DOS HERMANOS GO GBBF: BEERY ME

It's that time of the year again when Dos Hermanos don their comedy breasts and tummy combos (whaddya mean, you thought they were real?), eat Pork products and drink beer. Actually that sounds like a normal day for DH, but it is in fact is what we get up to on our annual visit to the Great British Beer Festival.

This year HS is currently travelling around the US doing a sort of Man vs Odd Animal Parts and in this battle it sounds as if he’s aceing it. So in his place I enlisted the help of Paul, a mutual friend and long-suffering York City fan (is there any other sort) and his Spurs-supporting (booo) buddy, Marius.

Being from the North, Paul suffers from hypoglycaemia if not given constant injections of carbohydrate-based foodstuffs. So instead of the usual heavy–duty gym session followed by a protein shake or an egg-white omelette we opted instead for a very hard tube ride followed by something called a “bacon buttie”.

For the breakfast venue I had chosen The Troubadour in Earls Court which was a bit of a destination for folkies during the Sixties. Dylan played there, so did Paul Simon and also the fabulous guitarist Davie Graham. Now it’s a pleasingly ramshackle sort of all-day brasserie affair with adjoining wine shop. Our young French waitress, while sweet enough, got into the spirit of things by being a complete hippy and forgetting our fried eggs in our rolls. Still, once we got them it wasn’t too shoddy with decently cooked bacon and eggs and they brought both types of sauce.

Last year the queue before Midday, when the festivus kicks off, was up one side of the Earls Court but this time it was twice as long. Luckily, once the gates do open, there’s a blur of grey with wrinklies moving like they’re outside the Post Office on Pension day. Us young’uns have a hell of a job keeping up. These days the queue is now shepherded down through the bowels of the exhibition centre which at least gives me a chance to crack a few Tap gags (Hello Cleveland!).

Once inside the vast space the crowds disperses and for an hour or two at least one can enjoy the pub games, traditional pub snacks like Pork Pies and Scratchings and the many beers on offer. Speaking of which we started with a few pints of Mild - the official DH ale of choice – which were pretty good, even the Greene King one.

This year I went a little off piste this year by trying some other styles. Castle Rock’s Harvest Pale was the Champion Beer of Britain. It’s a pretty light, quaffable, golden ale although like a lot of beers these days it’s pretty ‘hoppy’. It was a bit too sweet for my taste.

There was also the visit to the Cider and Perry stall halfway through precedings where I almost had a bit of a ‘Curb’ moment as I waited for people ahead of me to sample what seemed like every bleedin’ one. Me, I went extreme with a half of Perry whose name now escapes me but was probably something like “Sheep’s Scrotum”. What didn’t escape me was the 7 point something percentage strength and a dryness rating of 7. My mouth will never trust me again.

Eventually there’s the sound of a glass breaking, followed by the inevitable cheer which is the signal for us to start thinking about a few last beers before taking our leave. This year I wanted to try a non-British beer. I suggested an American beer and Marius suggested a stout.

The kindest thing I could say about King Oak Milk Stout from Massachusetts
was that at least it was served at the proper temperature. Otherwise it was, as our Mam used to say, “All fur coat and no knickers”. Towards the end of the glass it was like drinking tepid coffee. Not pleasant.

To be fair some of the UK’s newer beers leave me a bit cold as well - I’d swap them all for a perfect pint of London Pride. Mind you, as I said to Paul as we battled our way out against the incoming hordes, if the low point of your day was getting a beer you didn’t like then you’re doing pretty, pretty well. Roll on GBBF 2011.

Cheers!

LUTONG PINOY: FILIPINO FLOP IN EARLS COURT

There are few things more irritating than supper at an ethnic eatery with a person who has recently been to the country which the restaurant represents. Nothing will ever be a match for what they ate on their visit, the ingredients will be wrong and at some point, of course, they will use the word “authentic” by which time you are praying to the gods that they will choke on their pilaf or get a bit of stuffed guinea pig caught in their throat.

So, my apologies to my companion of last night, my new chum, Fiona who had to sit patiently as I prodded disconsolately at the various plates that passed across our table muttering the dreaded “A” word on more than one occasion.

One of the great surprises of my recent trip was The Philippines. I fell in love with the country, the people and the food, which was savoury, delicious and had all the elements DH crave in our food, pork, deep frying and often a combination of the two. Add to that spectacular salads, wonderful seafood and the classics of Lechon, Adobo and Kare Kare and the cuisine of this country of 7,000 islands was quickly promoted into the top ten of EAT MY GLOBE.

I am never quite convinced that because a restaurant is filled with ex-pats it is de facto any good. Being born in a country does not mean you are automatically an expert on your home cuisine, but the fact that Lutong Pinoy in Earls Court came highly recommended and seemed to cater exclusively to elements of London’s 200,000 strong Filipino community augured well as we entered the tiny little restaurant in Kenway St.

Service was charming and slightly eccentric that was definitely “authentic” (there’s that word again) so was the menu, which had all the staples I grew so fond of during my short visit. Unfortunately, that’s where the good news ended. Fiona was kind enough to leave the ordering in my hands and we began with a fresh Lumpia, a form of loose spring roll, which at its best should resemble a Vietnamese Summer roll with a light casing protecting a fresh crunchy filling. Here, the casing was doughy, the vegetable filling mushy and the surrounding slick of sauce cloying. Pancit (noodles) mixed with vegetables were scarcely any better tasting as if they had been lying around all day waiting for someone stupid enough to eat them. We didn’t.

There are few things that fried pork can’t improve and things perked up when a plate of crispy pata arrived. It lacked the tenderness of the real thing, where pork knuckle or leg is boiled until tender and then deep fried to give a magnificent crunch, but when dipped in the bowl of sweet liver sauce served with it reminded me of why I ate pata just about every day of my visit.

Sisig, however, did not. The signature dish of Angeles is comprised of all the bits of the pig left over when all the good stuff has gone, chopped up with lots of chilli. It should come to the table sizzling on a cast iron plate so that the meat becomes crispy and the underside forms a crunchy crust that Filipino men can fight about over a beer. Our version was spicy enough but served on a plate that had not been heated enough so lacked any sizzle leaving it as just a tray of chopped meat with too much chilli.

If that was a disappointment then worse was to follow with the arrival of the Kare Kare, a stew of oxtail made with a peanut sauce. They were out of oxtail so we plumped for the beef version and were presented with a tired looking dish containing soft vegetables and meat that had been cooked to the texture of marshmallow. It could not even be rescued by the addition of Bagoong, the accompanying shrimp paste.

The bill including tip came to £40

This was a listless effort by a restaurant which looked and felt as if it had seen better days in the fifteen years it has been open, happy to serve ersatz tastes of glorious dishes to Londoners who perhaps can’t tell the difference and ex-pats happy for any small reminder of home. It may be odious to make comparisons, but I don’t need to because it is not just that there are certainly better places in The Philippines, I can’t help thinking they has to be a better Filipino restaurant in London.

The Great British Beer Festival

I had a little birdy friend
By morning she was gone

It’s August and that can only mean one thing in the DH calendar - The Great British Beer Festival (or more accurately Beer Festivus). Unfortunately HS couldn’t make it as he’s in the Far East eating the extremities and unmentionables of small beasts so I roped in a couple of capable subs in the form sometimes drinking pal Paul and his long-time buddy Marius.

I arrived a bit before the others so I had a chance to sample the overall Champion Beer of the year before it ran out - Hobsons Mild. Quite a pleasant pint but really just a standard Mild. I’m really surprised that it won the overall Champion Beer. Much better was the Hooky Dark suggested by Paul and the TEA recommended by Marius. The Brains Dark was also pretty good. My call was for the ciders which if nothing else gave us a nice little mid-afternoon fillip. There were pies (of course there were) which had decent fillings but which were very salty. Paul said that this was to Northern tastes so I’ve obviously been down South too long. I also wear a coat in winter. The scratchings were pretty good though and weren’t those ‘lite’ version travesties I had at Wahaca the other day.

Whether it was the fact that it was the Festival’s 30th Anniversary or maybe the advertising had been particularly successful or even that it was a Friday and people were sagging off work early but it soon got pretty crowded. In a way this is great for the industry. Real Ale is one of the oldest and greatest artisanal products we have in this country and as a product of terroir and the fact it doesn’t travel well means you can’t get anything like this anywhere else in the world. Anything that makes people aware of our brewing heritage should be a good thing. The downside was that there were queues for everything, beers were going off, there was a claustrophobic atmosphere and by the time we left things were getting a bit lairy.

At past festivals DH have usually visited on a Thursday when things are not so hectic and there’s time and space to wander and appreciate things. There’s also more folk with funny hats which adds to the fun and emphasises the quirky nature of the event. On a Friday things felt a lot more serious. We still had a top time though and after a short tube journey and quick hop across the river finished the day with a meal at Masters Super Fish.

Great company, good ale and a slap-up supper of Fish and Chips. Sometimes things really don’t get much better.