RAIZES: HACKNEY ROAD BRAZILIAN

I should get this out of the way.

On my recent trip, I had a bleeding awful time in Brazil. I was pinned to a wall by a gun toting airport security guard, I was bitten to buggery by bed bugs in my Salvador guesthouse, I had three attempts to pick my pocket within hours of arriving and, as I tried to fit in one last meal of Sushi in Sao Paolo’s huge Japanese enclave, I was deposited instead at a dingy shopping centre half an hour from the airport. As my plane took off for San Francisco, I leant over my fellow passenger and gave Brazil an internationally recognised finger extension through the window.

Nearly a year later and the horrific memories have faded somewhat and, with promises from my Brazilian friends that they would accompany me next time, I have even pondered on adding Brazil to my future travel plans. Top amongst these friends is my dear chum, Claudia who, when she heard about my adventures put her head in her hands for a good ten minutes. I hoped it was out of shame for her countrymen’s behaviour, but when I heard the slow sobs escaping between her fingers, I realised it was because she was actually laughing her tits off. Never mind.

Which brings us to today’s lunch at Raizes, a café in the Hackney Road, already a hub of the Capital’s ever expanding Brazilian community. Claudia eats there every week and thought it was a good venue for me to treat her to a little birthday lunch. The menu is lengthy with snacks, small plates and huge main course portions to be washed down with cocktails, fresh juices and imported Brazilian beers.

Starter plates of Bolinho de Bacalhau and Coxinha are evidence of Brazil’s Portuguese heritage and were too much for us to finish in anticipation of large main courses. Claudia thought that they had probably been brought in from outside rather than made in house. A plate of Mandioca Frita, deep fried cassava merely confirmed my thoughts when presented with a plate of cassava chips during a recent meal at The Modern Pantry. There are few things you can do with cassava. Deep-frying is not one of them.

Main courses were substantial and much better. Claudia’s Feijoada was a good example of the classic slave stew, plumped out with large chunks of pork, sausage and black beans in a sauce deeply flavoured with garlic. The ferofa, more cassava, had been fried with more garlic and onions, but tasted stale.

My own main course was another challenging plateful of meat, this time rib-eye of beef cooked down with, yep, you guessed it, cassava. Although the meat was a little chewy, it repaid the effort by releasing good beefy juices, which I mixed with boiled rice to good effect.

The highlight of the meal came in the form of freshly made juices and from a wide list we chose glasses of cashew nut, passion fruit and cupuacu, all excellent and bringing the bill to £30 including tip, which is not over the top considering that supper is now a physical impossibility.

Like the country, there is little finesse to Brazilian food and, also like the country, it is not that lovely to look at ( at least what I saw of it) but, it is hearty and generous and, particularly in the company of someone like Claudia, I might just be tempted to give them both another go.

EMBASSY ELECTRICAL SUPPLIES & COFFEE CAFE: TWO TREATS ON COMPTON ST

A little over a year ago, I posted about Embassy Electrical Supplies, a small shop on Compton St, where, alongside fuses, wires and plugs for Clerkenwell’s handymen, Memhet Murat sells olive oil sourced from his own groves in Turkey and Cyprus. It is some of the best I have tasted in a long time, fresh and green, just the way I like it.

I popped in to see Memhet again earlier this week and came away with a bottle of his latest Turkish oil and a bottle of his Cypriot oil along with some rather lovely olives, which he recommended I rinse, drizzle with oil, lemon juice and a few chilli flakes.

It is people like Memhet who are the real food heroes of the U.K, unassuming, and dedicated to producing the best oils and olives he can, it is impossible to leave the shop without being given a taste of everything and almost as impossible to get him to take money from you. Well worth a visit.

Further along Compton St, towards The Goswell Road, is another unassuming little treasure. The Coffee Café may look like A N Other Sandwich shop, but one glimpse at their blackboard shows you that all is not as it seems. The owner is from Sao Paulo and, as well as offering the usual “something in a toasted ciabatta” The Coffee Café serves Brazilian pastries, a wide range of Brazilian juices and a very passable stab at a fejoida.

This being Clerkenwell, the only slaves are of the middle class wage kind, so the fejoida is lacking in the hooves, lips and assholes of the original dish and it needed the added punch of hot pepper sauce from a bottle on the table. But, it has the correct beans plumped out with meaty chunks of pork and bacon in a suitably rich sauce. It comes with rice, greens and farofa, toasted matioc flour, and for £4.50 is very good value for money particularly when, after ingesting all those carbs, supper will be unnecessary.

With a tall glass of Surinam cherry juice and a tip, the bill was £7 including a bottle of water.

Places like Embassy Electrical Supplies and Coffee Café are well worth supporting. Honest and good value for money, which in these times of credit crunch is all too rare.

SALVADOR, BRAZIL: A SON OF A BEACH

It’s official, I am exactly half way through the EAT MY GLOBE trip and, as I imagined I would be at this point, I am dog tired (I have also eaten tired dog, but that is another matter)

I had planned my few days in Salvador, Brazil as downtime, to go and sit on the beach and drink far too many Caipirinhas.

Well, I have done both things so far with considerable gusto and, last night, was even persuaded by some others at my guesthouse, to join them in the Pelorinho (old town) for the weekly festival which, for those aware of my previous crimes against rhythm, ended in the unlikely sight of me dancing until 2am this morning.

The food, as I expected, is hardly spectacular but, with its origins in African food, it is filling and very cheap. Local vendors sell chilled coconuts from which you suck the water through a straw after they have lopped the top off with a worrying looking machete and there are plenty of stalls selling mystery parcels of stuff fried in the rather noxious local dende oil.

Best of all, so far is the mocequa which is basically a seafood stew cooked in coconut milk and fish stock served over rice and farofa. The best examples keep away from the dende oil which is entirely overpowering and cost about £5 for a bowl big enough to serve two. Hardly haute, but, in context, perfect.

As indeed is the hammock that I plan to spend the rest of the day in. That is, until tonight’s party.

Dirty job, but……………

CAFÉ RIO & BOTECA CARIOCO: FLYING DOWN TO FITZROVIA
Imagine, if you will, it is 2075

The scene is outside a museum in what once was London’s fashionable area of Fitzrovia but is now the district of Tesco’s Community Block Living Area A.

A portly man stands on a hovering platform before a crowd who murmur in anticipation as he pulls on a short length of chord to reveal a blue plaque which reads simply

“In a café on this site Hermano Segundo sat to eat and drink while he worked on his seminal literary works "Don't Do that your Majesty. I am not that kind of boy" and "It's meant to be incomprehensible, stupid" which led to the declaration of world peace, a cure for cancer and the confirmation of Frank Zappa as a saint of the Catholic Church”

The crowd cheer and spontaneously begin to sing the national anthem which Majumdar wrote in a quiet moment in between meister works

“Put your hands in the air, for Britain”
Wave them like you just don’t care, For Britain”

All the while ‘making shapes” with their hands as had become required by law in 20020 after a certain Pete Tong became Prime Minister in a surprise landslide victory.

Catchy no?

OK, well perhaps that is not how it is going to be, but since my supper with my good chum Max last night was spent discussing literary aspirations and trying desperately to persuade our parents that we were not idle loafers, it’s nice to dream.

As it happens, Café Rio on Grafton Way is a very nice place to sit and dream. A Brazilian café that was recommended to me by another chum, Claudia, it offers, along side standard café items, a wide range of savoury Brazilian pastries, the enormo portioned Brazilian baguettes and, apparently ,one of the best examples of the Feijoada in town. All in a small, bright little cafe presided over by cheery Brazilian women who cluck around making sure you are enjoying things as you should.

We arrived there a short while before it closed so stuck to sampling one each of the savoury pastries. Particular favourite was the Quibe which was a larger version of the Middle Eastern Kibbe which made us think they must originate from the same gene pool. Minced beef with spices and olives running through it, one of those would have been enough on its own but we also ordered Coxinha and Pastel which came with a varied mix of meat and cheese fillings.

Elegant? No, but at £1.80 a pop, filling and substantial enough for two impoverished wannabees on a budget.

After paying the bill which came to all of £12, we decided to take our literary musings down to Fitzrovia’s latest Brazilian offering on Charlotte St. Boteca Carioca has been getting good reviews all over the place and I can see why. The food is accomplished ( with one or two poor elements ) and the service is charming and laid back.

Unfortunately, the room is a killer. Dark and gloomy, it is like eating under a fire blanket and it certainly douses any level of good humour the moment you walk in.

Still, we had eaten some starters at Café Rio, so moved on to main courses here. First, some Pao de Queijo, Brazilian cheese bread which was a real disaster. Hard as bullets and as tasteless as an Austin Princess with go faster stripes. Horrible. Max ate them, but then he is poor and will eat anything for fear it will be his last meal for forty eight hours.

The main courses were better. The Feijoada was as good as I have tried. A dense, dark stew of black beans with hunks of meat and sausage. None of the hooves, lips, noses and arseholes of the original slave dish, but rich and satisfying.

A moqueca came with large pieces of halibut and a spicy sauce that went well with coconut rice.

More than ample portions and, at £13.50 a pop, not over priced.

While we ate, the p.a system serenaded us with what I can only assume was traditional Brazilian funeral music which further succeeded in bringing our good humours down to the point that I can’t imagine rushing back there again no matter how tasty the food.

I think, next time I want to compare notes with a fellow bald man of letters, I will probably fly down to Café Rio.

For the record, if they ever do decide to put up a blue plaque for me can it please read

" he died at the age of 100 while watching his beloved Rotherham Utd of whom he bacme chairman when his books sold one million copies and when the film rights were sold to George Clooney's production company. He left behind his 20 year old wife, an olympic gymnast, Jeanelle from whose breasts it is believed he was snorting coke at the time of his death."

Now that's a dream