THE PERIGRINATIONS OF A PARIAH

DAY FIVE: WEATHER BAD, WEBER GOOD ( Morning Edition)

I have a saying.

Every now and again, just when you least expect it or deserve it, just for a brief moment, life stops kicking you in the ass.

Today was such a day.

I woke up about 4am with a hacking cough and gave up on any thoughts of going for a workout and lay in bed reading Entertainment Weekly until, showered and shaved I met up with our party at 7.30am for the early start to Palatine, the home of Weber-Stephens.

When we first started work with Weber, I knew they made grills but I had no idea what a loyal following they have all over the world. Just about every Aussie I know has one, South Africans too. In the US I think it is almost against the law to buy anything else. In Chicago, I think people get a Weber before they learn to walk. But, outside those obvious countries in places you would not expect, Weber has become so popular that it is almost a verb. We have sold the books in Spain, Germany, France, Finland, Norway, Holland, Sweden, Denmark and on and on.

You get the impression that when the people of Weber set their mind to doing something, they do it properly or not at all and so it proved with today’s trip.

They had organised our day with the help of their outside events team and our host met us at the lobby of The Ritz Carlton with a small mini bus for the long ( because of the reverse commute traffic ) journey to the manufacturing plant. I had some notion that this might be fun when, as we sat down, Peter, our host, explained that they had breakfast to offer us, a choice of about twenty asst pastries, two types of coffee, eight types of tea, juice and fresh fruit. Not a bad start.

On arrival at the factory, Peter proudly pointed out a small sorry looking item in the lobby. The very first Weber. Cut out of a harbour Buoy by George Stephens in the 1950’s when he was trying to come up with a new design for a grill. It did not mean as much to me as I don’t grill, but some of the party who are enthusiastic Weber-ites, cooed over it as if it were the Turin Shroud.

Then followed a route march through the ever so impressive factory which churns out, well I can’t tell you because I signed a confidentiality form, but it’s an awful lot. When you see the production line effort that goes into making all of these grills it really makes you appreciate them. Quite something.

Peter then offered us the chance of a little sightseeing. Who could refuse the chance to spend more time looking around this splendid city? So, we headed down to Millennium Park to see The Bean, a piece of public art that seems to have taken Chicago by storm. I think it is actually called Cloud Gate, but has in the way of all great public art been given a more used name because it resembles nothing more than a huge silver coffee bean. Very impressive.

Lunch was planned as a picnic by Buckingham Fountains and a rather lovely box lunch was set up for us to enjoy in the good weather. Ah, there’s the rub. Just as we sat down, the heavens opened and Chicago was subject to the unedifying sight of the great and the good ( and me ) of European publishing standing under a tree trying not to get soaked while eating turkey sandwiches. Ho hum

The weather did rather put a dampener on the rest of our plans which included the Chicago River Boat tour. Being brave little soldiers, we did carry on regardless and joined a few other unfortunates on the good ship Fort Deerborn which was being lashed with rain as the staff tried valiantly to haul a canvas over the top so we would not all drown. The other visitors were not quite as lucky as us as Peter, ever the perfect host, warmed our cockles with glasses of very decent Napa Sauvignon Blanc and managed to persuade the staff to let us take our glasses on board.

It almost made up for getting soaked to the skin during the first half of the ninety minute trip. Almost. And, of course, just as the boat docked again, the rain stopped and a thin strip of sunlight appeared as if the skies were flipping us the finger.

I can’t claim to have seen too many of the skyscrapers described from underneath the tarpaulin where we all hunkered. But, the commentary was good ( by a professor from the university ) and what we did see confirmed my thoughts that this truly is the great American city. I am not quite so convinced by one claim that AN Other building was the “ largest in the world, under 1000ft." Er??

Afterwards, the bus took us back to the hotel ( with the offer of a choice from about 30 types of freshly baked cookies just in case we were still hungry )for some free time before supper and was put at our disposal if we wanted lifts to go and do some shopping.

So, although the weather conspired against us, The Weber put up very strong resistance. I have rarely felt so pampered and, just for that brief moment, my backside feels less like the world has been taking an extra yard’s run up before kicking me in the posterior than usual.

A good day

THE PERIGRINATIONS OF A PARIAH

DAY THREE & FOUR: WINDING UP IN THE WINDY CITY

Day three of my trip in Kansas saw me kicking into business mode and leaving the comfort of Mark’s place for the less agreeable and more sanitised environs of the Inter-continental at the Plaza.

Both, it has to be said, beginning to look a little shabby since my last visit. The hotel had lost the charm it once had as the Ritz Carlton and then the Fairmont and now stood testament to the soulless nature of corporate hoteldom. The Plaza, the premier shopping district of Kansas looked tired and past its best. Designed along the lines of the streets of Seville with whom the town is twinned, I used to love pottering around the stores there. Now, it seems that many of the decent stores have closed and it looks to be suffering.

On days like these when meetings are the centre point, food choices become much more functional and have to be predicated on speed and proximity rather than quality and taste. Which is just as well given that the offerings in The Plaza are very much of “ The Cheesecake Factory” variety

In truth, not a day that will go down in memory as a great success. A slightly dispiriting meeting with the good people of Hallmark, sandwiched between two meals which would range in the blah to “ out of the way, I am about to cover you in spew” category. Both chains. For lunch, PF Chang's. Harmless enough and, in fact the lettuce wraps are perfectly well done, if nothing else is. Much worse was an early supper at McCormick’s ( I know, I know – but we had to be up at 4.30am and could not face any sort of trek for supper.) Truly a grim meal. I can only take so much perky in a day and our server used up that ration on the way to our table. Sweet enough, but she sounded like she sucked up a good dose of helium before coming back to the table each time. Lousy martini, acceptable calamari, non descript salads and dreadful salmon. Now, this is a fish restaurant, right? So, if you are going to make that your main offering, be any bleeding good at it. You may be part of a chain, but you are still charging best part of $60 a head for a meal. So at least get the main bit right. Not here. Dry as a bone

After forking out best part of $250 for a meal for three, we slunk out and back to the hotel where a Talisker and a cup of mint tea restored my humour a tad.

But, all in all, a day to get to the other end of rather than to enjoy

Getting up at 4am the next morning was less than fun and the Martini and Whisky from the night before had created a thick fug in my head. But, we had an early flight to catch and I forced myself up to meet my colleague in the lobby and, after a perfectly harmless flight we soon arrived in Chicago.

I must have been to Chicago over twenty times and it remains one of the few cities that I get genuinely excited about returning to in the US ( Boston being one of the others ) Architecturally, I think it is a truly great city and the buildings, both old and new, are staggering. From a food point of view, I think it offers more than just about any city in the US from high end to joints and, I am quite taken by the people who while preternaturally brusque are rather good humoured .

This trip was slightly different though. A jolly organised by the good people of Weber ( The Rolls Royce of Barbecues ) Me and my colleague have been central to building up their publishing programme of books in Europe and everywhere outside the US. We have published the books in a number of languages all of which have been a raging success. Bizarre fact, one of our Weber titles was THE number one non fiction bestseller in Denmark in 2004. Go figure.

Anyway, in recognition of this, we, along with a number of our co-edition partners had been invited by Weber to join them for a couple of days during which we would get to see the factory and eat at The Weber Grill Restaurant.

Arriving at the airport, we were met by Peter, who organises all the travel for Weber people and whisked by stretch to our rather delightful rooms at the Ritz Carlton. By 11am we were checked in and, since we were not meeting up for drinks until 5.30pm, we had time to eat a couple of unfeasibly large, well made salads in the rather lovely lobby restaurant of the hotel, go out and do some shopping and have a workout.

While I worked out, I was watching The Food Network and came across an extraordinary woman called Paula Deen who, apart from being totally unintelligible seemed to have a repertoire that consisted entirely of opening cans of condensed mushroom soup, scrunching crackers and deep frying. I also watched an Italian cookery show with a chef whose name I forget but who looked like one of those parade inflatable cartoon characters with a small body and an ENORMOUS head and the widest permagrin I have ever seen. Both, for different reasons, very , very scary. Never thought I would miss Rick Stein and his "whenever I look at gurnard I think of a poem by E.E. Cummings" schtick - no you fricking don't.

By early evening, I was ready for a drink and decamped to the bar where the rest of our party were already gathered

Typically of Weber, they had predicated the evening on us just having fun rather than anything more corporate and, after a very nice glass of Sancerre, I was ushered out into the cool night air for the walk to our restaurant for the evening

HUGO’S FROG & SEAFOOD BAR
This has rapidly become a bit of a local attraction. Quintessentially Chicagoan in style, buzzy well appointed room,excellent service and portions that border on the obscene.

We ordered a mixed batch of starters for the table. Popcorn shrimp, Calamari and Lobster cocktails. All excellent. Particularly the Popcorn shrimp.

I was slightly disconcerted by the waiter turning up with a plate of fish for us to examine in the same way that the waiters do with steak at Gibsons ( who co-own this joint ) It works with meat, but with dull eyed fish?

Still, what appeared once we had made our choice was very fresh indeed. While others chose Grouper or Salmon or Dover Sole, I went, as I always do at this time of year, for Soft Shell Crab. I can never get this in the UK outside of a Chinese restaurant and the season is so short, I just always get tempted to try it. What I got was as good an example as I have tried. Three large specimens, fresh, meaty and perfectly cooked.

With this, we ordered two whites ( a Frog’s Leap Sauvignon Blanc for one. I don’t recall the other ) and a red ( the Fritz 2003 pinot ) which everyone took to rather well.

None of us fancied dessert, but were persuaded to share some for the table. What turned up was so far from a normal portion as to be obscene. A German Chocolate Cake was enough to feed at least ten people. A Strawberry Shortcake, not much less and the Key Lime Pie would have fed most of the 5,000.

The trouble is with stuff like this is that, often it looks toweringly impressive, but tastes horrible. Which this did. To my right was our German publisher. She tasted the German Chocolate Cake and grimaced before just shaking her head. We left most of it and it made me think about the sheer quantity of waste that must be going on in similar restaurants around the US on any given evening. Although similar plates at neighbouring tables were being wiped clean, so i do know where it does end up. On the waistlines of Chicagoans

On the whole, a decent, fun evening in excellent company with generous hosts. So, what is a half ton of German Chocolate Cake between friends?

PERIGRINATIONS OF A PARIAH

DAY TWO: MAMA'S, ARTHUR BRYANT'S & A BIT OF BEER

Given the joys of jet lag, I was awake at about 5am this morning. Still, it did mean that, by 9am, both Mark and I were showered and ready to head off and spend a day exploring Kansas City.

But first, breakfast. The best meal of the day and it would seem that for most Kansans(?) not something to be taken lightly.

Our first two choices of restaurant, The Classic Cookie and Room 39 were both closed for Mother’s Day. However, directly opposite the latter place was, appropriately enough, MAMA’s which was also on our list.

The place was rammed to the rafters with a very assorted crowd. But, our luck was in and we managed to snag the last table for two in the place. Just as well as all the parties that came after us were asked to put their name on a list and told the wait could be up to thirty minutes. There were almost as many people outside the restaurant as there were inside. A popular place, no doubt.

The service was very “American movie diner” friendly in that “ hi hon” kind of way and all the better for that. We were offered coffee ( or in my case tea ) and a frighteningly extensive menu. Breakfast is a very serious business in the Midwest and a place that offers nearly one hundred omelete options is one that is ready to meet the challenge.

I was almost tempted to try the “ hearty meat plate” of chicken fried steak with three eggs, grits and biscuits with gravy until I saw a plate being brought to another table. It almost needed two people to carry it let alone to eat it.

So, I went for a lighter option or so, I thought. I guess by KCM standards it really was light. Three scrambled eggs with turkey, bacon, sausage served with cheese grits and a huge biscuit and the white gravy. Mark went for an omelete with chorizo and hash browns and more biscuit.

What turned up was, by any standards just an indecent amount of food. A hefty plate of eggs mixed with chunks of meat. A biscuit that could have been hollowed out to form a temporary home for the next FA Cup final should Wembley still not be ready next year, a bowl of gravy that wobbled menacingly and the grits.

It would be easy to say that it was huge portions but not very good. But, that’s just not so. It was all, actually, pretty enjoyable. The biscuit was light, the eggs well prepared, the meat tasted of something and the grits. Well, entirely polenta like in their irrelevance. Can’t see any reason to ever try them again.

Mark’s brekkie looked pretty good too. That being said, we barely finished half of what was on our plates and still thought they should re-christen the restaurant “ Bye Bye Belt” We sat their groaning whilst, all around us the good people of Kansas were wiping their plates clean.

Mama came up to check that everything was just fine and our waitress gave us a disapproving cluck for having such wimpiocity. What can I say? As we left, Mark’s poor car gave a shudder at the thought of us plus our morning repast getting in.

We obviously needed a good long walk after that. But, I suspect in the Midwest, where they will drive to the bathroom, walking is soon to be made illegal. For some of the residents who eat regularly at MAMA’s I suspect it is soon to become impossible.

So, we went for a good long healthy drive instead. A great way to see some of the sights of the city including the stunning, if decaying buildings down by the old stockyards.

At Midday, we headed for City Market and the Steamboat Arabia Museum. A truly lovely museum which houses the cargo and remains of a sunken steamboat which a local family excavated. It has the single largest collection of pre-civil war artefacts anywhere in the World and provided a very happy diversion as we digested our huge breakfast in preparation for the next part of the assault course, I mean meal.

By 2pm, we were feeling just that little bit peckish and I demanded Q. Oklahoma Joe’s is considered, by all the Kansans I know as the best of the bunch, but it is closed on a Sunday. A close second place though is given to Arthur Bryant’s which was very much open.

A legend in it’s own lunchtime, Arthur Bryant’s is well known for its Barbecue sauce and Mark always is kind enough to mule in a bottle or three for me when he comes to the UK. A typical Q joint, it has lots of formica tables to which people decamp after lining up to order by shouting to the guys in the kitchen and then paying at the end of the counter. You had better know exactly what you want to order too. Here, you snooze, you lose and they go on to the next person while you are stranded in no man’s land. Time and burnt ends wait for no man.

Still, I just about made myself understood and we got to the end of the line with our ½ lb of brisket and slab of ribs along with some peculiar looking fries, beans, slices of Wonderbread and a couple of mugs of Boulevard Pale Ales. Not a bad haul for $35.

We squeezed our self into a small table set about our tray. Not bad. The ribs were fantastic, juicy and tender and worked well with any of the three sauces on offer. The brisket less so. A bit dry. The fries were vile and to be avoided and I didn’t bother with the bread. Loved the beans though.

Mark balances my desire to try every restaurant in a place with his desire to try every museum. It works well which is why we get on and there were a couple of places on the recently restored 18th & Vine that he was keen to try. The Negro League Baseball Museum and The Jazz Museum

Opened with, I believe, federal grants, two museums occupy the same complex and you can buy tickets to visit both for a miserly $8.

The Negro League Baseball museum was everything a good museum should be. Informative ( especially to a foreigner like me who knows nothing about Baseball ) and respectful. It is beautifully designed and makes one think about the circumstances under which such a league could ever be necessary. Mark explained a lot of things to me and seemed most impressed that one player ( arguably the fastest between bases ever ) a chap called Cool Papa Bell once made third base on a bunt. One day, I fully intend to find out what that means.

Then, across the lobby to the Jazz Museum. I thought this was exactly the opposite. It missed the opportunity to explain Jazz and its origins. Rather it was full of inane interactive schtick and loud graphics which distracted from the people about whom they were talking. A shame.

Still, it was worth the $8 for the first museum alone, so no great complaints.

By the early evening, jet lag had returned with a vengance and I could not face our planned meal at soul food joint Peach Tree Buffet. So, a couple of extremely acceptable pints of Oatmeal stout at The 75th St Brewery sufficed as supper.

I wish I had more time to spend in this very agreeable city. However, the next stage of the journey calls and so, after my meeting with Hallmark tomorrow, I am off to one of my favourite cities in the US

Chicago here I come. But, I will be back to KCM soon. Of that, I am sure

PERIGRINATIONS OF A PARIAH

DAY ONE: UP TO DATE IN KANSAS CITY

Just my bloody luck. One of the biggest weeks in British sporting history ( The FA Cup, The Arse in the Champions League and Ricky Hatton in a big fight ) and where was I? I’ll tell you where. Half way across the world in a country where sports may well be a major part of life, but only if the US wins. That’s right. I am in the good old US of stateside. A country where the participation ( using the term loosely ) of Canadian teams allows them to call their championships “World Series” You do just have to love them.

This time, I have managed to bookend my trip with a few days me time. A rare and necessary treat given a fun, if brutal business schedule

First port of call, Kansas City.

After an entirely uneventful flight, I arrived about fifteen minutes ahead of schedule at the single most disgusting airport in the entire world bar none and no returns. Chicago O Hare ( O hell, more like ) This is the exact replication of every level of Hades. From the moment I arrived to be sneered at by immigration, through the tortuous wait for my luggage ( arriving out last of all, of course ) and then fighting my way on to the inter-shuttle terminal before the final act of dehumanisation of practically stripping before going through domestic security. Everything about this airport fills me with loathing. The prevalent smell of cinnamon which pervades every bit of the terminal concourse, the sight of unfeasibly large human beings scarfing down equally unfeasible amounts of food that contains at least a month’s worth of fat, salt and sugar to the robotic “ at this time we would like to ask you to …..” of the airline staff. Everything about it makes me want to gnaw my own head off rather than experience it again.

Still, for all the horrors. It is worth it for the end result and final destination. Kansas City MO. I have meetings planned here on Monday but was invited by my dear chum, Mark, to come and spend a couple of days with him beforehand and kick back and enjoy some of that Midwest hospitality.

My colleague, Zaro spent a good deal of her younger days in the Midwest and is not that fond of coming back. Me? I love it. I think it is the sense of other I feel when I am here. It is, to me, a representation of real America, both good and bad. Seeing signs of the highway showing the way to Wichita, otherwise only known to me in song still gives me a thrill. It could well be a big old cesspit of a town. Who knows? But, for a little old lad from Rotherham, it still makes me raise a grin.

Kansas City MO is a perfect example of that. It still seems to be kicking itself in the arse for letting the trans-continental railway hub go to Chicago way back when. A decision which transformed the city from the nation’s largest ( where everything was, of course, up to date ) to a Midwest also ran.

It is more that that. The people have a tangible sense of civic pride ( except of course, that is in sport where their major league teams are a laughing stock ) and it has a highly developed cultural and culinary scene. The quality of life is often voted amongst the best in the US. On the downside however, they seem to be keen not only to ignore their history but to rip it down and build over it. Main St shows signs of the lovely buildings of its heyday but now in rack and ruin as it was abandoned and people moved to live in the suburbs and many of the buildings seem to be created by committee rather than design. That being said. It does have the lovingly restored Union Station complete with the bullet holes left when Pretty Boy Floyd ( I think ) met his fate at the end of a tommy gun and a number of other buildings from the 20’s and 30’s that remain stunning examples of their kind.

My flight from Chicago to Kansas was delayed due to the slow boarding of a whole troop of elderly veterans who had, one of them told me, been to The Golden Age Games in Virginia. Apparently they happen in a different city every year and the men gather to compete at games such as shuffleboard. Although, the sprightly 70 something next to me informed me, with a wink, that it was really and excuse to “ meet the ladies” It looked more likely that he would pull a muscle than a bird, but, if god grants me the span to be that old, I hope I have half the energy of these guys.

Another interminable wait at the airport for my luggage and I met up with Mark and headed to his stunning house.

I have known Mark for a number of years through my work with Hallmark, who, it seems own most of Kansas. He is one of the good guys and meeting people like him is one of the reasons I love this business. He is my friend and I don’t say that lightly. However, he does tend to much to the hale and hearty sometimes and has an over use of phrases such as "gosh darn it” which make me want to get out a hypodermic of cynicism and inject it into him.

He did also almost get me killed once as I gave him a tour of London’s East end where he insisted on stopping and photographing manhole covers ( I kid you not ) He then, when we were sitting in a slightly rough old pub, announce in a loud American accent that he had been taking some “neat pictures of manholes” Ahem.

Still, he seems to be doing alright in his “golly gee” Thumper-ish kind of way and, as I say, he has a stunning house. Much of the work on it was done by him as he is a talented carpenter and furniture maker.

When I arrived, the house was already buzzing with some friends of his he had invited over to meet the brit and I dumped my bags and spent the rest of the night happily guzzling on rather nice Fat Tire Amber Ale while Mark prepared beer can Chicken ( he will hate me for posting the picture as he burnt the skin, though the chicken was incredibly moist and delicious )and grilled shrimp on the Weber.

We stood around the burner as the night became a little cooler. The full moon was in full effect, the food and company was good, the beer plentiful and it all suddenly seemed worth an eighteen hour journey.

Welcome to the Midwest.

P.S "note to self" humour doesn't always travel. So when Americans ask you if you jokingly if you were cavity searched at the airport, it is probably best not to reply "only when I asked really nicely"

ANCHOR AND HOPE: A CUT ABOVE

There is a restaurant called St John and a gastropub (the original) called The Eagle which begat several places of note one of which was the Anchor and Hope near Waterloo. HS and I had avoided visiting because of the no-booking policy (we just won’t queue…for anything). In the face of glowing reviews we just pretended the place didn’t exist. Even when drinking just around the corner in the vodka bar, Baltic, when the conversation turned to where to eat it never made the shortlist. In other words we hated it and we’d never even been.

HS’s trip to the good ol US of Stateside temporarily broke the spell and a pending night in with some beer, bread and cheese (well, Young's Kew Brew, Poilane Rye and Keen’s Cheddar) settled it. I made a date with my good friends Anny and Gavin (Bill Nighy). With a brief stop at a City office to watch the FA Cup penalty shoot-out I made it down to The Cut just as the restaurant was opening. Bill (sorry, Gavin) was as usual surrounded a gaggle of tourists clamouring for his autograph so I went to secure us a table and me a beer. Both were achieved with no fuss and that was it. We were in.

The room, in case you’ve never been (and there can’t be many food-loving Londoners who haven’t) was designed by David Collins and cost ten million pounds. With napery by Frette, stemware by Riedel and Royal Doulton Bone China it will please those who care about such things. I don’t, so some of the above may not be totally accurate. I was having such a good time enjoying my food I never noticed.

The menu is just the right size (A4) and is just full of things you want to eat. We quickly decided upon some Bloater paste, new season English Asparagus and a Pork and Herb Terrine. The waitress anticipated that we would be sharing and bought extra plates – sometimes it’s the little things that impress.

The terrine although not up to that complex slab of loveliness I had at Vinoteca was good: meaty and dense. Extra interest was added by the accompanying anchovy butter on toast. The bloater paste was light and creamy with a pepper-enhanced farewell and very moreish. The asparagus was cooked perfectly and tasted of a nascent summer.

I had the spirit of HS at my shoulder insisting that we order the suckling lamb for our next course. The waitress told me they usually get this from the Pyrenees but were now using a Cumbrian lamb. Whatever, it came in a vast dish filled with the delicious braising liquor which was filled with all manner of good things (greens, potatoes, butter beans). Gavin (sorry, Bill) came up trumps with a delicious Chateau Le Cedre Cahors. The only thing lacking was a decent knife to carve the bugger. Larger than a Spanish Lechazo, Larry was nonetheless equally enjoyable. Crisp skin, sweet lamby meat. We had some steamed and buttered spring greens but really didn’t need them.

After the brief intercoursal fag relay we decided to go the extra mile and chose a Chocolate Pot, Almond Tart and Rhubarb fool. All were v. good the tart especially so. Instead of the usual dried up, sugary, fridge fresh confection we got a moist, crumbly, not oversweet, wedge that was served tiede with a dollop of Clotted Cream. The other two desserts showed an equally light hand with the sugar spoon.

As we wandered out to the pub bit for a night cap the place was busy but not chaotic. Apparently the wait for a table was now about 90 minutes, not such a long time if you’re having a couple of cocktails in the bar beforehand. A special word about the service. Despite the less than complementary things I’d head I found it, even when the place was full, to be spot-on.

We took our liqueurs at a pavement table, shivering as a cold northerly blew down The Cut and the storm clouds hove into view. A perfect English summer’s ending for a perfect English supper.

FAULKNERS: REQUIEM FOR A CHIPPIE

I am about to head off on a two week business/pleasure trip to the good old US of Stateside. While that is a good thing and will include visits to Chicago, Kansas City, Washington DC and Las Vegas, it does mean that I will be away from God’s own city for long enough that I will begin to feel homesick.

So, tonight when HP suggested going out for supper, a plate of Fish & Chips seemed just the job.

I was home quite early, packed for my early start tomorrow and we headed out of the door a little after 6.30pm

First, naturally, a couple of pints. Amongst the gastro pubs that have sprung up in the oh so fashionable environs of SOSHO, The Princess has got very little coverage. I quite liked the food there on my two visits. HP, less so. Still, they do have Tim Taylor’s Landlord on draft and, when HP grimaced on the sip of his first pint, they acknowledged that it was off and changed the barrel and both of our drinks.

There are certain things that happen when you go out for an evening that mark the passage of time. Tonight it was the fact that a huge number of the predominantly young crowd were drinking pissy Sol with lime. So, that’s twenty years ago it was hip, Fifteen years ago it was naff, ten years ago it was ironic and now it is right back to hip again. Scary.

After our couple of heart starters, we headed down to the Kingsland High Rd just as it began to rain. Fortunately ( and I have never said this about public transport before ) a bus came along and we hopped on for the short journey up towards Dalston and Faulkner’s Chip shop.

Now, Faulkner’s used to be THE fish & chip shop in London. An old school take away and restaurant that offered exceedingly fresh fish in batter or Matzo meal. About a year or so ago it changed hands and was taken over by new Turkish owners which led to the obvious squeals that the world was coming to an end. Personally, I could not give a rat’s knackers who owns it or from whence they came if they know what they are doing.

Unfortunately, the new owners of Faulkner’s do not.

We arrived around 7.15ish and took a large table by the window. The restaurant was full. But that was, apart from one table of bemused Japanese tourists, mainly down to a table of 25 having some sort of celebration.

We ordered immediately and the service while not actively surly looked as if the waitresses thought they would get sacked if they cracked a grin.

To begin some, and I quote “ freshly" made Tarama from fresh fish roe. No it bleeding wasn’t. Mother's been too Iceland. That colour only comes from a multitude of E numbers. Don’t give me that.

Whitebait was better, if not great. A breading coating rather than just simple flour made it slightly lumpen.

Then to our main courses.

For me, Haddock & Chips. For HP, a special of Halibut. I had no idea that there was a medical laboratory so close to the restaurant. I assume that is the case, because I have no idea how they would have been able to get such a thin slice of Halibut without the use of a laser micrometer. You could easily have read a page of the Hackney Gazette through it.

My Haddock looked the part but, while the fish was fresh the batter put up about as much resistance to my knife as an easy date would to a smooch after a couple of Mai Tai’s. Not one bit of crispness at all. I thought it may be that, because of the big party at the other table, our food was kept under the pass. But, on looking at the other tables being served all the fish seemed the same.

The chips that came with it were anaemic and without any flavour and the mushy peas slightly grim. We also ordered a side of onion rings which were pure Findus. There was not the slightest evidence that this was not straight from a catering pack.

With a bottle of Sancerre ( as good as a Sancerre for £15 can be ) the bill for two came to £55. A lot to pay from freezer aisle standard food served with a sneer.

Ho Hum

We sloped back tails firmly between our legs to The Princess (via Pitfield St where I took a Photograph of a sign outside an off Licence for no other reason than it made me smile.) for a nightcap of Knob Creek.

When we got home, I made a mental “ Note to Self”

Next time I think about having Fish & Chips anywhere South of Rotherham. Slap me. Slap me hard.

THE EAGLE BAR & DINER:

Years ago, when I was at the nascent stage of my managerial career at Penguin Books, I recall overhearing one of the young publicity girlies talking to her colleagues and saying

“ I had supper with Giles/Piers/Rupert/interchangeable chinless inbred idiot etc etc last night. The food was awful, but it was cheap so it was really great.”

I thought about that tonight when I ate at The Eagle Bar & Diner just off Oxford St.

I was meeting up with my bestest chum, Paul ( mentioned on these pages before ) and, foolishly, rather than staying safely on home territory, we had decided to revisit old haunts from 10+ years ago in the West End. Stupid. Really stupid.

First to the Pillars of Hercules. A pub that I used to frequent all too regularly when I was a rep for Penguin as it was situated right behind Foyles. I am certain it is no worse now than it was then but, my tolerance of shitty beer is a lot less and the presence of an “ironic” DJ playing tunes from the 60’s did not help. We scarpered from there as soon as the first pint was over.

Trudging up through Fitzrovia avoiding the other similar pubs all of which seemed to have The Artic Monkeys blaring from their sound systems, we found an safe haven in The Duke OF York just off Goodge St and had a couple of perfectly acceptable pints of Greene King IPA with nothing to bother us but the sound of an increasingly angry man playing ( and losing ) on the slot machine.

Around 8pm, we needed refuelling and headed to The Eagle Bar and Diner for supper. A mistake. A very grave mistake and one that was evident the moment we walked in and had to start screaming to be heard by the waiter.

This was just two people out of place and out of time. We were by far the oldest people in the place ( including the staff ) by at least ten years. The music was pumping out some tuneless thumping nothingness for simpletons and there was a thick fug of smoke.

As far as I could tell, not being able to hear a thing they said, the service was quite friendly and we took a table to the side of the bar.

A standard menu which has had some good reviews. I cannot imagine why unless it is because the paucity of such diners in London means that anyone who offers an 8oz burger is legally obliged to get a good review.

There is nothing on the menu that excites. But, that would be perfectly fine if the standards were any good. They are not. In fact, they range from just about acceptable to “ don’t make me come into the kitchen and slap you silly”

We ordered two 8oz burgers. One with Monterey Jack and one with the same plus bacon ( I will leave you to guess which one of us had the pork ) With this, some cheese fries and some coleslaw and a couple of Brooklyn Lagers.

All, actively horrid. The coleslaw was gloopy and sloppy. The chips, while stringy as advertised, were as floppy as a 90year old on his wedding night and the burgers while promisingly tall were as blah as beef can get without becoming Quorn.

No two ways about it. This was a horrible, horrible meal. The scary thing was, it was packed with young folk who all seemed to be enjoying as if it was the second coming. I guess, the combo of lousy beef and pumping house passes for a good time these days if you are closer to puberty than death.

£35 for two. I would rather lay prone and offer my gonads up to be kicked soundly by 100 burly Milwall fans than ever ever set foot in that dunghole again.

Afterwards, feeling thoroughly dispirited, Paul offered to buy me a nightcap. So, we walked down to The Chancery Hotel Bar. Here, some of the best and best value cocktails in London are being made and we indulged in a perfect, Perfect Manhattan and a very good Old Fashioned with some exemplary snacks which restored our humours somewhat. They cost about the same as the meal.

We finished the evening by discussing the lyrics of Thin Lizzie’s “Jailbreak” and the basic flaw there in.

“tonight there is gonna be a jailbreak. Somewhere in the town” er, how about in the jail?

You see, young folk would never be able to have that kind of intelligent conversation about all that thumpy thumpy music.

Now, where the hell are my slippers?

SAKI: THE CHRONICLES OF COLD SAKE
As I may have mentioned before. I am developing quite
a taste for Japanese food fuelled in no small part by
the fact that a number of decent to good places have
opened up around me in the civilised area of town.

However, I very rarely get to experience it with
someone who really knows the food and can explain the
menu as well as my chum Akiko. I was delighted when she organised a
supper for eight of us at Saki in Smithfield market

So, although I was very pleased to see all of my seven
chums last night ( Gavin excluded as his growing hair
and fierce expression is making him look more like the
bastard child of Bela Lugosi and Bill Nighey every day
and, quite frankly, he scares me ) I was delighted
that A and her hubby, Chris were amongst them and I
positioned myself directly across from her at the
table. Much to her, er, delight.

I arrived with HP a little after 7pm and we went
through the store area of the restaurant which seemed
pretty well stocked with a wide range of Japanese
groceries and sat ourselves down in the bar and
ordered cocktails while we waited for the others to
arrive.

For HP some version of a mule which came with
a flaming, rum filled passion fruit shell on top of a
Vodka drink infused with fresh ginger and chilli. I
had a beer to begin but, when the others arrived moved
on to something called A Blue Dragon which was
actually actively vile and tasted like drinking a
bottle of Matey Bath Bubbles.

The barman was intensely serious and, in a way, it reminded me of my
favourite NY bar, Angel Share. The drinks here though were nowhere near as good.
Or, to be fair, the ones I tried weren’t. They may well have been perfectly made, just horrid.

Any road up, by this time most of the gang had arrived
except of course, the pathologically tardy M. Rosen
upon whom we were dependent on the ordering of the
Sake, her having just completed an article of the
stuff.

Still, Akiko was in full effect and we went to our
table in a private enclave of the rather lovely room
and left the ordering to her which she took as much in
her stride as sitting opposite me.

The menu was predicated on Kobachi ( small plates )
which is, I guess like Tapas and while we waited we (
by we, I mean Akiko ) ordered a number of dishes

AGEDASHI TOFU – fried and served in dashi stock. It
was tofu. Not a lot to like or dislike about it.
Pretty though.

BEEF CARPACCIO with fresh pear and sesame flavoured
soy – that’s better, some meat and very good it was
too. Great texture.

CHAWAN MUSHI – Perhaps my favourite dish of the whole
night. Basically, a savoury egg custard stuffed with
king crab. We had four plates of this on the table
and it was all we could do to stop HP licking them
clean.

GRILLED AUBERGINE WITH RED MISO - This dish is, I am told, common in Japan.
But I had never seen it until I read the NOBU cookbook.
This was really rather splendid and the skin ( left by some - why?) was the best bit.

Then to the Okazu ( Light main courses ) which again, Akiko ordered lots of and we all shared

SPICY PORK BELLY Hot Pot – I should have loved this.
It has the words Pork Belly in the description. However, I think this was the weakest dish of the night. It was Irish stew to all intents and purposes. It takes a lot for me not to have a private moment when pork is involved and you have to work pretty hard to make it bleh. They did though.

TONKATSU - panko breaded fried pork. It's fried and it's pork. Just leave me to have that private moment I talked about. It was excellent. Very good frying which was a feature of the evening. Greasless and served with two sauces one of which, I am certain was Daddies Brown Sauce.

ASST SEAFOOD & VEGETABLE TEMPURA - beautifully prepared and quickly consumed.

BLACK COD WITH MISO - another NOBU staple. This was not a great example and I found it a bit, well, slimey to be honest. Chris declared it " not as good as Akiko's" which drew an approving glance from his Mrs. Suck ups. Don't you just hate them?

We were not finished yet by any manner of means. We then went head long into asst sushi, both Maki and Nigiri. We had to re order some as we had forgotten that one of our number, Anny, does not eat cucumber. I have mentioned this before as one of the more curious things not to like. Like hating air or something. Cucumber does not actively do anything. It just is. Still each to their own and there was a very definite upside for me and Chris as we, sitting next to her, ate all her bits. Tee and indeed, hee.

The Unagi Nigiri ( fish on top of rice ) was a highlight. Unfortunately, they had no uni ( sea urchin ) The Tobikko ( flying fish roe ) Maki was a new one one me. Like eating savoury space dust as it popped in the mouth. A very salty taste and I am not about to follow that to its logical crude conclusion despite what you may think of me.

Hiramasa ( yellowtail ) and Toro ( fatty tuna ) were also very well prepared

Maggie Rosen and Akiko between them kept us well supplied with Sake all of which were lovely. An Uragasumi Junmai (£37 a bottle ) an Onikoroshi (£36 a bottle ) and another which I don't recall.

By the end, we were all pretty stuffed and did not try any of the puddings and just finished with some green tea.

The bill, including service which was efficient and incredibly friendly from start to finish was a not inconsiderable £65 each. That being said, for food and preparation of this quality, I did not begrudge a single penny. HP did though and, remembering his days in front of the TV at a tender age watching Robert Harbin, he tried to offer up a hastily made flapping bird by way of payment. Let's just say the shrift he received was far from long.

We staggered out fo there some four hours later and I wandered home to open the fridge and find the uneaten remains of my gammon joint staring at me accusingly as if to say " you've been eating fish haven't you? I can smell it all over you" What can I say? With sushi places like Saki opening up all over my neighbourhood, I can see my self being unfaithful to meat a lot more often

SUNDAY: GOD & GAMMON

Pork, obviously is one of the proofs of the existence of God. So what better to cook on a Sunday by way of offering?

Every now and again, I get the urge to cook gammon an often forgotten and much debased product of the pig ( think of those watery slices of gunk you see in the supermarket ) But, when of good origin and well prepared, it is one of my favourite pork joints

I am told the word originated from the French for back leg and the cut of pork is taken from the same part of the animal as ham but cut square rather than rounded. It is then brine cured. It can be smoked or left as it is ( known as green gammon )

My local butcher, James Elliot on The Essex Rd ( next door to Steve Hatt ) always has some of the best gammon I have found anywhere and so, when I decided to prepare this for Sunday lunch, I pre-ordered a large chunk cut from the knuckle end.

Yesterday morning after my training session I walked up there to pick up an unfeasibly large chunk of pig which, after managing to lug home, I put to soak in two changes of water overnight.

This morning, feeling heavy headed after a full on Dos Hermanos Wenlock/Mangal combo last night, I put the joint on a gentle simmer and strained off any impurities that came to the surface. Then, another change of water and a further simmer.

Then I drained the joint, peeled off the skin and scored the fat. I made a glaze by coating all over with English mustard, studding the fat with cloves and then sprinkling with muscavado sugar.

A final blitz in the oven to crisp up the glaze leaves a fabulously golden end product which I left to rest while making the traditional accompaniments. Boiled potatoes, shredded cabbage with bacon and a thick creamy parsley sauce.

There is plenty left, so I see some Pea & Ham soup in my immediate future.

A very simple, if slightly labour intensive lunch which I am now happily digesting while watching Arsenal say a suitable goodbye to Highbury.

SEARCY’S: MISSION IMPOSSIBLE AT THE BARBICAN

There were three Mission Impossible’s at The Barbican tonight

One, would I make it all the way through a two hour movie without having to go and drain a middle aged bladder? I did. Does that mean I get the girl? And, if so, will I still remember what to do with her?

Two, Tommy boy’s mindless, perfectly formed and very enjoyable latest piece of hokum.

Three, having an edible meal in a public space such as a theatre, gallery or museum.

So, at a little after 8pm, we emerged from the recently refurbished Cinema One and did a walk in at Searcy’s, the Barbican’s in house attempt at decent dining.

It had some good reviews recently, primarily from Giles Coren which would, under normal circumstances make me want to run a hundred miles in the opposite direction. Still, it is close to home and, if it turned out to be lousy, at least I did not have a cab fare to fork out.

When we arrived, it was mid performance for the main shows, so the place was, bar two couples, completely empty. In a space as vast as this, that does make it seem a tad unwelcoming and cavernous, but we were given a decent table by the window with a nice view towards Cripplegate and St Paul’s.

They offer a “ Performance Menu” of two courses for £21.50 and three courses for £25.50. Reasonable value at first glance, but the menu is limited and, it soon becomes apparent that very little cooking is involved in bringing food from kitchen to table as most of the dishes are composed. From the point of view of the owners of the restaurant, the menu is a very sensible and efficient one. It is predicated almost entirely on pre prep which would, I guess allow them to get supper to people pre theatre lickety split in time to watch whatever it was they were going to see and talk bollocks about afterwards.

To be fair though, as HP pointed out, all the dishes are ones you would find on many more ambitious restaurants and, if the ingredients are good, then, well plated dishes can often be better than dishes that have been cooked poorly.

To begin, HP ordered a Foie Parfait ( from the specials ) with an onion marmalade and brioche. This was, quite frankly, as good an example as you could find in London. Perfect texture, very decent portions and not fridge fresh as is so often the case.

I went for a “house cured” hake fillet with clams and baby cress. Again, a composed dish of excellent provenance. Transparent wafers of hake with meaty clams and a salad of micro greens dressed in a wonderfully lawny olive oil.

For main courses, HP again chose from the specials ( in fact he chose the only specials ) a rib eye of steak with a Mushroom brulee, broccoli and jus. This showed where the kitchen was at its weakest. The one bit of cooking from scratch and the steak was more medium rare than rare. The beef did not seem to be of the top order either and the jus was too reduced to just the wrong side of gravy mix. The mushroom thingy was nice though.

My course was another composed course. A tartlet ( when does a tartlet become a tart? ) of Manouri, a Greek whey cheese. Yep, I chose the vegetarian option. Actually, not bad in a non descript “ let us never speak of this again” kind of way

They offer side dishes for £3. We did not have any, but saw plates of chunky chips ( looked pretty decent ) and roasted vegetables ( looked like roasted vegetables ) being taken to other tables

With this, a 300% marked up Chilean Cab Sav Rose ( £5.99 at your local Sommerfield ) which would have been fine had I bought it and glugged it back on the balcony. But, not paying £20!

Well, we were in the mood now and went for a dessert each. Both, yep, composed. No cooking needed. For HP a white chocolate mousse with raspberry ice cream and for me, poached rhubarb with mascarpone and a rhubarb jelly. Well prepared and decent flavours and, in many ways, better than so many blah molten chocolate blah de blah that you have to wait fifteen minutes for.

I had a glass of dessert wine and a fresh mint tea. HP had coffee and a grappa.

So, we went, as per usual, a little bit beyond the normal requirements of a simple supper and the bill consequently came to a frightening £101 for two inc 12.5% for service which was formal, efficient if ever so slightly unable to get past the fact that you were in no rush to wolf down food to go and see a show. A fact which led to hurried wine and water pouring.

I would imagine without our extra ordering and the service charge that gets whacked on that bit of the meal, a couple could come out of here at three courses for two people at c£75.

That’s a lot to pay for meals that to all intents and purposes have been plated rather than cooked. While the menu has been geared towards composition rather than anything else, is intelligently chosen and, on the whole, shows sign of thoughtful buying of ingredients. I can think of a lot better ways to spend that kind of money