MORTON'S: MEAT & A MARTINI ON DATE NIGHT

I have a soft spot for Morton’s Steakhouses. I know they are a chain and, the good lord knows I have railed against chains often enough on the blog. But, having a steak at a Morton’s Steakhouse always feels like going to visit a favourite old relative, a relative who takes $200+ out of your wallet before letting you leave, but a relative never the less.

Morton’s in Chicago was one of the first steakhouses I ever visited on a business trip to the US. I immediately fell in love with the themes that are now so familiar to me at steakhouses across America. The waiters in their long, starched aprons displaying trays of raw beef while explaining the house cuts to bemused customers. The bathtub sized martinis that may not be very good but are so strong they get you drunk enough not to care. The wine lists as thick as a phone directory and the sides dishes that you really don’t need, but order anyway to later take home in doggy bags where they will sit in the fridge until you throw them away after a week.

I was going to be dining alone last Friday night and, with Sybil being no great fan of the cow, it struck me as the perfect time to snaffle a leather booth and indulge myself in a good steak and a large cocktail without the sight of her rolling her eyes at me across the table. My good chum, John Haskell, who is a long time regular at Morton’s in Beverly Hills, offered to make the reservation for me when I shared lunch with him at Langer’s and I spent the rest of the week planning which one of their signature steaks would have the pleasure of gracing my plate when Friday finally came around.

Then Sybil cancelled her planned trip and Friday went from being solo night to date night. When we arrived at Morton’s, there was no real thought involved for me and I just sipped on my first powerful martini of the night as our server waved various bits of raw cow flesh us at us and tried to persuade Sybil to take the waggling tail portion off a still live lobster.

I have said it many times before, but starters in steakhouses serve little other purpose than to fill the time between ordering and when your steak arrives. Those we chose at Morton’s, for the record Lump Crab meat Cocktail and Tuna Tartare, were decent enough and served their purpose of distraction until the main courses were presented.

If a place like this couldn’t get a steak right, then there really would have been a major Majumdar hissy fit. I am pleased to report that my “Chicago Style Bone in Rib-Eye” was a great piece of Nebraskan USDA Prime and cooked perfectly. They say you are never too old to learn and, in recent years, I have gone from demanding all my steaks rare, whatever the cut, to understanding that a rib-eye with its network of marbling, needs a longer cooking time to melt down the extra fat. I may now put up with people telling me how to have my steak cooked, but I still demand that it is given a decent char while it is on the grill. Mine had. It bloody well should have done of course. Morton’s have cooked thousands of the things over the years. But, when you eat as many steaks as I do, you know how often such a seemingly simple task can be botched.

If the steak was good, the lobster that had given up its tail for Sybil’s benefit had not done so in vain. Meaty and rich, barely needing the drawn butter that came with it. Sybil struggled to finish the huge portion of seafood despite my constant reminders that she was attending against my wishes and was as much an added financial burden as a welcome companion (it was the martini talking, I swear) Although we managed to polish off a few thick spears of asparagus, the other side dish of Mac & Cheese remained almost untouched and was decanted into a take away container, placed on the table as we shared a dessert of rich chocolate cake with a molten centre.

Added to a few glasses of wine and a well deserved service charge, this brought the total cost to.…. Well, I really don’t want to think about it, because the other thing I remembered, as the bill was deposited, was that another theme of all good steakhouses is that they are murderously expensive. When my credit card bill arrives, the wailing and gnashing of teeth will probably be heard in space.

Still, Sybil had a good time and seems to understand that next time we have a date night it will probably be at a place where the condiments are served in sachets and the staff wear hair nets.

PLYMOUTH GIN LONDON COCKTAIL PILGRIMAGE 2009: IN THE COMPANY OF GOOD SPIRITS

So here’s the thing.

Imagine I am high above the earth in the basket of a hot air balloon. The sky is blue and the ground below dappled by the sunlight through what few clouds there are. To my right is a bartender, whose single task it is to provide me with a constant supply of perfectly made Martinis, to the left, is a chef whose role is to feed me rich sweetmeats until I am as inflated as the balloon.

Suddenly, we begin to lose altitude at an alarming rate. As we hurtle towards the ground, my life flashing before me in a rapid procession of gin, hookers and regret, I realise that we have to jettison some of our extra weight. I consider my two companions and I am not going to lie to you, but if it comes to a contest between a good bartender and a good chef, then the chef might as well be wearing a t-shirt reading “SANDBAG” because knife boy is going over the side.

The decision would be made not just on the basis that I prize a well made cocktail more than I do a well made meal, but also on the fact that experience tells me that people who are involved in the bar and cocktail world are usually much nicer people than those who spend all day cooped up in a kitchen with only dead animals for company. It’s not a universal, of course and I have many cheffy folk I am chuffed to call friend. But, my true affinity is for the brewers, distillers and mixers of this world.

The last couple of weeks have seen me attend two events, which provide evidence for my contentious theory. Last week, I attended the launch of Joe Warwick’s new restaurant free sheet, Galley Slaves. It promises to be fun and so indeed did the event, which was held at Mark Hix’s new joint in Soho. That is, of course, until I recalled that you can never really have a proper conversation with anyone in the restaurant trade because they are always looking over your shoulder for someone more important to talk to. In my case that’s not a very hard task and after many abruptly ended conversations, I soon found myself slinking out unnoticed and making my way to Rules, where I knew a cheery greeting and a great Martini would be waiting.

Move on to Tuesday this week and I found myself being greeted with genuine friendliness by those of the cocktail trade who had been invited to Plymouth Gin’s 2009 London Cocktail pilgrimage. I am not in the business, other than as a punter and I had only met most of them a handful of times, but their affection for anyone with a passion for their trade was palpable. Ago from The Connaught, Lucca from China Tang, Toby from Pinchito, Gabby from Rules, Charles and Nick from Hix and Sean and jack from The Merchant Hotel in Belfast. It was a great group and the list could go on and on.

The notional excuse for the day was to examine the capital’s fundamental role in the development of the cocktail and, as our host, Plymouth had flown in raconteur and lauded drinks historian, Dave Wondrich. After a fortifying bacon sandwich, we made our first stop in Borough at The George Tavern where, in 1690, a Mr Stoughton began to sell the first bitters, which he mixed with sweet wines as a tonic.

From there, the art of mixed drinks moved across to the US, leaving Britain in the clutches of rather fiendish punches, like the warm “Rum Fustian” we sampled at The Cheshire Cheese pub on Fleet Street. Later, the “American Bar” style of mixing spirits and flavourings with ice made its way back to London and over the course of our day we stopped at various places of interest to hear of their history and to sample their most famous cocktails, made and transported for us by the rather wonderful people of The World Wide Cocktail Club. Although many of the buildings no longer exist, hearing Dave describe places like John Ashley’s Punch House, while sipping on an appropriate drink brought it all back to life.

Stops at two building sites, The Savoy and The Café Royal showed how rapidly London is changing, although the drinks we sampled, A Savoy White Lady and A Toreador, both from the 1930’s would be very familiar to any fan of cocktails today. They also showed that during the dark days of prohibition in the US (up until 1933) the art of the mixed drink had its home very firmly in London.

Two more stops later, at the glorious Criterion Restaurant (most beautiful room and some of the worst food in London) and on Orange St, the site of Ciro’s, the most famous night club of the 1920’s and it was time to repair to Duke’s Hotel for supper. Not only to eat, however, but also for one last cocktail treat. This time a Martini made by the hands of the legendary Alessandro Palazzi himself. His Martini is, as he says himself, from the “old times” and made with frozen glasses (frozen while still wet, which adds extra dilution) a spritz of vermouth and frozen Plymouth gin. It remains one of the world’s truly great tastes and his skill was admired not only by a rube like me but forty of the world’s best cocktail makers including the equally famous Peter “American Bar at The Savoy” Dorelli and Salvatore “Library Bar” Calabrase.

The evening was a bit of a blur. Not just because of the drinks, which had been flowing all day, I had actually been very sensible and sipped rather than slugged. It was because I was in the company of some of my favourite people in the world talking animatedly about one of my favourite subjects in the world, the mixing of superb drinks. Even though I am not one of them, I felt very much at home. When, as we left, I was presented with my own “Dipsomaniac’s Delight” a portable cocktail making kit, it only confirmed my theory of with which group of people I most enjoy spending time. As much as possible in future, I intend to spend my time mixing with the best possible spirits.

69 COLEBROOKE ROW: HITTING IT OUT OF THE PARK

Tony Conigliaro shares his name with a famous American baseball star, which probably explains why, with his new bar, 69 Colebrooke Row he has hit another home run

I first encountered Tony's cocktail skills at Isola, the wretchedly overpriced Oliver Peyton joint on that site in Knightsbridge which has, over the years, mutated from high end Italian restaurant to wine bar before finally giving way to a short lived Brazilian restaurant and now a re-incarnation of The Chicago Rib Shack.

For many, Tony was always the best thing about any visit to Isola and, after that when he went to set up the Shochu Lounge in the basement of equally overpriced Roka, it was again sampling from his list of cocktails that proved the main attraction for many.

During his career, Tony has managed to create some of the most interesting drinks in London and along the way has collected awards by the armful including, I am pleased to report, the title of “International Bartender of the Year” at the recent Tales of The Cocktail gathering in New Orleans. It is a prestigious accolade, won last year by Hawksmoor’s Nick Strangeway and it says a huge amount about Tony’s skills and the strength of the UK bar scene right now that he managed to persuade some of the greatest names in the cocktail business that the honour should remain in London.

Now, after a period working as a drinks consultant, I am delighted to say that Tony is doing what he does best, running a bar. 69 Colebrooke Row is a small space in an unassuming building situated just South of the Essex Road in Islington and one glimpse at the drinks list tells you that even if you were foolish enough to ask for a Mojito here, it would be unlike any Mojito you have ever tried.

69 Colebrooke Row showcases the influence upon Tony’s drink creations of the world of Molecular Gastronomy as he and his “dream team” of Kim Ireland and Walter Aceti, offer up a short range of crafted cocktails using infusions of flowers and fruits. On our quick visit before heading up to Little Sardegna, my own drink, a beautifully made Beefeater Dry Martini came with a “Dry Essence” a separate distillation of phenols that added an extra depth to the cocktail, while HP’s Americanino was a more simple combination of grapefruit infused Campari with Martini Rosso, lengthened with soda water.

With the house cocktails well priced at £7 a pop, it would have been easy to work our way through the menu, but supper called and, after our one drink, we headed off up to Highbury with firm intentions of returning soon and returning often.

It is still in its nascent stages, but based on our initial visit 69 Colebrooke Row promises to become one of the most interesting bars in London within a very short space of time.

With Tony Conigliaro at the helm, it was hardly likely to be anything else.

A DOS HERMANO SUNDAY

I was scrapin' bottom
Gropin' in the dark

For one reason or another it’s been a while since I’ve had a typical Dos Hermanos Sunday and even though HS wasn’t available I decided to put things to right today.

First a leisurely walk to Apostrophe for my usual double Macchiato and Cinnamon Swirl followed by a brief wander around the markets in the areas between Spitalfields and Brick Lane.

There are a number of new restaurants being built this year the most notable of which are The Luxe from John Torode and The Bouchon Breton. Less notably there will also be branches of Gourmet Burger Kitchen , Wagamama (groan), and La Tasca (please kill me now). And with that Spitalfields will be well and truly Covent Garden’d.

A swift walk home, The Dan on the stereo and fix myself a Beefeater Dry Martini. I’d shoved all the fixings and stemware in the freezer before going out so everything was good and cold. Nothing worse than a warm DM.

The meat of the day was a Loin of Pork from Northfield Farm in Borough Market. Like cooking steak I’ve got my procedure down pat so it’s pretty failsafe.

First make sure the skin is scored properly – they sometimes don’t do it properly in the butchers. Dry the skin with some kitchen towel and massage a bit of Olive Oil in. Apply a sprinkling of fine table salt that will get in the cracks and rub that in as well. Add final sprinkling of coarser Maldon Sea Salt. I sometimes sprinkle some crushed fennel seeds or juniper berries on as well.

I usually poke holes in between the fat and the flesh and poke in some sage and shreds of garlic but this time I just rested the joint on a bunch of sage and some crushed cloves of garlic. I bunched up some foil to get the skin level so that it crisped evenly.

Following the teachings of St. Hugh of Fearnley-Whittingstall, the patron saint of meat and meat products – the joint went into a hot oven (220C) to get the crackling going then the heat was turned down to about 160C for the rest of the cooking time. Followed by plenty of rest, of course (not for me - for the joint, stupid).

Meanwhile I made a Bramley Apple Sauce which I do without sugar - I like the tartness - but to which I added some shredded sage, cloves and crushed cardamom.

For my greens I had a packet of Pimientos de Padron knocking around (as one does) which made the meal somewhat Iberian.

And that was it. A nice Rioja to go with the pork and some English Strawberries to pick at. A little aguardiente (don’t mid if I do) followed to aid digestion. Perfect, really.