Review: The Eagle, Farringdon Road

It's obscenely early.

It's Sunday morning.

And I write from my lovely new flat in London whilst chomping on a bowlful of muesli packed with gorgeous nuts, seeds and berries. What better time to ruminate on the latest, entirely unplanned, gastro-stumble.

Let me momentarily transport you to my new place of work, just off Leather Lane in London. One week in and I'm already head over heels in love with the location. Bridging the gap beautifully between city suits and edgy Clerkenwell/Farringdon (most definitely not suits), it is an area jam-packed full of taste explorations, as I've quickly discovered. From the market on Leather Lane, which gathers momentum (and fruit stalls) towards the end of the week, snowballing into a full-blown, out-of-control crowd by Friday, to tucked away treasures of ethnic foodspots, gastropubs and seriously swanky eats, the place is guaranteed to keep me amused.

Thursday saw me headed out post-work with a friend, David, for a couple of drinks, though sadly at this stage no food (the menu looked fantastic but we were told it was lunch-time only) at The Hat and Tun, a little old man's pub which rapidly gathers an uber-cool crew post 5.30pm, tucked away on Hatton Place. American readers will no doubt find this English name rather quaint...look at it carefully, squint a bit and compare it with the street name, and you'll see what I mean. East London is particularly rife with these amusing little names. Other than that, given I've not tasted the fare, I can't really comment: genial atmosphere, plentiful drink supply - what more could you want from an old man's pub??

8pm taking my friend and I by surprise, our suddenly insanely empty bellies protested loudly and propelled us rapidly in search of some grub. There was something of a desperate clatter in my high-heeled hobble as we headed on up Farringdon Road in the hopes of a foodie find.

I know it may be hard to believe, but there was actually some method to my madness. Deep in the recesses of my fusty old memory bank, from back in the days when Farringdon was a 'really distant' London area which, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't connect with my mental map of London, I remembered being taken to lunch in a gastropub called The Eagle. Years and years ago. I didn't know if I was way out of date. Thankfully, and more than a little surprisingly, my memory served me well and lo, there in the distance, like a sparkling green oasis in a desert, the pub rose up: glorious, cozy, and full to brimming with enthusiastic, chatty diners and some extraordinarily tasty-looking/smelling dishes.

2 seconds later and I'd found my new best friend: the barman was from Madrid, and I momentarily forgot my hunger in favour of talking (unsurprisingly my 2nd favourite thing) nattering away in Spanish, glad of the excuse to roll the lingo round my tongue after all my months since Mexico. Hunger (and my friend) soon started tapping me on the shoulder in reminder again, so I tracked down the waiter flitting through the crowd, who I'd usefully been informed by my barman friend also Spanish (as, indeed, they all were), and I wasted no more time in a request for two seats. Perched on a shared table, David and I got on with the serious task of menu-study.

Four scrawled chalkboards jubilantly proclaim the day's dishes - mostly made up of a handful of hearty meat mains which are grilled lustily in front of the kitchen for all to see, a neverending array of tantalising smells shamelessly whetting the eager eater's appetite. Not that mine needed any help. By this stage I was practically chomping at the bit, with the thought of the soup of the day, a 'canjo portuguese' (portuguese stew) made of chicken, rice and broth - very reminiscent of a dish Ma Pea makes for me when I'm under the weather and need nourishing - making me drool. Starvation was momentarily forgotten, however, when in the corner of one of the chalkboards I noticed chalked up a rather beautiful little piece of symmetry to my life of London eating, declaring that The Eagle is (yet another) sister restaurant to two of my previous reviews, The Anchor and Hope, and Great Queen Street. Tic, tac, toe. You gotta love that. And so, I threw caution to the wind and decided to let the dishes do the talking. Finally, we ate.

Canjo Portuguese - now we all know I'm ridiculously fussy about my soups, it's one of my staple, old favourite rants that I've covered it time and time again in previous posts. Something, though, about this place, inspired my soup trust. I went with my gut instinct, and I wasn't disappointed. I was, in fact, completely blown away. This was home away from home. Appearing at the table in a fired chunky red clay bowl, a homage to its Portuguese origins, this was a steaming, luscious and deeply fragrant broth, heavily infused with garlic and comforting thyme, and with generous portions of both the chicken and the rice, it was flawless and just the job to both soak up my pre-dinner drinks and provide the comfort of home away from home.

Grilled Pork Chops with cannellini beans and roasted red onions - poor David, his dish arrived a few minutes after mine and, following a paltry few pieces of sushi at lunch, he'd been ravenous even back at the pub. I'm a nice fellow diner though, and shared my soupy treasure with him until his, frankly, splendid dish graced our table. I am not a natural pork fan, and will almost never choose pork when eating out or when cooking myself - I mostly find it a leathery, tough and tasteless meat. That being said, I will happily tuck into a pair of chops if placed in front of me for tea. Again, like the chicken stew, there's something about the dish that is comforting and very reminiscent of home, family and being served your dins by mum or grandma. I had never tasted pork chops quite like these, however. This was the King of Pork Chops, branded with charred marks straight from the grill, succulent, tender and very, very tasty. Or, in David's words, 'really good' (there's a reason why I'm writing this and not him...no disrespect David). The accompanying beans, gently infused with garlic, warming and almost meaty in their protein punch, were perfect, as were the dark purple, sweetly caramelised onions. Heavenly.

We'd both polished off our dishes, full to brimming with appreciation and enthusiasm, and more than a little reluctance to actually come to the end of such heavenly delights, when, I just happened to notice that the soup of the day option that I'd eaten had been wiped off the chalk board, and a new soup chalked up. It was only blimmin' Caldo Verde (green soup) wasn't it, the (other) national Portuguese soup, that I know almost better than any other soup, having eaten it in Portuguese restaurants across London, Portugal and Brazil. A rapid debate ensued - was it too scandalous to go and order another dish purely out of greed and curiosity? You of course already know the answer.

We shared this hug-in-a-bowl - a thick (and usually a standalone substantial) potato soup, with plenty of vibrant green cabbage, chunks of potatoes and wicked spicy, little pieces of chorizo - the red, smoked sausage often seen livening up spanish and portuguese dishes. I have a minor obsession with chorizo, and when David wasn't looking, was secretly ferreting around with my spoon to find the pieces of red treasure amongst the cabbage and potatoes...

As you can see, with a home away from home right around the corner from the office, and with such foodie finds only a stumble away, I'm going to be a happy little working bunny. With an energetic and sparky atmosphere, a media crowd stumbling across the road from The Guardian offices, and very friendly and efficient waiters, not to mention outstanding food, The Eagle is first on my list for the area. Check. It. Out.

I'm comin' to London!

The latest news in my little world is that, after a YEAR away (and BOY has that year flown fast), I am comin' back to London. Beware, oh former home of mine.

The hot topics that I'll be posting on in the upcoming months will be:

• Restaurant Crits - (probably with a high concentration on Credit Crunch deals)
• Healthy Eating and Work - how to combine the two (in continuation of the theme of my last post)
  
• Little treats and finds round the city - including 'Five Minutes Peace' - cafes, nooks and crannies where you can enjoy a cuppa tea/coffee and your favourite book away from the crowds

Right now, however, I must stop chatting away and focus on the terrible bore that is packing. Oh, and unpacking the other way.


I hope everyone's remembered Mother's day! Mine's been the lucky recipient of a pretty little homemade card slightly reminicent of six-year old me, though slightly more adept (thankfully) at capturing human body proportions. This time round Mummy Pea doesn't look like a potato. Always a bonus. That, coupled with a handful of silver and gold sugared almonds (her favourite), some beautiful smelling flowers, and afternoon tea later on today, should go a teensy way towards thanking her for being the star Mum that she has been these last 27 years, and particularly this last year.

Thanks mum!

A hop, a skip and a jump across town: and another review

No less than 24 hours after my previous evening’s antics, and I was cavorting once again with a different night companion – this time of the Vietnamese variety.

Do not - I repeat, do NOT - venture anywhere further than the confines of Kingsland Road in Shoreditch for bang-on-target authentic Vietnamese food. And that’s an order.

One of the city’s great culinary pleasures, no.72, the Viet Hoa, delivers a non-stop stream of star performers – drool as you lovingly wrap a golden, crispy and oh-so-hot spring roll in its fresh salad jacket, savour the flavour as you dunk it in its piquant fish sauce pool; tip pools of pungent, firey bowls laden with lime, salty fish sauce and chillies onto your plate of bun xa, piles of thin rice vermicelli, fragrant coriander and toasted, garlic-flecked chicken or prawns which, in a flash, morph from dry noodles into a wondrous pool of tasty, nourishing noodles to slurp; delight at the fascinatingly sweet, sharp, sour flavours of steamed tilapia fish with mango, simply teamed with succulent, sticky white rice. There are plenty of dishes which vie for attention, jostling to make it into the final selection. You'll be spoilt for choice - so those are my recommendations to get you started, and get you hooked.

The food is fantastic, the price is right, the staff are a joy and the people-watching riveting.

I ask you, what more could you want from an evening?

Review: Great Queen Street

Great Queen Street

A trip up to The Big Smoke always guarantees several things:

• A severe dent to the wallet
• Slight culture shock
• The recollection of quite how much you always used to hate the tube
• Smile deficit – not enough people looking happy for my liking/requirement
• BUT – on the positive side – you always know you’ll have a packed repertoire of new and interesting eats to get noshing.

Which is good when you write a food blog. These days my restaurant visits are so few and far between that there’s minimal blog material to be getting on with. So as soon as I get the opportunity to flex my jaw muscles and get chewing, I seize it!

At the moment I’m helping with the research and writing for a friend’s next book so, as is our customary way, we ended the day in a nice restaurant. Not a bad end to the working day!

Whilst normally we work our way through the various decent Italian restaurants in London, this time we went ye olde englishe-style, and hit up Great Queen Street, the sister restaurant to gastropub Anchor & Hope I talked about back in November. And it did its little sister proud, with not only scrumptious dishes, but also brilliant service, and an unexpected little dish hiccup, which led to much hilarity between myself and our waiter.

So what did I tuck into, I hear you cry! Well:

Cod’s Roe Salad with carrots, beetroot and watercress – thin slivers of pungent smokey fish roe, bright orange against an attractive array of violet beetroot chunks, sweet and earthy, candy-sweet baby carrots, and piquant watercress, all bound together with a light horseradish sauce. The perfect combination of salt, sea, sweet, earth and nostril-flaring tang of the horseradish tantalizing and teasing your tastebuds. An ‘on-your-toes’ dish if ever there was one. Not least because, and this is probably not such a good thing, but give the ensuing mirth I just had to mention it – there was, shall we say, an extra added ingredient. I couldn’t quite place it, or mark back to the list of ingredients in the menu, so I called over our (very brash, cheeky Australian) waiter, who was my new gay best friend, and asked him. There’s a first time for everything – I’d never fed a waiter off my dish, he ate the mystery object, couldn’t place it either, muttered ‘do you mind?’ and WHIPPED it off my plate, for a scientific dissection session back in the kitchen. Turned out a rogue mushroom had found its way onto my plate. Not to worry – free entertainment!

Arboath Smoked Haddock with mashed swede and buttered cabbage – an understated diva, this Haddock rather stole the show. Buttery and smokey, and scattered lightly with chives, it sang alongside the support acts - a mellow mashed swede and a heaped spoonful of buttered cabbage. Anyone traumatized by school memories of the veg would soon be guaranteed converts.

So, all in all, a splendiferous show, and worth a return visit.

All Higgldypiggldy...

Goodness gracious but I'm all over the place with my food blogposts. The truth is, I've been plotting another blog baby, which I hope to be launching into the world on Valentine's day next Saturday (stay tuned - let's see if I can stick to that now blogosphere-proclaimed deadline). The truth is that my life doesn't solely consist of cooking, eating my wares and eating out. It's a whole lot less one-dimensional than that. And I need a blog which reflects this. So the new blog will include characters and scribbles, knitting and nibbles...as well as other musings on life, love, laughter and jellybeans. There will be a method in my madness, ye shall see!

Of course, don't get me wrong - that does NOT by ANY means translate as the young nibblescribbler wasting away, not putting a morsel past her lips. Ha! With all this snow around??! You must be kidding! A girl needs comfort food in times like these!

So let me break down my various noteworthy foodventures over the last month or so. This is blatant cheating, but at the moment I steadfastly refuse to post an individual account of each, you'll have to make do with these scraplets. I figure I can make my own rules here. You can't get to me to tell me off, I'm safe the other side of the screen!

And....we're off...

1. Benares - posh indian restaurant to be found on glitzy Berkeley Square near Nobu, yet another poncy restaurant I've an eye to try (only if treated by a bigger wallet than I). The 2nd time I've been to Benares, and it didn't disappoint, as chef Atul Kochhar pleased the eye and the palate (and, unusually, the wallet, with a special credit crunch meal deal) with beautifully presented dishes packed full of indian flavour. I cracked into Tandoor cooked Salmon fillets with spiced Gazpacho salsa, a delightful dry roasted chunk of salmon, lent juiciness by its accompanying sauce, followed by Pan Fried King Fish steaks with Chilli-Garlic Mash and Nilgiri Sauce. I found this slightly unremarkable, exactly as you'd have expected it, with the mash and sauce combining to rather cloying effect. Still, I forgave the meal this when what, frankly, to me was the piece de resistance. Our, by now, bosom buddy waiter (I make a habit of befriending the waiters because a) from past waitressing experience I know how snooty customers can be and b) it makes them much better disposed to treating you nice), appeared in a flash, and carefully placed a tiny flat black glass dish in front of each of the three of us. Into the shallow indentation of each dish, he poured a few drops of water from a jug. Also on his tray I noticed three small, flat round white pellets, which I presumed were the sort of crazy amuse-bouche you tend to get in this type of restaurant. But. EVEN BETTER!! He dropped each into the water and POFF!, as if by magic they were suddenly ten times their height: a little warm hand towel ready for use. Honestly, the guy couldn't have had a better audience than me for this little trick. My eyes were like saucers, my little hands were clapping and I was giggling with glee. I would honestly have paid the entire price of the meal JUST to see this little trick!
2. Hm, well, then I've already told you about Tayyabs, my favourite Indian restaurant tucked away in East London ...
3. Charitable soul that I am, that same London-bound week I decided to give Cha Cha Moon, subject of damning scorn from a previous post, another try (mainly through the oft-encountered London dilemma of 'not being able to get home to eat' and 'required dirt cheap prices due to impending poverty') and found it to be in better sorts once again, fully-trained staff in place. Sadly, though, prices look like they'll never again be back to their previously outrageous, and note-worthy economy status.
4. I was then treated to a handful of home-cooked Sicilian meal (I will elaborate on this in due course, I promise) - examples such as Squid Ink Pasta with Botarga, Steamed Lemon Sole accompanied by spinach and sultanas, and Ricotta Ravioli with Pistachio Sauce.
   
5. Reciprocally and nationally obliged to demonstrate that, whilst not quite on a par with Italian cooking, English food can sometimes be pretty darn great I cheated, and brought Il huomo home to be cooked for by...my mum. Well, without a kitchen, I'm restricted and, I know I'm slightly biased, but she does cook the best meals in the land. No pressure then mum, but English National Food Heritage (and Pride) lies squarely on your shoulders. She rose admirably to the occasion, producing a (not-so-English, admittedly, yet completely delicious) chickpea soup, followed by a stellar rendition of Roast Chicken, accompanied by crisped, golden roast potatoes and parsnips cooked in goose fat (divine), steamed cabbage that hovered perfectly between al dente and feather-soft, carrots and a steaming, tasty golden gravy. Nowt more English than that! This was followed by diva-esque puffs of beautiful baked apples oozing with a caramelly butter sauce and sultanas/raisins, poured over with cream. All guests left the table replete to play a fierce game of Cluedo, the resultant competitiveness no doubt fruitsugar-fuelled. No sooner had the main meal commenced digestion, than a round of English tea was brought out; crumpets dripped with butter and lemon curd, and home-made scones groaned with their generous load of raspberry jam and clotted cream. Cholesterol? What's that?!
   

Any suggestions of how to wow a foreigner with some delicious English fare (it does exist, honest guv!) gladly received...

Thumbs down: a Poor Restaurant Review

And now for a barrage of overdue entries. One of the most frustrating things about being up in London for a week was that my internet access up there is dodgy at best. I tried to post that last entry at least twice.

Now safely installed (for a day) back in a crisply cold Surrey, looking out onto acres and acres of garden and fields coated in thick white frost (I’ll try and get a photo and upload this, it’s too beautiful for words), my internet works, and I’m cozying up indoors for a bit whilst I figure out what clothes will protect me from the bitter cold outside.

The ideal excuse to update on my second trip out to eat. One of Alan Yau’s many creations, Cha Cha Moon is on Ganton street, just off Carnaby Street.



I’ve been to this restaurant at least half a dozen times since its opening in May last year, and mostly regaled others with stories of wild enthusiasm. Sadly it looks like I never got round to reviewing it before though, as now it’s a completely different story. Nothing seemed to go right for them on this particular visit, and I’m left with a feeling of crashing disappointment and no desire ever to go back.

The first shock came whilst waiting in the (generally promising) ever-present queue to eat. When handed our menus I saw that the original ‘every dish at £3.50’ gimmick had obviously reached the end of its time, and all items had been adjusted accordingly. The original aim of this ploy had been to draw in the punters, a fantastic piece of promotional marketing, but one which, when kept up too long, makes regular goers complacent, trained, pavlov dog style, to expect super-affordable prices. This makes the eventual price adjustment a horrible shock to the system. Cha Cha Moon can no longer be nipped to for a 'ridiculously cheap, great meal’. Now dishes are up with the rest of the noodle places, not only is it no longer cheap, but it's also, as we were soon to find out, no longer great either. Things boded badly.

We were seated rapidly, there’s never a complaint of too long a wait here. However, my eating companion (Bro P) and I then sat for getting on for ten minutes before anyone so much as ventured near us (10 minutes being an exceptionally long time in noodle-land when dishes can often take less than 30 seconds to prepare). During this time I started to witness evidence of the decline of a previously slick and efficient restaurant: dishes headed to the wrong table; waiters checked and rechecked orders with each other; bumped into each other; and let plates waltz gaily round without an owner. After several requests, we finally secured a waiter’s attention to place our order, before my observations became too depressing. He took our order, only for another waiter to appear 2 minutes later (clearly the one we were supposed to have in the first place). Not to worry, by this stage I was practically gnashing at the bit to be served some form of noodly nourishment – my lunchtime meal had been piddly and I was starving.

We waited.

And we waited.

Still I watched more confusion amongst the waiting staff. Finally a dish came out, and we watched it being offered to first one, then another diner, until he finally put the dish in front of me. And then - oh boy, this makes my digestive process halt dramatically in its tracks – he PICKED IT UP AGAIN, and said ‘oh, no, I’d better check, I don’t think it’s for you'. Whisking it out from underneath my poised chopsticks and dripping jaws, he took it away. No apology or explanation, nothing! Anyone who knows me well enough will know that this is probably up there with slamming a door in my face or throwing a beer down my back with offensive gestures. This meant WAR.

Two minutes later the same dish was dumped in front of me with barely an explanation. By this time it wasn’t steaming hot, but I was ravenous, and so tucked in. Not only was it not steaming hot, but there were actually sections which were cold, it had been that long out of the kitchen embrace. Of course, I should have complained, but I was so terrified they'd whisk it away again that I crouched low over it, protecting it like a mother bear protects her cubs. It’s hardly relevant what it was or how it tasted – Singapore Char Kway Teow, thick noodles in quite a tasty mixed meat sauce if you're interested. But, with all the emotional upheaval involved in getting my hands on this thing, I wouldn't advise anyone to go through the same trauma.

Bro P unsnapped his chopsticks and tucked into my plate, as there was no sign of his meal, nor would there be for some time to come. In fact, when we were on the verge of polishing the dish off, there was still no sign, so we asked a waiter, and his Singapore Fried Noodle finally arrived, just as I was picking up the last few strands of noodles. His dish tasted fusty and of hot dogs, and not even close to the standard of my previous visits. Meanwhile two or three wrong dishes were shown past our table.

We paid (no tip), and left. Never to return again.

No service, late meals, constant waiter confusion, a false serving, a practically cold dish. And all without the super-cheap price tag we’ve now been trained to expect.

Serious thumbs down.

Raving Restaurant Review: my favourite London Curryhouse

It’s been absolutely donkey’s months since I’ve done any sort of restaurant reviewing as thrift and frugality has been the overriding theme.

So, in an unusual ‘throwing thrift to the wind’ gesture, when I arrived in London last Sunday night, I decided it was about time I ate out. And so I did. Two days in a row no less.

Numero Uno: 5* - HIGH recommendation

Now, before I get more entangled in my little tale, let me set the background on my relationship with Indian meals.

I am not a natural curry fan.

It’s the result of too many years of disgusting, cheap and terrible Indian meals whilst at uni, meals which tended to consist of £10 deals (1 curry, 1 beer, 1 case of chronic indigestion and a serious dose of self-loathing), during which us uni students tended to behave atrociously (naturally), get drunk, disorderly and ending the evening with the odd food fight.

Now, before I hear your sharp intake of breath that I could be so uncouth, let me make it clear right away, I wasn’t one of the ones throwing food – clearly to me that is the ultimate sin. But seeing curry splattered against the walls wasn’t terribly conducive to giving me a raging appetite for the spicy stuff.

This, coupled with making the mistake once of watching a TV programme entitled ‘The Top 10 Worst Restaurants in Britain’ (I know, don’t ask what possessed me), and witnessing what sort of tricks the Indian restaurant topping the list pulled on its unsuspecting punters (great big vats of ‘different’ curry sauces, into which washed off uneaten meat from previous customers’ dishes were unceremoniously dunked). It was toecurling, stomach-wrenching stuff. And as a direct result about three years ago I was pretty much refusing to touch curry.

Cue my job out in Dubai, which couldn't have come at a more perfect time, to reinstate me with an appreciation for good indian food. No comparison. There you'll eat mostly southern indian food, a heavy slant towards the vegetarian. Clouds of delicately spiced potato mixture in potato dosa, mental lentils. Curry and I slowly rekindled a tentative love affair.

So you see, I’m possibly one of the most discerning British curry critics there is available to write. I am extraordinarily difficult to please. You might have noticed that this goes against my usual bounce-off-the-walls excitement and enthusiasm at eating out/being taken out, but there it is – I am curry critical.

So, it is with great pleasure, that I announce…. ..drummmm rooooollll….. THE BEST curryhouse in London, bar none. Tayyabs, in London's East End, or Shoreditch, to be more precise. Widely tipped as exceptional, I’d first been invited by one of my bestest buds (Sam the Tea man, should you be interested) for his bday bash back in November. I couldn’t make it. At the time, apart from the fact I was missing the festivities and the chance to smother a best bud with birthday smooches, I wasn’t too too bothered about missing out on ‘yet another curry’.

Until, that is, all sorts of raving rants written about the merits of this mysterious Tayyabs starting creeping into my line of awareness, and I started to rather kick myself for the missed opportunity. London-town bound, therefore, I got StTM in on my plan for a Sunday curry sesh. By gum was I excited.

The very first thing you notice as you walk alongside the restaurant, tucked deep in the bowels of Shoreditch, is that it is veritably heaving with people. In spite of it being a Sunday evening, the tables were overflowing with happy customers, all noshing away. The door opens and the second thing you’ll notice is a delicious medley of scents of cumin, curry, tamarind and other spices I couldn't quite put my olfactory finger on. The queue to eat was snaking right round the restaurant. Hm. This boded mouthwateringly well. We entertained ourselves admirably until, not long after – oh joy! – we were allocated our table. By this stage I was in such a paroxysm of hunger and excitement that I clean forgot how one is supposed to behave in a restaurant. Our poor, patient waiter had to deal with an overexcited, gibbering fool making orders (me, should that not be clear). As it turns out though, my choices were outstanding:

• Spicy grilled lamb chops – miniature mouthfuls of succulent, juicy meat, dripping with a biting, spicy sauce. An excellent appetite whetter. Although, frankly speaking, it would be a restrained restaurant-goer whose appetite wasn’t already whetted by the sights and smells of dishes gliding past.
• Lamb & Lentil curry – what was so brilliant about this, in comparison to most curries I’ve eaten before, is that the lamb was in modest, bite-sized pieces, rather than great big walloping hunks (most offputting). Tender meat surrounded by more-ish, comforting daal (lentils), with a gentle kick to it which nudges you out of getting dangerously comfortable. A real spirit-lifter of a dish.
• Aubergine & Lentil – you’d expect this just to be a variation on the above, substituting the lamb out for the aubergine, but let me assure you that this wasn’t at all the case. Still with the same ‘gwon-gizza-hug’ element of lentils, threaded through with melting strips of garlicky aubergine. Aubergine, when slowly cooked, has a remarkable ability to absorb smoky flavours which surround it. This dish packed a serious garlic punch, yet another mechanism which made each diner reach back again and again for ‘just another spoonful’ (I was mortified when, at the end of the meal, I realized that for quite some minutes our waiter had been patiently waiting to remove our dishes, only waiting the vulture to finish her scavaging. Ahem.)
• Saag Aloo – soft, delicate green spinach, tender, garlic infused potatoes. Together. Seriously, what more could you want from a dish? This particular dish has the potential to become heavy and leaden. Tayyabs’ rendition was light as a feather, and not too filling.
  

The ideal amount between three, generous but not overly so. The meal was rounded off perfectly with a mango, pistachio or yoghurt ice-lolly. We agreed collectively that this was just what our over-spiced mouths were in need of. As a difficult to please critic, this ‘un gets all my rarely allocated curry points.

Go. Go, go, go! You won't regret it.

London a la Lex: Part III

Saturday night continued…

For effect, I would normally say that we rolled out of the restaurant groaning and rubbing our bellies, but I would be lying…the main beautiful thing about eating high quality food and savouring it, is that I find you eat slower, you digest better, and all in all you don’t have that awful feeling of ‘being stuffed’ post nosh. So we could continue our night tout suite!

The poor lad was thus dragged across London to Notting Hill and a ‘good old British pub’, to meet two of my best girlfriends, and be subjected to a torrent of girly gossip and giggles. Sorry Chef. The pub though was perfect, with Alice in Wonderland tiny doorways, allowing him the chance of experiencing British ale. When wondering aloud why the ale was so warm he was informed by the Catholic priest (!?) sitting near us that it was ‘cellar temperature’ so that you could better get the flavour of the beer. I think the American was unconvinced, in spite of the fact that the news came on religious authority.

All in all, a thoroughly British day out.

Sunday

What better way to spend a Sunday than to lounge in fuggy warmth for an entire afternoon with friends, being fed dish after dish of wonderful food. The ideal excuse as well, to showcase yet another brilliantly British brainwave: The Gastropub.

Or, to be more specific the Anchor & Hope in Waterloo. The spawn of our previous night’s feasting, St John, in a flash of wisdom I pre-booked our Sunday lunch, as it is apparently the only day possible to book at A&H, which otherwise experiences hours and hours of queues. We arrived at 12.30, already hungry from a brisk walk along the Thames, and our appetite was curbed with some delightful little crispy tantalisers, anchovy paste, pate and some fresh herb concoction. Nevertheless, by the time the rest of my amigos had arrived and lunch finally commenced at gone 2pm, it is fairly safe to say the group was like a group of thin, mangy lions waiting wild-eyed to pounce on the next passerby.

Thankfully we didn’t need to resort to pack hunting, as our waitress finally approached our table bearing the first of the day’s spoils. We ate our way through a simple yet savoury menu, frolicking joyfully from one dish to the next:

• Mussels, Cod and Saffron soup – I’m terribly fussy about my soups, as we’re all well aware, but this one, this one passed the stringent interview tests. I could almost hear the soup breathe a sigh of relief as I voiced my approval, and proceeded to revel in its rich flavours. It was creamy, thick and just filling enough to withstand the (leisurely) wait between soup and main, chunky pieces of cod and a generous dose of mussels cavorted playfully together.

• Braised Ox Cheek with buttered new potatoes and fresh horseradish – one of those occasions when I didn’t quite know what to expect from what I read on the menu, but I managed to glean some clues from our neighbouring tables. It all looked very promising indeed. All hands went eagerly and immediately on deck to clear our table and make way for the descent of an entire dark grey Le Creuset casserole. One of our table (probably, me if I'm completely honest) couldn’t bear the suspense, and grabbed the lid to open it with a flourish. All that was lacking was a drum roll and an applause, as a fragrant steam exploded jubilantly forth. It cleared like a dramatic mist to reveal a huge chunks of what were obviously the mysterious ox cheeks, in a dark, chestnut brown sauce. We tucked in. It was a novelty, this dark, succulent and exquisitely tender meat which wobbled obesely in its cloak of fat and turnip and carrot sauce. Its sidekicks were equally delightful, but in their simplicity rather than their decadence: a gangful of glossy potatoes slick with butter and cocky with their fresh parsley freckles. But it was a small, unobtrusive pot which added the finishing touch: a sneeze-inducing, eye-watering fresh horseradish sauce, made up with a tart crème fraiche.

• Watercress, St Tola and Pear – crunchy, fresh, bitter watercress; sour sweet smooth goat’s cheese and juicy slivers of pear. What better way to lift the palate post-ox?!

• Little Chocolate Pot – It was the perfect end to a perfect relationship. Hand me chocolate and it is almost like guaranteeing my undying affections. There was a collective sigh of bliss round the table. I was silent for a full two and a half minutes. Absorb the sheer magnitude of this. And it can’t have been entirely unrelated to its Lex-quietening properties that this little cuddle-in-a-pot earned even more brownie (‘scuse the pun) points from its adoring fans. Tiny and potent, a little jar of just-liquid chocolate with caramel overtones and a slightly toasted honeycomb aftertaste was topped with a thin slug of single cream, laughing in the face of any recommended daily calorie intake. It really was heavenly. Hands down the best (and no doubt one of the simplest) puds I've ever eaten that I've not cooked myself.

This time we really did roll out of the pub, like six tottering bowling pins, very late afternoon, for a much needed post-lunch walk along the South Bank to watch the sun set. London at its best.

London a la Lex: St John Restaurant

I could barely restrain my excitement as we hopped off the tube at Farringdon on our way to St John restaurant. The restaurant is renowned throughout the land as the place to go for all that is carnivorous, and especially those bits that the butcher doesn’t waste: so the menu consists of game and gizzards, basically. I've wanted to visit for years and now finally, the perfect food 'date' and yet another opportunity to show the American some very British cuisine (more British than I had ever eaten before myself in fact).  My over-eager stomach propelled us to arrive even earlier, at 6pm, than our already obscenely early booking of 6.30pm. Well, you know what they say – the early bird gets the chitterling…

The restaurant and I immediately clicked, as the waiter didn’t bat an eyelid at my slightly cheeky request of being seated early (I appealed to his human side and told him I was ‘absolutely starving’. He smiled, obviously used to dealing with ravenous loons, and showed us to our table.) Needless to say, we were the first seated in the gloriously no-fuss, industrial white dining room, on a table for two. Which wobbled. Yet another love affair commenced as our lovely Swedish waitress waltzed across to deal with the wobble, bearing chopped cork pieces to wedge underneath.

Sitting pretty, ready and raring to go, and flexing my tummy muscles at the prospect of the meat mania ahead, we eagerly scanned the paper menu. I was not disappointed, and was immediately thrown into what I call ‘The Diner's Dilemma’. i.e. I wanted to try absolutely every single thing on the menu.

Not to worry, said Chef, we’ll share some starters, then you can have a bit of a taste of a few things. (He knows me so well). There were numerous weird and wonderful dishes on the menu that I had not experienced or indeed heard of before, and I was anxious to clarify. So it was in the hopes of further polishing my food education that I asked our tall, gauche and terribly sardonic ‘water waiter’ ‘What are sprats?’. He was an amusing and peculiar mixture of the guy that croaks ‘yaaarrp’ in the movie Hot Fuzz and Farmer Bean from Roald Dahl’s Fantastic Mr Fox. He didn’t disappoint in living up to these descriptions when he grunted as explanation ‘fish’. Why thank you sir, that is so much clearer. Sold to the lady on the wobbly chair. Not.

Instead we went for three starters, which were positively heartstopping in their gloriousness. These were:

• Roast Marrow with parsley salad – a classic and well-known St John dish which I wanted to experience for myself. Four chunks of bone several inches long served upright on the plate, roasted and filled to brimming with their pleasurably guilty jelly-like insides. The spoonfuls of, let’s face it, fat, are whittled out of the bone, using a lobster pick, and spread on crisped, oiled sourdough bread, and topped with a crunch of sea salt. The marrow takes me right back to eating dinner with my grandad who, being a war kid, passed the lesson of ‘eating everything on one’s plate’ onto me. I blame him for my voracious eating – and slurping marrow from bones was one of our favourite joint activities! I realise I may have been a somewhat strange child... The heady richness of the marrow however is beautifully cut through by the sharp parsley salad - crunchy bitter flat parsley, finely diced shallots, capers and a biting lemon dressing. One word: scrumptious.

• Halibut, potatoes and aioli – a creamy, sumptuous fish salad. The simplicity of the dish is key, as in combination its ingredients have the potential to be overly heavy. Not this ‘un. No siree. Tender white chunks of steamed halibut mingle with new potatoes, in a light garlic, crème fraiche aioli. Whisps of rocket tease and flit whimsically throughout, like young ballet dancers in a serious ballet, lending nuttiness to the ensemble; a few artfully placed capers tweak at the end of a mouthful, balancing the creaminess of the dish. Unexpectedly good (I confess when the boy chose this I was secretly unconvinced – but all credit to him it was tasty).

• Grilled Puffball with green sauce – this was one of those points at which dining out with an experienced Chef was really useful. These guys are just so practical. Which was good as my dreamy, impractical side emerged upon tasting the first mouthful of this dish and I was, quite literally, rendered speechless. For a few seconds. Oh goodness, this was unreal. I couldn’t come up with words. I had never eaten puffball before, and I had no idea it was going to be so good. I’d seen them, these ballooning marshmallow mushrooms, both growing wild in fields and for sale at Borough Market. Being a firm advocate of quality over quantity, I was astounded that something the size of a large football can retain such an intensely pungent and earthy taste of rehydrated funghi. The boy brought me back to earth with his culinary knowledge. According to him, the half-inch thick slice of ‘shroom had been coated either side with melted butter, then grilled – hence the mesh of seared flesh across the light grey-white. The verdant sauce it was served with was an exuberant burst of fresh herbs: an intense blend of parsley, caper, lemon and fennel fronds. I had an adventure playground going on in my mouth.
  

I’ve ranted long enough about the starters but it is safe to say that, in spite of the delightful mains which followed, it is the starters which will forever remain hallowed in my memory. I think the joy radiating from my face was only too apparent to the rest of the world passing by my table, and even Mick Hucknell (from Simply Red) did a double take when he saw me, and went to take his place at his own table behind me. ‘I’ll have what she’s having’, I heard him say to the waitress when she came to take his order.*

And so to mains.

Chef chose Roast Lamb with white beans, and then suffered dinner envy as my perfectly petite package of Teal with Turnips (don’t worry, I didn’t know what Teal was either – it is a wild duck) paraded in front of me. He was being silly – the lamb was moist, tender and juicy pink, and the beans a comforting side. But I confess I did prefer my Teal, which was gamey rich. Being so small it requires a mere flash at the flame, to avoid drying out, which meant that as I cut in, blood spurted into the jus. Not one for the faint hearted!  The turnips were cooked to butter-like tenderness, alongside whole shallots and sinful entire garlic cloves. I ate the lot, mopping the sauce up with the green tops we’d ordered on the side and muttering incoherent appreciation.

St John and I parted company a little like reluctant lovers. I know the restaurant feels the same way about me – it can’t wait to wrap me in its comforting arms and whisper sweet nothings into my ear again…’smoked eel…pheasant pie…venison offal…’ it will say. ‘Ok, I’ll do whatever you want’, I will whisper back helplessly, head over heels. I only hope we meet again soon, and I've already planned how. Half way through our meal an awed silence descended upon the by now bustling dining room. A waiter walked through, carrying aloft an entire roast suckling pig, fit for a feast and a meal for a party of sixteen or more. Watch this space, my darling St John, I'll be back.



*well, not really, but allow me a little poetic licence would you?!

London a la Lex: Part II

Saturday Morning

Frankly, London was showing off this weekend. The day broke with unashamedly glorious sunshine, almost as if the city were saying ‘right, I’m darned if another American is going to head home thinking England is gloomy, let’s put on a jolly good show’. Which meant that the whole city was out basking in the rays and chilling with cold beers, with the crowds unusually cheerful for Brits. Lucky Chef.

I can be a fairly hard tourist taskmaster, but honestly, it is purely with their best interests in mind. I’m not the sort to drag a visitor to the Tower of London, or the London Eye (yawn), but instead want them to experience some of my favourite bits of the city, which just happen to centre around the importance of some item of food or drink in hand.

With this in mind, we set off as early as was decent along the South Bank to Borough Market, arriving at 11am, and just, just in time to avoid that point at which BM becomes a seething mass of food tourists, and therefore unmoveable (/unbearable). I wasted no time in injecting Chef with a serious dose of caffeine - outstandingly good coffee from the Monmouth Coffee Company, where the mere aroma of ground beans instantly perk a tired/jetlagged/hungover (delete as appropriate) soul up. Chef chose a delightful Indonesian bean from Sumatra. I took a few sips (I’m laying off the caffeine temporarily) and I have to say it lived up to its reputation: earthy, potent, rich and roasted, and without the cloying bitter aftertaste I find I get from most coffees. Served also, I might add, in a very decent sized, small cup. Quality over quantity every day.

We lost track of time as we wandered in a state of bliss around the different market stalls, stroking beautiful glossy tomatoes, and eying up pies at Pieminister, the vast array of cheeses at Neal's Yard Dairy, olives, pasties, apples, and indulging in the various tasters that are strategically scattered about.

Borough Market is without doubt one of my favourite world markets, and I particularly showing it off to unsuspecting tourists, because of the sheer hum and buzz of energy in the air. Laughter and jokes mingle with mouthwatering wafts of baked bread, heady fumes of mulled wine and the earthy smell of mushrooms. Shopkeepers selling their carefully crafted wares – whether smooth, silky cheese or great hunks of dark chocolate, rich, spicy sausages or meaty British pies – are deep in conversation with eager customers, each party gesticulating wildly, facial expressions bursting with the excitement of potential. I find the passion in these interchanges completely contagious, and I never fail to leave without a big grin on my face (and generally a bellyful of tasters). However, keeping in mind our various eating ‘dates’ later on that day, we resisted spoiling our appetites and opted instead for one single indulgence: a scandalously good cranberry brownie from Konditor & Cook - exquisitely moist, ever-so-slightly tart, and smoothly sweet chocolatey goodness, savoured with eyes shut. A must for any brownie fiend.

Saturday Lunch

Dragging ourselves away from the market, we hitched a ride up to Spitalfields on a real live gen-ew-ine London bus, heading straight for one of the many ‘typically British’ meals on my weekend menu: Sausage & Mash (aka S&M). Cor blimey but it’s good. We had walked up an appetite and the juicy, meaty sausages with creamy mash (me) and a delightful bubble and squeak (him) with very British gravy (i.e. slightly gloopy), were the ideal antidote to a growling belly. All topped off with very hot English mustard and served up in a classic London diner. Nice guv.

Saturday Afternoon

Thank goodness we stocked up on the calories, as the afternoon was a whirlwind of walking. I have no doubt that this will have come as a bit of a shock to an American, but he kept up with barely a peep of complaint! We window shopped around the kooky nooks and crannies of Spitalfields, wandering up into eclectic Brick Lane where we stopped at yet another favourite – Cha Lounge (halfway up BL on the left) – for some digestive aid in the shape of Peppermint Tea. Ooh La. People watching a-plenty, so we were able to sit back and relax for a bit, catching our breath before…

The Horrors of Oxford Circus – ugh, let’s not even talk about this atrocity. On to…

Carnaby Street – well, it’s gotta be done, right? Give him a bit of the ol’ 60s swingin' history.

Through the Soho sex shops and onto Old Compton Street where, as per usual on a beautiful sunny day, the streets were lined with gorgeous gay men showing off their buff biceps. Good meandering, and perfect connection to…

…Covent Garden…Trafalgar Square…St James’s Park…and…a much needed REST! Ready for dinner.

London a la Lex: Part I

What better combination than food and love? Anyone who’s read my previous entries will know about my perfect food find: my very own Chef.

He popped over to London for a spontaneous weekend away from the States, and for his first visit to the UK. A very exciting event for many reasons, not least because I intended to set about proving to him what a culinary adventure London can be for one in the know. I spent a week in furious planning mode, conjuring up food memories of one of my favourite cities from the peace and quiet of the country, and concocting the perfect recipe for London a la Lex. I threw in a handful of food markets, a few romantic walks, my favourite London view, half a dozen ‘very British’ meals, and some friends, for seasoning.

The resulting food fest can only be digested in chunks, and so I will break it down for you, to allow you to savour the flavour.

Bon Appetit mon cheri!

Friday
Ready and raring for a weekend in the city, I headed up to London from t' countryside.

7pm - Emotional Reunion as Chef and I are reunited at Heathrow following a month's separation. I do not waste a single chance to start impressing upon him how great Britain is, and thrust M&S's finest, and two of my particular faves - Percy Pigs and Grape & Raspberry juice carton - into Chef's travel-weary paws.

First London tube ride straight into Central London for Fish & Chips at my favourite: Seafresh in Pimlico. A bright and breezy, cheerful place which sells the best F&C I have ever tasted. The American (who normally doesn't like fried foods) was bowled over. A beautifully fresh, crispy golden batter jacket lovingly encased equally fresh white fish, steamed to perfection inside, and flaking obligingly at the touch of an inquisitive fork. The accompanying chips are satisfying and chunky, just crisp on the outside, soft and tender inside, and smothered with indecent quantities of the obligatory salt and vinegar. Mushy peas complete the picture, naturally. Green, minty and filling comfort food.

Chef was already loving London. I had barely begun...