightly daunting, the prospect of having a whole batch of these in a tin in the kitchen when they are supposed to be a one-off treat a safe distance away at the baker’s. Clearly there would be a time limit on optimal consumption too… which amounts to a few hours after baking as it turns out (they’re becoming more and more bullet-like as today continues, sorry BSG, but they could be gone before you get home).

This soft enriched dough resembles a starter as it is airy – in short, it has a beautiful life of its own, so don’t beat it about too much as you roll it out. This will mean it’ll spread nicely in the tin. As well as the fruit and spice mix ‘spread’, I certainly recommend adding a little diced stem ginger. I am not sure that there won’t be marmalade and chocolate chips in there too, next time. Baffled as to why the dough Catherine wheels were meant to sit together in a sandwich tin with sides, I now understand. On my low baking tray, they were prone to unravelling, rather than keeping the goodies inside their coils as they baked and rose into one another. The results were no less delicious, but perhaps more ‘garden path’ than ‘garden party’ Viennoiserie.

Practice makes perfect, I suppose, but this first attempt has left a tantalising enough taste in our mouths to want to try again. Next up, hot-cross buns. Why on earth not? It’s nearly Easter, after all.

If you have a bread maker (which makes super light work of creating the perfect conditions for your dough) the formula is below, from the gospel according to Panasonic. If you don’t have a great placcy lump dominating your kitchen (besides the fridge, of course), try Paul Hollywood’s recipe out for size.

Chelsea Buns

Dough

½ tsp yeast
250g strong white flour
1 tsp sugar
25g butter
tbsp milk powder
½ tsp salt
1 medium egg
100 ml water

Topping

15g butter
100g mixed dried fruit, stem ginger, chocolate chips, etc
50g soft brown sugar
1 tsp mixed spice

Once the dough is ready (you want to use the dough setting, whatever yours is), knead it lightly and roll it out to an oblong 26 x 20 cm.

Melt the butter and brush it over the dough. Mix the topping ingredients together and scatter evenly over the top, pressing the fruit in a bit. Roll it up from the long edge and cut into 8-10 slices.

Arrange these in a greased sandwich tin so they fit neatly and prove in the oven at 40C until doubled in size (approx. 20 mins).

Bake in a preheated oven at 220C for 15 minutes or until golden brown.

Cool on a rack and drizzle with glace icing.

 

 

The River Café

The BSG and I managed to sneak our way into the perennially popular River Café on the first sunny day of spring, thanks to an amazing winter lunch offer (on ‘til 22nd March, if you’re asking). We’d mused over a visit for some time, but couldn’t quite swallow the prices. However, this deal and the fact that it was my birthday seemed the perfect opportunity to sample for ourselves the much-vaunted seasonal ingredients, painstakingly sourced and treated with simplicity and respect. Not bad for a place that started out as a staff canteen for Richard Rogers’ firm of architects next door. Lucky them.

Its list of cheffy alumni that have worked under co-founders and superwomen Ruth Rogers and Rose Gray has clout to equal that Cambridge-footlight dream class of Thompson, Fry and Laurie: Jamie Oliver, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Stevie Parle, April Bloomfield, Theo Randall, Sam and Samantha Clark (and many others), so we both conducted a mental audit of the cast working smoothly and diligently behind the very visible pass. If this was a school it’d be out of the league tables - no doubt many of the current crop will go on to be stars as well.

Cooking in full view – YIKES.. I’d certainly have dropped something. If nerves ever jangled or tempers rose, they didn’t show. In fact, you could almost smell the quiet authority that extended to each plate smoothly winging its way out to the tables. Everyone was busy doing their own thing on this tight ship – the BSG and I supposed that someone was in charge of pasta, another veg, fish and so on. The friendly waiting staff pepetrated this feeling of zen, were relaxed and efficient and ever so slightly über-cool…though of course they all made that look effortless too.

The day was utterly perfect, especially considering it was a Monday; the warmth of spring sunshine on our backs a foil to the chilly breeze that blew off the river. Once we got inside, lemony light spilled through the large windows across our table; cue Prosecco with fresh blood orange to wet our whistles. What followed a basket of bread and gorgeous, grassy olive oil was a series of perfectly simple dishes; including fennel salami and chicken-liver crostini, a plethora of exciting leaves we’d never heard of, fresh sardines, gum-bubble thin filled ravioli (the best pasta I have EVER eaten), sweet scallops with Castelluccio lentils , slow-cooked fennel and monkfish with salsa verde. A lot, you may think – and you’re probably right – but for some reason it felt light and healthy due to the freshness of the flavours (until we got to the lemon tart and polenta cake, that is). It was beautifully simple: there were no ground-breaking cooking techniques to distract from the food, so it was just as well that the headliner ingredients were on form.

This restaurant is a classic, an institution, a favourite - exactly what a dream canteen at work would be like (albeit work would have to be a merchant bank). Like the Rolling Stones live in concert - rather than a 2-hour late, squeaky Justin Bieber surrounded by gyrating backing dancers and tedious smoke effects - it continues to stand the test of time, taste and wallet. In short, it could prove ruinous come April and we don’t give a damn if it’s AT ALL trendy, but the BSG may well make The River Cafe a habit. Once a year. If we save.

Spring has sprung. Yippeee.

Flat Iron: no boobs

It’s enchanting, I’m sure, to hear your toddler utter new words and grasp associations. Less enchanting, perhaps, when said small person points at their pregnant mother and says ‘big boobs’, then at their dad and says ‘small boobs’. Ouch.

We pondered this and many other adorable things kids get up to with our Negronis at the workbench bar in the very-new, very-cool Flat Iron on Beak Street, with our friend G and the ready-to-pop Mrs/Dr G. She is so nearly there that I was quietly saying prayers last week that it wouldn’t happen at the table. Fortunately, she is a brilliant doctor so would no doubt deal with the whole thing whilst we all stood around with hot water and towels whimpering/passing out. It’s definitely true that these later stages of pregnancy are miraculous; her hair had a salon-fresh look and positively bounced, her eyes twinkled even in the near darkness*. These shiny outward signs of course belied a great deal of discomfort, not to mention a violent hankering after a glass of wine. Flat Iron is a no reservations kind of place, but half the fun is in the waiting, in their very lively bar in the basement. I hope it will be the only waiting the Gs have to do this month…

Vegetarians, take heed: Flat Iron does meat. Steak. Really well. (Not like that – though they made a concession for Mrs/Dr G.) The Flat Iron is the American name for the Butler’s steak, cut with the grain from the shoulder of the animal.  It can be tough if treated in the wrong hands. Turns out these are the right hands; after an amuse-bouche of popcorn cooked in beef dripping, the steaks came sliced on the diagonal on their own little boards, and beautifully seasoned; the BSG didn’t reach for the salt or pepper throughout. Each of us was equipped with a little meat cleaver instead of a knife (they might need to electronically tag these covetable things as they may go the way of the Quaglino’s ashtrays…) These were purely aesthetic but rather useful for trowelling on the amazing peppercorn sauce (you could choose between this, Béarnaise, horseradish and Fred’s Sauce, a tomato/Tabasco delight.)

If you’re going to master and serve only one thing, then each accompaniment has to be perfectly done. No complaints there. When I say that the chips carried the initial aroma of a McDonald’s bagful I mean it as the highest possible compliment. They were savoury and crisp. The creamed spinach was so good we ordered another dish of it, and a baked aubergine dish barely touched the sides. A little French glass of lamb’s lettuce with sharp, nutty vinaigrette offered a few mouthfuls to cut through the richness of it all.

In our enthusiasm, we felt it only right to cram in a pudding. And golly I am glad of it. The BSG tucked into a freshly baked doughnut** filled with rhubarb cream; if a test of enjoyment is measured by residue on the face then I’d venture that it passed. The rest of us plumped for the salted caramel mousse, expertly squirted into our glasses by our lovely waitress who then advised that we sprinkled it with salt (explaining its presence on the table). DELICIOUS, fun and light, and the perfect end to an immensely exciting evening (though thank goodness no baby arrived).

We left Flat Iron feeling thrilled and inspired. Needless to say, the BSG is on the hunt for an old soda canister to recreate the extraordinary pudding theatre at home (stand back - he rather fancies a savoury cheese soufflé version, coupled with blowtorch to brown the top) and I am pondering dream doughnut fillings; peanut butter and raspberry jam, anyone?

 

* Excuse the dingy photos, it really was dark in there.

**They serve doughnuts in the bar downstairs where you can gorge on them before you have your supper… Why the heck not? If my 7-year old self ran a restaurant, I’d have definitely made this rule.

Medlar

 

Looking out through the rain right now – unbroken vertical rods punctuated with waves of lacy mizzle, since you ask - it seems hard to imagine that about a month ago summer was on the doorstep. Easier to imagine, regrettably, that since then I haven’t managed to scribble even so much as a bleat about how much I loved meeting (and eating of course – but mostly MEETING) the beautiful food that we were presented with one sunny Saturday lunchtime at Medlar. The BSG and I strolled down there through the park on a golden morning beneath clouds of pale blossom, thinking that life possibly couldn ‘t get any better on such a day.

I am definitely a substance over style girl when it comes to grub, but in this instance, I admit I was bowled over. Luckily, it tasted as good as it looked.

Perhaps its because I have been doing some exciting things recently (they call it work, apparently) with lots of wonderful people who make, scribble, style and shoot food for a living - with mouthwatering results - that the art of food has taken on extra resonance… Or perhaps its because I don’t have proper time to sit and pen a proper few paragraphs… Whatever the reason, I will leave you with a few pictures from a lovely, early summer lunch, with wonderful friends, washed down with a pale Provence rose.

Just this once here are the pics with not much else, because food this pretty spoke for itself (even with my terrible phone mugshot plate-shots). S’pose we’ll just have to go back…for research.

Crab raviolo with brown shrimp and samphire. Gosh – that bisque...

Halibut with trompettes, scallops, cauliflower bits and Bayonne ham

Rhubarb pannacotta cheesecake with crumble (yes all at the same time – genius!)

Neil’s braised octopus – it looked amazing (the German word is Futterneid, I believe…)

Pitt Cue Co: Smokin’

 

I thought I’d help you out if you are, like me, a bit disgruntled (to say the least) with the ‘democratic’ no-bookings policy the newest places in central London have adopted, by letting you know that in order to avoid the Saturday lunch queue at Pitt Cue Co*, it is advisable to turn up at 12.03pm precisely, PDQ.

A bit early, you might say? Well, you get there at 12.04 and– just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

After the BSG’s nose had led us nowhere in particular, I took over on our BBQ quest, well in the know having trodden the same path in vain a week previously. My friend Lucy and I had come a cropper in our mission as instead of bouncing up to an easy table at 5.59pm we’d had the temerity to opt for a post-work drink and now faced a two hour queue at 7.15. Several unsuccessful stops (can’t book v. must book) later we’d plumped for some very good tapas and sherry at our old friend Brindisa. Honestly, I am not sure I can keep up. To book or not to book: that seems to be the question, to which there is no clear answer.

Despite this gripe, lunch was really, really good. The clanky tractor seat stools and the high wood counter roared rough and ready from the get-go, as did the heavy metal soundtrack and the bottles of amber everything backing the bar. However, the sun was barely over the yard arm so we stayed off the hard liquor and the BSG was delighted to find root beer on offer (I think it tastes like Germolene). Perusing the menu and seeing enamel trays of smoky glistening ribs and charred flesh coming sizzling from the kitchen we reckoned you’d have to be a brave vegetarian to sit comfortably here for long. Though a couple of pickleback shots (pickle brine and whisky) might have taken the edge off.

Anywhere that the pickled:etc ratio is 50:50 is high on my list, and my caramelised pulled pork came with generous heaps of two different kinds, plus a hunk of bread and a fresh chipotle slaw. I rolled up my sleeves, tucked one of my napkins (I got through 4) in and ate like I supposed a hungry trucker would (no offence to truckers though, I very much enjoyed it). The BSG wondered for a moment how to tackle his enormous ribs before throwing caution to the wind and attacking them with gusto. It was at this stage that we realised why the counter was so high – a tactical few inches from tin plate to gob made pigging out easy. No, we agreed, Pitt Cue was not a first-few-dates kind of place.

We were briefly joined by a plastic cow (pictured) as the place got steadily fuller – it was waiting for a table, I suppose. We gave St Patrick’s Day a little nod with a hearty side order of burnt-end champ: totally unnecessary after a starter of chilli chicken wings and pickled celery (2 napkins) but oh-so deep and delicious. There wasn’t any room for pudding but there’s not an inkling of doubt that we won’t be back with our bibs on – with Lucy - for that and a pickleback one evening soon. At 5.59 on the dot.

*As Pitt Cue tell you on their website, their no-bookings policy has more to do with their size than with being ‘'cool’. It’s true that this is a tiny place - just a wee step up in size from their original van guise - but it serves big, hunky food. Plus, it closed my week with a modicum of cool, in stark contrast to its traumatic start when I caught Slash (hero of my teenage years) playing out the series of Top Gear astride a crushed Ford Focus in front of a crowd of balding, denim-clad motor enthusiasts.

An amazing Scotch Egg

Heston’s new telly series already has the BSG and me hooked. Each episode, devoted to a different dietary mainstay, is revelation-packed, turning age-old techniques on their heads. However, this week’s egg-centric (sorry) half hour brought out the usually-silent curmudgeon in me.

Mr Blumenthal offered up a new way to cook a boiled egg, without actually boiling it. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am sure that the result was P.E.R.F.E.C.T.I.O.N, but its not actually a boiled egg and soldiers; rather a brought-up-to-a-simmer-then-taken-off-the-heat-and-left-for-6-minutes egg. Or just egg and soldiers. I am very content with my four and a half minute boil – it never fails me – so I’ll stick to that. I’m a bit impatient I suppose and those extra 90 seconds make the difference. And don’t get me started on what he tried with the scrambled egg…!

Luckily, the BSG and I are willing to overlook these minor deviations from brilliance, especially as we sampled his superior food first-hand at the Hind’s Head and fully believed that the Scotch eggs we had at the bar there would be the best we’d eat – and they were. Until yesterday, that is.


A friend and I found ourselves in the rolling Berkshire countryside and, feeling a little peckish, we thought we’d stop into the Pot Kiln and grab something to eat. It was a perfect brisk January day, the skies high and clear above dark pencil-scratch copses of trees, golden sunlight lining the mossy garden wall and dispersing the morning’s frost. It was too chilly to eat outside. No matter, we found a table in the cosy dining room which, on this first sunny Friday of 2012, was packed.


The Pot Kiln is a little white inn nestled in a pretty valley, run by the same team who run the Harwood Arms in Fulham, and I had heard great things about the food there. There is a real emphasis on locally sourced and seasonal produce and this was evident on the menu – luckily I knew in advance what I wanted as I’d probably still be sitting there deliberating.


We shared a tasty ploughman’s of wild boar ham, mixed leaves, cheese and pickles, and had a warm Scotch egg each, made with minced local venison, oozy-yolked in the middle and satisfyingly crisp on their outside. They were heaven, accompanied by a tiny pile of coarse salt and just a few of my favourite things; gherkins, pickled onions and celeriac remoulade. Their homemade soda bread was deep and cakey, and delicious too. The meal was the perfect formula for a peckish pair, and washed down with a couple of Gunners - angostura bitters, lime cordial, ginger ale and lemonade (though I prefer ginger beer instead of the lemonade) – welcome and refreshing, despite the chill.

This pub is perhaps a bit out of the way for a normal weekday lunch, but I will certainly be finding excuses to return – there’s so much more to try! Or perhaps I’ll just have another one of those perfect scotch eggs… Sorry Heston.

Food by email – a new Dukan for 2012?

 

On the first day of Christmas,
My step-mum sent to me,
A food postcard* from Mi-a-mi…

*from the 10-course tasting menu she and my dad were treated to on Christmas Eve.

It looked seriously good so I thought I would post it up here. Believe it or not, it was not produced by a restaurant, but by a very talented and consummate host with a demanding day job (which, surprisingly, is not working as a top chef). A Montreal-born Sicilian, it is his family tradition to eat late into the night on Christmas Eve. Those are the only details you’re getting – and don’t even think of asking for his address.

Think of it as a Christmas present: a feast for the eyes, without the calories. (This is the only time you will ever read anything about diets or calories on here, promise.)Their night started young and gradually got older and rounder, finally dropping off its perch at around 3.30am so please forgive them if the order looks awry. I also blame indigestion - theirs not mine.

Even the menu was edible; a cube sandwich of liver pate and fig compote covered with edible paper. WOW.

 

A starter dish of a Caprese salad based on an iceberg melting

 

Snails stuffed with nuts…

Foie gras crepe milkshake with mascarpone Cointreau cream and blueberry port reduction

Stone crab and lobster Martini (bisque)

Meatball cupcake with Pecorino cream

Nigiri in a hickory-smoke-filled snowglobe…

 

(That’s a very pretty hand towel. I don’t think they ate it...)

Frozen Asian pear and Stilton with black truffle

Smokin’ Cubano pulled pork ‘cigar’. Always think twice about licking the ashtray…(unless like here they are sesame seeds)

Individual Beef Wellingtons…in honour of the English guests

Tiramisu with chocolate mousse in handmade chocolate cups

Midnight in Paris…

Marcel Proust was partial to dipping one into his cuppa; the French in general appear to have a penchant for them at most times of day, but it was a surprise when a plate of madeleines was proffered late last Friday night, their scalloped edges just the golden side of crisp. I did wonder how they’d slip down with my vin rouge. They were hard to resist, even after such a meal; they were warm and fragrant and just seconds out of the oven.

The BSG and I took in the City of Light under high azure skies after what had been a painfully prolonged absence. Amidst varied excursions to the Eiffel Tower, Monet’s gargantuan lilyscapes at l‘Orangerie and a boat trip under the many bridges of the Seine there were some truly memorable fuel-stops (in truth, the excursions were really the punctuation marks in this two-day gastronomic tour).

At the planning stage, we’d heavily researched the food aspect of our tripette and decided we’d try to get a table at Spring, the eatery du jour. The operative word being try….The phone rang – and rang. If Spring’s PR mantra is ‘treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen’, then they’ve got it, spot on. Though I’m not sure I do.

And so we put Spring behind us and the lovely Kate took over. Kate is chic, knowledgeable and has discerning taste in most things, especially when it comes to food, so we knew we were in safe hands – after all, it was she who was responsible for our last great Paris discovery, Chez l’Ami Jean, a secret we have proudly shared ever since with friends who are visiting the city. After meeting first for a drink and an hour watching the beautiful people at Hotel Costes, we took the scenic route through Place Vendome to Bistrot Volnay.

The emphasis here was on quality produce: various seasonal mushrooms appeared throughout the evening’s menu; alongside razor clams or St Jacques to start; pan fried with sweetbreads and foie gras to follow; stirred through the darkest, glossiest osso bucco. I had the pheasant tourte: a type of savoury pasty filled with meat, bacon, foie gras and chanterelles, with grapes and spices lending an autumn sweetness. It was very elegant and very simply done, a description that could be applied to the Volnay itself. Whilst it’s clearly a Paris bistro - complete with plaque-studded counter-bar commemorating lifelong regulars - the restrained and quietly chic palette is redolent of Manhattan; it has the feel of a neighbourhood restaurant. The staff were chatty and helpful, and we felt welcome from the off.

Which brings me, in a roundabout way, to those madeleines…

Eyes bigger than stomachs, three of the four of us just had to order riz-au-lait, which came with extra cream and a dark salty caramel sauce. Kate’s husband Emmanuel finished his with aplomb - like any self-respecting foodie, but all I could do was stare at the remainder on my plate and wish it a good home somewhere else - it was enormous. Therefore, when wafts of the freshly-baked-cake variety started to circulate, it took the brain a little while to recover itself and ape some kind of hunger pang. It was nothing other than gratuitous, but everyone else in the place was tucking in to those dainty sponge shells so surely it would have been rude not to….wouldn’t it?

Pizza East Portobello

There are some things that sound like somebody, somewhere along the line, has made a mistake – but which just work. Take, for example, the wonderful marriages of salted butter and jam, celery with peanut butter and half an avocado with Worcester sauce.

My art teacher at school used to call such serendipitous discoveries ‘happy accidents’ – a bit like the summer afternoon when my gran and a ten-year-old me concocted a ‘pioneering’ drink from raspberry cordial and lemonade which we called the Frisbee and got terrifically excited about it. Only later did we find out that the raspberry cordial was actually Crème de Framboise and our terrific excitement was in fact drunkenness. Boy, that was one heck of an afternoon – thanks Gran.



I digress. Just down the road from us, Pizza East has landed on the corner of Portobello and Golborne Road, W(est) 10; one such ‘happy accident’. No-one tell them it’s not East London and perhaps they won’t notice and try to take it back.

Although the place is only a few months old, the BSG and I have already managed to cover a large swathe of the menu and haven’t yet found a bum note. Though it is perennially packed out from 6.45pm, tables are swiftly turned, giving enough time to wet your whistle at the bar or outside on sunny evenings with a cocktail or some such (anywhere that serves Aperol spritzers is legendary in my book).

The place is open-plan so you can watch the drama unfold in the heat of the kitchen as wood-fired ovens roar open-mouthed and orders are relayed. Due to the presence of these ovens, the place also turns out other delicious things cooked amongst the flames. You can have crispy pork belly, beef fillet, salmon amongst others and if you can’t make up your mind, they do a pizza with pork belly on top. Heroes.



To start, there are the usual Italian offerings of antipasti and others, but punctuated with a bit of Brit – bruschetta with bone marrow or beaten Pollock and radishes anyone? (We thought it rather a nice nod to the site’s previous guise, The Fat Badger pub). We shared the char-grilled squid with salsa verde and lemon – a nice clean start to proceedings. But we’ll probably try them all, before long.

Hands down the best pizza I have had in a long time was the spicy sausage, broccoli and mozzarella I had last time I was there. Just the right mix of pepper and richness, and amazingly no tomato sauce – the BSG had serious food envy, despite hugely enjoying his pizza with veal meatballs, prosciutto, cream and sage. My friend Dani, a veggie, adores the courgette flower, ricotta and marjoram, which sounds so pretty and is just as delicious. The ciabatta-style dough they use is pillowy and elastic, with a satisfying crunch where the crust bubbles up: an altogether different pizza dough, so the BSG thinks.

With the best will in the world, there is not usually room for pudding, so when we do squeeze it in we share. The raspberry sponge with mascarpone we had last time was well worth it, light and sharp and like a nursery teatime. No doubt we’ll try everything all over the coming months; it’s only fair to our support our new local which we’ve taken to our hearts (stomachs) – even if it doesn’t really sound that local. Moreover, there’s no doubt it will open more people eyes to the many wonders of the Golborne Road and its diverse shops and stalls. About time.

April firsts

I am not such a very nice person as it turns out. I mean, what on earth has Rachel Allen ever done to me? Nothing, apart from smile gently down the telly. And yet for some reason, I find all her jingly, lilting sunniness irritating to the point of wanting to leap in and start a food fight there in her spotless, Ballymaloe telly-kitchen.

However, this longstanding grudge dissipated when last weekend I sampled some of her food. Well, not her food exactly, but recipes from her book, beautifully executed by my friend Sarah, who does everything absolutely precisely: she is a scientist to her very core. (We used to have art v. science arguments at school, like the dog v. cat ones I have with the BSG these days - he is pro-cat if you’re interested in taking sides).

A couple of days with Sarah and her family in the rolling countryside outside Leeds had three of us Londoners wondering why we hadn’t jacked in the big smoke for this idyllic, wholesome life. In the first few warm rays of the year we had lunch outside: a delicious, shredded salad of savoy cabbage, carrots, crisp apples, bacon bits and chicken. And it was Rachel Allen – well Sarah, really – who made us feel these first breaths of summer. I think there may have even been some rougeing of the face, but that was my fault entirely.

Feeling rather virtuous after this refreshing main course (I would say light, except we ate all of it, including Sarah’s husband’s portion…He’d been on a run and thoroughly deserved to eat), Sarah produced the most beautiful lemon tart. Honestly, it looked like the best homemade thing I’d ever seen – shop-bought ones with their unbroken perfection don’t quite cut it. And it tasted like a cloud of citrussy sunshine, and had some kind of bruléed crust on its top. Heaven. As it turned out, that was Rachel too. So, not just a pretty husband, then. I even got a picture of lunch, for once, before it disappeared.

It was surprise we’d managed to fit any lunch in at all, when a mere hour beforehand we’d paid a visit to the Ilkley branch of Betty’s Tea Room. For a first-timer like me, simply ordering a coffee (albeit a rich, Latte Latino made with chocolate sauce and cinnamon) just wouldn’t have cut the mustard, so with it came the plumpest Yorkshire Fat Rascal (an enormous warm fruit bun), some freshly baked rarebit scones and Betty’s famous cinnamon toast. Clearly a recipe they’d perfected over time, the cinnamon and sugar lay in a thick crust over crunchy fingers of brown toast – the sort of mean brown toast you’d never have associated with such a treat but which was now transformed under its crystalline cloak. No wonder Sarah’s son, Finlay, eschewed his rather yummy-looking lunch in its favour.

The rest of the weekend continued much along the same theme – three girls from London, being fed like kings, with pancetta wrapped monkfish, white chocolate mousse, pork and apple crumble (my first savoury crumble – won’t be my last that’s for sure) and on Sunday morning, blueberry pancakes like the fluffiest cumulonimbus made by Rhys, Sarah’s hubby; a good excuse to march up onto the moor for a brisk one.

It was very hard to leave, even harder to manage the wagyu burger the BSG had prepared on my return and nigh on impossible to fathom what we’ll conjure up for them on the return leg; I might ask my new favourite person...