CINNAMON KITCHEN: FLOCKLESS IN THE CITY

Why is the design of new wave of Indian restaurants so hard-edged ? Is there really no way back for flock ? And why do some gaffs have ceilings that look like they haven’t been finished. Just some of my random musing as I sat in the hangar-like space of the Cinnamon Kitchen, the City offshoot of Cinnamon Club in Westminster. It’s an awkward space where even when full and buzzing you’d still not feel completely comfortable in. The service too was still finding its feet, being a bit overenthusiastic about the upselling and not completely clued up about Indian food. Well, they were French. Everyone was friendly enough though (as they should be to somebody looking to spend money).

Not that the food wasn’t good. Overseen by exec chef Vivek Singh it was mostly tasty gear, prepared with a light touch. Only problem was it was all just a bit polite and didn’t have that sense of generosity that you’d want or expect with Subcontinental food. There is the fundamental problem underlying much of this type of modern Indian cookery. Trying to mould it into a sort of European style makes it feels forced and the results never seem quite right. Well, they don’t to me, but then again I am half Bengali and consequently have an opinion on everything.

Take the Tandoori Chicken. It was nicely cooked: moist, tasty and accompanied by what came across like an Indian version of Ensalada Rusa. But your £7.50 gets you just three small mouthfuls. Fine by me if the dish were complex and multi-layered or part of a tasting menu but as a starter ?

The Lamb appetiser brought a bit more interest to the meal. There was a fiery Sheekh Kebab – well, about a third of one – a nice little Shami Kebab and a tasty little Yoghurt cake. But again it was little more than a few minutes distraction. Fat Chilli with spiced Paneer was the most disappointing dish. The filling was too homogenised in taste but the accompanying spiced Labneh was really rather good.

A main course of seared Haddock with Devon Crab was more European in style. The fish was excellent and cooked accurately. It lay on good basmati rice in a light sauce. Perfectly acceptable if tending a little to blandness. Some more assertive spicing might have been an improvement.

An accompanying Dhal also suffered from reticent spicing but the breads were pretty good although I’d love to see what sort of markup there is on three small halves of Naan which priced at a fiver,

Luckily, the restaurant makes fresh ice cream every day so I didn’t have to find out what an Indian Banana Tart Tatin is. The ice creams weren’t bad either although the Saffron left me with a taste of that spice for some time after. Cinnamon was the best, naturally.

Despite wanting a more leisurely dining experience I was in and out in just over an hour. I suspect though that this is will suit the Investment Bankers, who will probably make up the majority of the clientele, and allow them to have the Set Menu Lunch (which at £15 for 2 courses and £18 for 3 seems to be the better deal) and still get them back at their desks quicker than you can say “Statutory Redundancy Package”. Which is some sort of bonus in these torrid times even if they aren’t getting a real one.

EAT MY GLOBE: TAKING THE BOOKTRADE ON A BINGE

And so it begins.

Although EAT MY GLOBE is not published in the U.K until April of next year, the sell in has begun in earnest and my publishers, John Murray suggested that a good way to show the book trade what it was all about would be to take selected members on an afternoon food tour.

So, on a cold, windy and miserable Friday, I met with a gaggle of assorted buyers and trade journalists for a swift pint at The Market Porter before taking them on a whirlwind tour of some of my favourite places.

The pub served a shockingly bad pint, but made a great meeting place particularly as our first port of call was Mrs King’s Pork Pies where the estimable Ian Hartland gave us a little talk before cutting up a prime large example for everyone to try all the while making sure that real customers were not neglected.

Next stop, around the corner, where the good people of Brindisa had arranged for Master Jamon Carver, Zak to give us a demonstration of fine art of ham cutting before he too distributed fine slices of Teruel and Iberico for our eager group to taste.

If everyone had been eagerly anticipating the first two stops, the next caused a little more concern as we hopped in some waiting cars and trundled off to Aldgate East and Tubby Issac’s Whelk and Jellied Eel Stall, which has been on the same spot for a hundred years or more. It was a first taste of old London for most, but they were all very brave soldiers as I doused bowls of cockles, whelks and, of course, eels with extra special, extra hot chilli vinegar and handed them around for everyone to try. Wonderful stuff although a shame to think with all the parking restrictions in that area now, the owner was doubtful about the long term future of the stall.

There is no doubt, however, that Paul A.Young has a very bright future and, although Paul himself could not be there for our visit, his Managers, Jakob and Brendan looked after us when we bustled in from a blustery Camden Passage and were soon giving us tastes of a rich brownie and handing over little goodie bags that Paul had asked them to make up. We took the opportunity to buy everyone a cup of Paul’s superlative hot chocolate before climbing back into our cars for perhaps the most unusual stop of the day.

I have written about Memhet at Embassy Electrical Supplies before, but now was the perfect time to visit as he has just taken delivery of some of his wonderful olive oil. On top of which he now has a new range of infused oils, some paprika dried in the Sun on the terraces his Cyprus estate and stunning wild oregano from his farm. As ever, Memhet was soon ladling out tastes of oil and olives and everyone was filling their John Murray shoulder bags with ideal Christmas Presents.

All this eating is thirsty work, so our penultimate port of call saw a quick stop at Hawksmoor where Nick Strangeway had created a special EAT MY GLOBE cocktail containing Compass Box Oak Cross Whisky, Jostberry Cordial and Palo Cortado Sherry. Very good it was too thanks to Tim and Noal who did the mixing and, with an added round of Martinis and a few plates of Iberico which we had picked up at Brindisa, it fortified us for the short walk to our final destination.

Where else could we finish a tour of this part of London than Tayyabs? It was, of course, already mobbed when we arrived, but we were shown to the private room and plates of sizzling lamb chops were put in front of us almost before our coats were off. As good as ever and as the food came, I took the opportunity to propose a toast to my new chums and to all the amazing and astonishingly generous old chums who had been so giving of their time and products to make the day such a success.

Thanks All.

THE WOLSELEY: IN SERIOUS NEED OF A SERVICE

A little over two years ago I was admonished by an early adopter of the blog for a glowing review I to gave a morning meal at The Wolseley. I had enjoyed a splendid breakfast and both service and food were up to the same standards as my previous four visits. I took his highly technical description of the current state of the food as “shit” with a shovel full of salt, but had no great inclination to fork over a fistful of my hard-earned to see if his views on their evening offerings carried any merit.

Move on to 2008 and I found myself seated at a lousy table feeling like a gatecrasher at a party to which I had not been invited. If my critic had not enjoyed the food in 2006, he would have extruded baby cats at the quality and cost of our meal last night.

On the surface, everything appeared as it was. The door was opened with a courteous welcome by a liveried doorman (I am still a sucker for that) the meet and greet was handled promptly and with charm and I could even put up with being seated at a poor table because it created cover for me to sneak the hastily snapped shots that illustrate our evening.

The menu too remained unchanged filled with the classics that had gladdened my heart on previous visits. By the time HP arrived and settled down with a glass of house white, my choices had already been made and it didn’t take him long to catch up.

It also didn’t take us long to catch on that all was no longer well with The Wolseley kitchen wise. A plate of deep-fried whitebait came, not as they should, in crisp, individual morsels, but in one great fishy pancake where poor frying had left the batter soft and oily enough to leave a greasy slick on the plate. To add spice, the fish had been sprinkled liberally with powerful paprika, which would have been better suited to season the batter. Quite nasty.

HP’s Tartine au Pied du Porc met with more approval, but was still a listless example of a potentially great dish, further dragged down by a dirty puddle of jus on the plate.

Main courses too showed how far standards had slipped since my last evening meal here. The Wiener Schnitzel Holstein had, on previous visits, been top of the tree, a crisp crumb protecting the veal, which had already taken enough battering, the egg on top cooked perfectly and the anchovies adding the pre-requisite savoury edge. Now, I was presented with £19.50 worth of grease that made me wonder if anyone looked over the plate before service. Any chef with a basic knowledge of short order cooking would have sent this travesty back with a snarl to make El Gordo wince. The coating slimed off the meat as I tried to cut into it and after taking a few bites and mopping up the egg with some tough chips, I pushed it aside.

HP’s Barnsley chop was if possible even worse and “pink” became “raw” as he struggled to find anything positive to say about the hunk of meat on his plate. Even the decent ribbon of fat along the edge did not appear to have been exposed to any source of heat.

As I headed off to the bathroom, HP had that all too familiar look of consumer crusader in his eyes and, by the time I had returned, our plates had been cleared and one of the captains was offering us a free dessert. If I tell you that the only thing to commend the two coups that came our way as recompense was that they did not cost anything, it should merely confirm what a dispiriting experience the whole meal was.

We had been told in no uncertain terms that we had the table for two hours, but with service primed for table turning, found ourselves out in the cold chill of Piccadilly a little over an hour after we arrived, £85 the poorer and wondering if Corbin and King know or care just how poor their flagship has become. It remains I believe the highest grossing restaurant in London, so I suspect if they do know, they don’t care.

In the meantime if Simon Darwell-Taylor is still reading along, I apologise. I don’t know if you were right then, I suspect you may well have been, but you are certainly right now.

The Wolsely is “shit”

PAUL A. YOUNG: MAKING CHOCOLATE WITH A MASTER

Yesterday was the second anniversary of the day I came home, sat down on my sofa and decided I had enough of my old life and began the journey, which became EAT MY GLOBE. I had just returned from The Frankfurt Book Fair and was up to my eyeballs in the chaos of an imploding company. Forty was a distant vision in the rear view mirror and I was as mad as Hell and really was not going to take it any more.

Move on two years and the same date saw me continuing to live the dream of seeking out and writing about the best food in the world. This time not in the far flung corners of the globe but in nearby Islington where master chocolate maker, Paul.A.Young had been kind enough to invite me and my chum, William to spend a morning with him up to our elbows in something brown from Ecuador.

In the two and a half years since his shop in Camden Passage opened, Paul has added to a reputation for excellence gained during six years as pastry chef to Marco Pierre White. He has another shop at The Royal Exchange and plans to open more and with a trip to visit cocoa plantations only days away, he is a busy man. The fact he was prepared to spend three hours with the likes of us is more a testament to his generosity than to our charms.

After the pre-requisite cup of tea and a slurp of his splendid hot chocolate, we donned aprons while Paul took us through the making of a chocolate ganache. But first, before we got our hands dirty, Paul gave us a chocolate tasting of some of the twenty-five different varieties he uses in his collection, from 62% with fruity notes of cherry and dried fruits to a 100% which coated the mouth. Each of Paul’s creations can use a blend of up to four different varieties.

Paul’s recipe for ganache is a simple one

500gms cream
500gms chocolate (we chose a 64% from, I think, the Dominican Republic)
150gms light muscavado sugar

We combined the sugar and the cream and sugar and scorched before mixing quickly into the chocolate, being sure not to create air bubbles, which can make the end result go mouldy and then decanted into a baking tray to cool.

While that was going on, Paul showed us how to temper chocolate on a cold marble slab, a process of cooling melted chocolate down quickly so it forms a nice glossy sheen and snaps when broken. As you can see from the film, Paul makes it look easy, but our own attempts were not quite so successful, and fortunately not caught on camera. Paul suggested that, at home, one way to achieve the same result is to melt two thirds of the required amount of chocolate and then add in the rest at a later stage to bring down the temperature.

When we turned our attention back to the ganache it was perfect for making truffles. Donning the sort of gloves that make men weep when Doctors put them on, we rolled small balls of chocolate in cocoa powder (Paul recommends Fair Trade or Green & Blacks cocoa if you are making them at home) and then dipped into tempered melted chocolate before passing through the cocoa one more time and allowing to set once again. The above amounts made well over thirty splendid examples of the truffler’s art and we moved upstairs to the shop, where Paul helped us pack them with the same attention to detail with which he does everything else.

“Perfect little Christmas presents for less than £20 worth of ingredients” Paul said as he saw us off the premises, making sure to lock the door to prevent our return, and he is right, they were easy to make even if they compared unfavourably to the fine examples in his shop.

Well worth a try and a great way to spend a morning that only two years ago I could only have dreamed about.

KIPFERL: A SMITHFIELD SAUSAGE

A swift lunch today after a spending a splendid morning making chocolate under the tutelage of master chocolate maker, Paul A. Young in Islington.

It was my new chum, excellent food writer, William Leigh who told me that there was “this new Nordic place near Smithfield market doing hot dogs” which got me excited, particularly as one of the favourite snacks during my journey was at Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur, a hot dog stand in Reykjavik.

Well, he was only slightly out. Kipferl is in Smithfield, but is Austrian, has been around for five years and doesn’t serve hot dog sausages but Teutonic wurst. Still, I can forgive him, because I have been walking past this place for as long as it has been opened and never stepped inside, which means I have been missing out on a very decent lunch option.

Our “Kipferl Special” to which we added an extra debreziner sausage came with three salads of cucumber, beets and potatoes with the inevitable slice of rye bread and for £7 provided a filling lunch to take the edge of the jitters caused by a morning spent sampling so much chocolate.

Now, I just need someone to tell me where I can find a real Nordic hot dog. Any ideas?

CORRIGAN'S: BRINGING HIS "A" GAME TO THE GROSVENOR

Be Any Good. You might think this would be the credo underlying The Dos Hermanos Philosophy of Restaurants™. Close, but no banana, my friend. Just Give A Damn would be a lot more accurate.

We’ve been to plenty of restaurants where the food has been objectively good but the atmosphere and welcome have been sticks-up-their-arses frosty. Conversely, there are many places where Michelin may not be visiting any time soon but, goddammit, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be right at that moment.

Even if the food at Corrigan’s, the eponymously named Mayfair restaurant wasn’t all that I’d still be inclined to like the place. How could I not ? The welcome and service was friendly: from the young lady serving me who wanted to bring me the excellent Soda Bread all through the meal, through to the sommelier who insisted on a little vertical tasting of artisanal grappas. The room is great too: very comfortable, lit just right and crucially, no music. Despite this being their first day of business (after a soft opening week) things appeared to be running as if they had been open for years. Always a good sign.

Fortunately, the food’s terrific too. The menu had me groaning with pleasure – not a nice sound, believe me – but then you don’t see dishes like Game Broth with Livers on Toast or Fried Chorizo, Fennel and Apple or a Salad of Game with Romesco Sauce every day. My starter was beyond workaday too, for in amongst the beautifully briny Colchester Native Oysters and sweet raw Clams was a comped dish of a Cerviche of Razor Clams: a lovely, zingy way to prepare that much underused bivalve.

There was more evidence of deft preparation with terrific ingredients in some slices of sweetly porky suckling pig sausages that were topped by a lightly cooked oyster and some slivers of crisp lamb tongue.

My long position on pork was entrenched with Crubeens: brined Pigs Trotters which had been shredded, coated in panko and deep fried to give a sort of Irish take on the croqueta. As a nod to the Iberian Peninsula and just in case you felt a little pork lite, there were some slices of Jamón from Jabugo draped over the top. A little relish of Horseradish and Beetroot provided the contrast to all that porcine richness.

The menu is game heavy, and why not when it’s one of the best food products from these isles. My benchmark for Venison had up until now been the excellent stuff at the Pot Kiln but the rack of Venison special at Corrigan’s was even better: seared on the outside and a beautifully rich red colour within, the meat also had that perfect gaminess which provides a complexity of taste that raises it above the level of just another hunk of protein.

On the side, and possibly one of the most indulgent yet delicious accompaniments you are likely to get in any restaurant, anywhere, was a small cottage pie which had been made with an oh-so-rich mixture of Venison meat and its offal. Believe me if it was any better it would be illegal.

That cottage pie should have been enough to finish me off but despite my advancing years I’m still an Hermano and somewhere North of abstemiousness but South of piggery lay the Lime and Cheese Souffle. A lot of places can’t really make this dish but happily for me Corrigan’s have a master Souffle maker in residence. It was supermodel light with none of that claggy egginess that afflicts lesser specimens. A light marscapone sauce, which added a bit of richness, was poured into the centre. A small scoop of Marscapone ice cream and an extra one of Sauternes (well if you don’t ask, you don’t get) book ended the Souffle.

What else ? Well, there were some good nibbles beforehand of cheesy, crispy things and olives that had been stuffed with goat’s cheese, bread crumbed and deep-fried (how could I have forgotten). Wine is usefully available by the carafe (250 or 500ml) and the staff will happily doggy bag your PFs in foil if you’ve been a fat bastard diner. Oh, and I’m definitely going back.

CASA BRINDISA: TOP TAPAS IN SOUTH KEN

DH's niece is six years old today, bless her.

When we called her to wish her many happy returns, I explained that her present would not arrive until I headed up North next week, as it was too big to post. There was short silence before a small voice on the other end of the line piped up.

“Is it a whole leg of ham?”

I have seldom been more proud and it is proof, if any were needed, that the apples in our family seldom fall very far from the tree. As reward for her good taste, I shall add a little extra gift to her goodie bag, a packet of Joselito Gran Reserva from the recent tasting organised by Brindisa. I will, of course, have to oversee the eating of said Jamon as matters of such import cannot be left solely in the hands of a six year old.

Thinking of matters Brindisa, it is barely a month ago when HP called to say he was enjoying a terrific meal at Tierra Brindisa in SOHO and, on Thursday, I found that they had just rolled out yet one more place, this time in South Kensington, within spitting distance of The Victoria & Albert Museum. Quite why you would want to spit at The Victoria & Albert Museum, I am not sure.

“Damn you and your exhibition of Victorian corsetry, damn you to Hell”

DH, of course, had to give the new place a try and arrived for our reservation to be shown to a splendid table overlooking the bustling kitchen. The locals, including a significant number of Spanish ex-pats, had got wind of the new opening and, despite the fact it is twice the size of the other two branches, it was already filled to capacity with noisy diners.

Thoughts that Brindisa may just be stretching themselves too thin were dispelled with the arrival of some Marcona almonds and Gordal olives stuffed with orange and marjoram, which we sucked on while looking at the menu. Each branch has its own little twists, but we started as we would in Spain, with an assorted plate of pig related products, this time of the Teruel denomination. They displayed the obvious advantages Brindisa has over other Spanish restaurants in London, in that not only are they preparing the food, they are also sourcing and buying it for themselves and others. It means that the ingredients are never less than primo and, while Teruel piggies are the equivalent of flat cap wearing Northerners to their Extremaduran aristocratic cousins, they still know how to put on a pleasing show, the lomo in particular gaining appreciative moans from HP.

The simple croqueta is the yardstick by which DH judge all Spanish restaurants and, at Casa Brindisa, the frying is fresh and greaseless and the filling is creamy and studded with little nuggets of Jamon. As good as any we have tried. Equally good was the restaurant version of the sandwich, which has punters queuing for an eternity at Borough Market with slices of fiery chorizo layered with sweet peppers on toasted bread, the sausage alone worth standing in line for.

Two main course dishes followed. The foie on top of a mound of lentils had been cooked perfectly with a slight salty crunch on the outside giving way to a blubbery melting inside. While the lentils had been overcooked a little until they had become mushy, the idea of spiking them with a Pedro Ximinez vinegar to cut through the fat was a good one. They just need to get the timing right.

An Iberican pork loin, on the other hand had been prepared correctly to medium, but had not been allowed to rest sufficiently so the bloody juices began to leach onto the serving plate. This bothered DH not a jot and we decanted them into a small bowl of olive oil mash that came with the meat, but I can imagine some balking at this particularly in a dish costing £15 a pop. A matter of timing, but a small quibble for a lovely piece of pig.

One of HP’s favourite dishes from Tapas Brindisa is a slab of deep fried Monte Enebro goat’s cheese drizzled with orange blossom honey. I had never tried it, but could understand the appeal although by now I was beginning to develop some slightly unnerving beads of sweat on my brow from the amount of food that was working its way through my system.

However, just as women seem to have the “second stomach” to call on specifically when desserts are on offer, DH too can discover extra capacity when needed and it was welcome now as we saw a plate of piping hot croquetas delivered to a neighbouring table. It just had to be done, they really are that good and our pudding order came in deep fried, creamy, ham studded form to create a perfect if slightly alarming ending to the meal.

It’s not cheap, good ingredients seldom are, but on this early showing £70, including a beer for HP and a 12.5% charge for efficient and friendly service, seems like reasonable value for money, particularly in a part of town that is a bit of a barren wasteland for decent dining options. Casa Brindisa is very good indeed maybe even good enough for a six year old little girl on her next visit to London.

When you are talking about one of DH’s nearest and dearest, that is very high praise indeed.

LAUNCESTON PLACE: A LUNCHTIME BARGAIN

Quite often, I receive e-mails from friends asking me to recommend the ‘best bargain” in London and, just as often, I receive a quizzical reply to my response that it is lunch at Le Gavroche, one of London’s oldest temples to fine dining, rather than one of our ethnic eateries.

It may seem odd to recommend a meal costing just shy of £50 as a “bargain” but it truly is one of the best opportunities to experience one of the great restaurants, with that price covering everything from the moment you enter the door to the moment you leave filled with three courses of wonderful cooking and cosseted by the legendary service.

The set lunch at high-end restaurants is one of London’s undiscovered treasures and also a way to secure a spot at some of the hardest to book tables in town. So, when my good chum, Nick asked me to suggest a place for lunch, my thoughts turned to Launceston Place, recommended to me by a number of people for its daytime menu of three courses for £18.

The restaurant itself needed no introduction. During my years at Penguin Books, it was an all too regular haunt when schmoozing clients. The food was “polite” as HP calls it, rather than memorable and service was charming and discreet, which it needed to be given that Princess Diana was regularly to be seen pushing her food around the plate while dining in the company of an elderly Lady In Waiting.

That was in the 90’s and less than a year ago, this now tired old restaurant was rescued by the D&D group (Conran to you and me) its room given a sparkly new makeover and the kitchen put in the control of former Petrus wunderkind, Tristan Welch.

Nick, being a man who actually has to work for a living, was running a bit late, so I occupied myself in the small bar area with a couple of newspapers, a glass of wine and more than one helping of some terrific onion crisps with a cheddar cheese dip. By the time Nick finally burst through the door looking flustered and apologetic, it was almost 2.30pm and fast approaching the end of service. If this put the staff out one little bit, they did not show it and we were given a lovely table in a room that shows where every penny has been spent.

The lunch offers three choices in each course and our amuse appeared quickly in the form of a small cup of delicious celeriac soup with slivered almonds and hazelnut oil. Just good enough to overcome my strong dislike little cups of something as an amuse.

Our first courses appeared a little too quickly particularly when one of them was a Spider Crab risotto, but first tastes of both that and a Cobb Chicken Terrine showed that this was a very able kitchen. The terrine was served at the perfect temperature and, like all good examples should, had a variety of textures and perfect seasoning. A little slick of slow poached egg yolk added a touch of richness to the dish. The risotto had the deep flavour that only comes from a great stock and the little slick of herby garlic butter on top added an extra burst on the tongue.

Main courses too, were exemplary. My own slivers of smoked bacon fell apart to the touch and although the accompanying braised onions were covered in a sauce that shows a youthful love of foams and fancies, the overall dish was a perfect combination of Autumn flavours. Nick’s choice of Venison casserole too showed a good seasonal touch. Nick stalks deer himself and can gralloch them to boot, so his sucking the bone clean of meat and marrow spoke volumes about the enjoyment of his choice.

By now, the restaurant was empty but for us and still the staff remained unflustered as we sat in the declining Sunlight through the window and finished our glasses of a slightly undistinguished Qupe Syrah. a light pre-dessert of caramel crème topped with little nuggets of bonfire night toffee came as we waited for our shared dessert, a Tarte Tatin. What was presented was as pleasing example as you are likely to find in London with a slightly chewy caramel topping, apples; sharp, soft but still holding their shape and a crispy, flaky pastry base. Nick, who spends enviable chunks of his time in France, declared it as good as he encounters there.

By the time the staff finally lost patience and suggested we move to the bar as we lingered over cups of tea, it was time to get the bill anyway and Nick, being Nick picked up the tab. Without the wine, our bill would have come to about £25 a head including service. A veritable bargain for three courses, amuse and pre-dessert of very good cooking indeed and served with charm.

It may just be that Le Gavroche has some competition next time someone asks me to recommend the best bargain lunch in the capital.

CAFFE CALDESI: THE BATTLE OF THE HAMS

“It’s the best ham in the world” our charming server at Caffe Caldesi told us giving that dreamy look that only Italians can manage when thinking about fine food.

She was wrong of course, San Daniele ham is stunning stuff, but pales beside its Spanish counterpart, Jamon Iberico. More of that later, however.

I was having lunch with not one, but two publicity gurus from John Murray, my rather excellent publishing company. Lucy and Nikki came with spreadsheets in hand to explain how they were about to persuade the press and the world at large that one fat man’s journey around the world to gorge himself senseless might just be worthy of coverage. I don’t know about the media, but they had me convinced.

As usual when I have lunch/supper with anyone, it was left to me to select a venue. I suspect the fact that I do this here blog has something to do with that, but I don’t mind particularly as it gives me an opportunity to play. In this case, with the words “light” and “local” in mind, I lit upon Caffe Caldesi, the junior sibling of Giancarlo and Katie Caldesi’s more formal Tuscan joint in Marylebone.

The room is perfect, light and airy and just enough buzz to make it fun while not inducing the need to scream. The menu too, while pricier than the cooking deserves, offers enough options to eat both sensibly of heartily as your mood demands.

Nikki and Lucy were both persuaded by the offer of the ham and thick, meaty strips came on a wooden platter topped with creamy mozzarella. What I tasted was good and there is a good reason why San Daniele is in Serie A of the world’s hams, the mozzarella too prompted slightly improper moans from my two companions.

My own starter of fritto misto involved well-fried, fresh prawns, whitebait and squid in decent enough portions for me to allow wandering hands to creep across the table in sample mode.

Main courses were more workaday, well at least mine was and, while the orange sauce napped on top of my duck breast carried with it happy memories of old school tratt’s, the bird underneath was overcooked to grey. Lucy’s pasta with seafood and Nikki’s beetroot tortellini both looked a whole lot more interesting but with knowledge of the afternoon ahead of me, I left them to their own devices.

Hardly a world changing experience but why should every meal strive to achieve that? Caffe Caldesi provides a solid, if pricey option for an agreeable business lunch.

Now back to that ham, or in this case Jamon. The reason I glazed over when San Daniele was described as “the best in then world” was because my afternoon saw me taking up an invitation from the good people of Brindisa to taste the new release of the Joselito Gran Reserva Iberico Jamon.

For those of you who don’t know these hams, they are cured for a minimum of eighteen months and are the ne plus ultra of piggy legs. To my mind at least, they are the greatest food product on the face of the earth and no one produces better than Joselito. a family run firm with hundreds of acres of land in Spain’s Extremadura region Joselito a reputation for producing the best of the best and their pigs feed on the rich acorns which give Iberico its famous flavour.

No one has done more than Brindisa to promote fine Spanish food in the U.K as the queues at Borough Market prove and they did not let us down at this event with two fine small hams being carved expertly by Zack and Jose before being layered on to plates where, as they came up to temperature, the fat glistened as it melted.

It is hard to explain how good Iberico is to someone who has not tried it. The soft, silky texture of the meat, the warm, acorn rich fat melting in the mouth and the lingering savoury aftertaste. All I can say is that, if you have not tried it, then you have missed on of the food world’s very best experience.

So, now the new hams are in, get yourself down to Brindisa to try some. Oh, and there is a stall selling San Daniele there too, so you can do your own comparison and come back and tell me how right I am. Mind you, I already know that.

TRISHNA: A TRANSPLANT TO BE REJECTED

I have a problem.

In fact I have any number of problems, but the one relevant to the matter at hand is that I cannot for the life of me understand why people try to shoehorn ethnic cuisines into Western fine dining styles as if to say they have to be presented this way to be considered worthwhile. It seldom ever works and, particularly with Indian food, evolved over centuries to be eaten by large families and with enjoyment more of an issue than decorum, the failing becomes even more obvious.


So, when HP told me he had a booking for Trishna, a new transplant from Mumbai, I had my doubts. Budget and time restraints precluded me visiting the original branch on my travels through India, but my research showed me that, while the room is considered shabby, Trishna is well known for its seafood dishes and in particular its butter, pepper and garlic king crabs.

Well, it’s London sibling is a much smarter operation and the small tables in the dining area were filled to overflowing with plates and a variety of wine glasses that reflected the offer of wine pairings with each dish. There was a long cocktail list too as well as an incongruously large list of spirits, but after our evening before in the bar at Rules, we were on our best behaviour ordering just a beer for HP and tap water for me.

I am always wary when someone offers to explain the concept of their menu particularly when they don’t speak loud enough for you to understand what they are saying, but the menu at Trishna is simple enough with a suggestion that you choose a dish per person from a list of pakora, a dish each from those cooked on the charcoal grill and one each from the main course list of “Trishna” dishes.

Some workaday papads came with a coriander chutney that, while fiery enough lacked a burst of lime juice to contrast. I should send them my recipe. Things perked up considerably with the arrival of superb, greaseless pakora of lentils, onions and coriander leaf which came with a terrific and suitably sour tamarind dipping sauce.

Our communication problems with our server continued as we waited for our second choice pakora of plaice that I overheard being described to a neighbouring table as “Indian, Tempura style fish & chips” I would have loved to have found out if that culinary Esperanto actually worked, but the dish never arrived even after the second time of asking and, in the end, we told them not to bother.

Instead, we were presented with a dish of bream cooked on the charcoal and covered in more green chilli and coriander masala. While the fish was very good indeed and cooked to a perfect flake, the accompanying “charred tomato kachumber” lacked any spicing and simply became chopped up watery tomatoes.

Two little lamb cutlets made our eyes water. Not because of over spicing but because they cost £10.50 which puts them right up there with those at Fino as the most expensive slices of lambykins in the city. The taste was good but HP sighed “it just makes you want to be at Tayyabs” and he was right.

The signature dish both here and in the mother ship in India is the crab and the London version uses Cornish crabs that compare favourably to the best in the world. I can’t make a comparison of the dishes in the two branches, but imagine that the gourmands of Mumbai wouldn’t be too thrilled with the little claws and shell that came to us at a whopping £17.50. I am no great fan of crab served in the shell, too much faff for not enough reward. True to form, all our efforts here led to the excavation of small amounts of very good, sweet meat but barely repaid the sweat beads which formed on our brow. The much vaunted butter, pepper and garlic did little but coat the shell and contributed little to the dish other than extra mess.

As we cleaned our fingers, our final dish arrived, a whole baby chicken roasted with a while lentil marinade and curry leaf. It looked a little dry and anaemic as I began to dissect it into equal portions and we waited for our side dishes of Hyderabadi dal, breads and house made yoghurt to arrive before tucking in. We waited and waited and waited and finally, at the second time of asking, they arrived just as our chicken was nice and cold. They dealt with it well, clearing the table and bringing new dishes out at the same time and it was just about worth the wait. The breads, in three varieties, were exemplary if miniature versions of the real thing, the dal had been spiced with a good tarka and the strained yoghurt was thick and creamy. The second chicken too was moist and spicy but only made me long for the ne plus ultra of tandoori chickens at Bukhara in New Delhi.

Our young server or “whispering Bob” as he became known apologised many times for the error and, although I am of the Homer Simpson “don’t keep blaming yourself. Just blame yourself once and get over it” school, I think his managers and the owner could have done more to help their stretched staff than glad hand with a procession friends and family who seemed to fill most of the other tables.

HP’s eyes lit up when the front of house told us that, as it was still a soft opening, there was a 50% reduction on the food portion of our bill, but dipped again with another sigh as we realised that they had included the cost of the undelivered pakora despite our specific request to make sure that they did not. It exemplified the whole meal and even a bill of £42 compared to over £75 did little to warm us to the experience.

By the time we left, the place was filling up and we slunk out with not a “goodbye” thrown in our direction compounding what had been a pretty miserable experience leaving us to decide that, despite some decent tastes, this transplant is going to need a large dose of warmth and competence drugs to stop the new body rejecting it.