I CAN SEE BY WHAT YOU CARRY THAT YOU COME FROM BARRYTOWN


Dinner on my own tonight as HS was laid up with a badly bruised coccyx (don’t laugh). Hence a barely adequate report from deepest Knightsbridge and a disappointing restaurant called La Noisette.

I quite like eating by myself, it allows a pleasing level of self-indulgence. Whole bottles of expensive wine to oneself, no worries about trying to balance the meal (I’ll have the lamb, you have the fish), great table. The restaurant staff are usually extra nice as well, the best example of which was when I got comp’d a big bowl of pasta and white truffle at Jean Georges. Anyway, when I pitched up for my table at La Noisette I spotted my table straight away. It might as well as have had a sign above it saying Billy No-Mates with a big arrow pointing down. All signs that this might have been be a table for two had been removed, even
the flowers seemed, well, a bit limper than on the other tables.

Never mind. I sat down, relaxed and sipped a very chilled Lustau Manazanilla and munched on breadsticks and a labneh (in other words chips ‘n’ dip). This space used to be home to Pengelley’s and the décor probably contributed to its demise: think airport lounges from the early to mid-seventies. Everything was brown and orange. Still the food’s the thing and I went for the Inspiration Menu. For £65 you get a surprise degustation menu. The surprise in my case being how uninspiring the whole thing was.

First up was veal carpaccio which didn’t really taste of anything but had
some very nice little bits of baby coriander.

Next a little salad nicoise. This was good, quali egg perfectly cooked, tinned tuna, some confited tomatoes, small onion rings, french beans and incongruously, rocket, all brought together by a really good dressing. Now I began to get excited and was looking
forward to the courses to come, the first of which was…

Deep fried Soft-shell crab. I’ve never got my head round this dish even in the context of a SE Asian restaurant, the frying does seems to get in the way and this was no different. It was crispy, salty, slightly greasy. Nice with a cold one but somewhat out of place in a fine dining restaurant. The accompanying broad beans didn’t really do much to lift the dish. The
tomatoes made another appearance.

Onwards and slightly backwards. Deep fried squid with more rocket and what’s this ? Our old chum confit tomatoes. There was some good technique here, the teeny tiny squid rings were perfectly cooked. Unfortunately, not a good thing to do to a little squid - you could hardly taste the blighter.

Technique was the name of the game in the next course: a hedgehogged scallop (see picture) in pea puree with some deep-fried herbs on top. Looked stunning but why inflict this treatment on a scallop ? The foamed puree was too underpowered and the scallop lacked that sweetness that the best ones do.

I was now getting a little weary. Tasting menus are fine when there are some real highlights but when you realise they’re not going to come the whole thing becomes a chore. Also, the timing was all wrong with the dishes coming in quick sucession. The next dish certainly woke me up.

Rack of lamb in a curry sauce. Oh dear, oh dear. What a disaster. Imagine you made a curry sauce but you dropped most of the curry powder in. The result would still be better than this. To make things worse the spices hadn’t been cooked out properly. The taste lives with me still. The lamb was perfectly cooked but like most of the source ingredients tonight, tasted of not very much. Compare with Galvin @ Windows which I visited when it opened. There, the quality of the meat, fish etc. shone through with every dish. I complained about this dish and the FOH after returning from the kitchen admitted that the chef had got a bit carried away, There was nothing offered in compensation but I noticed most of the wines by the glass I had to accompany the meal had been knocked off the final bill but obviosuly I would have preferred an edible dish.

Cheese course next at a supplement of £8. The usual (French) suspects were ok but no more. The oat biscuits were quite nice though.

The first sweet course was the best dish of the night. A mini-crème brulee with a berry coulis in a shot glass. Excellent brulee with a crisp top and tiede custard partnered with an intense and slightly tart berry coulis. Great stuff.

Back to the humdrum with the second dessert, a chocolate tart with ice-cream, bits and berries. By this time I was ready to leave.

I thought I might as well go the whole nine yards and have coffe and PFs and a little digestif. The coffee was very good, the PFs were, well, PFs. The grappa did it’s job well (oh how I love it).

What can I say ? I was really looking forward to this meal but like most high-end dining in London it flatters to deceive. The level of technique in the kitchen is high but the quality of ingredients mediocre and the first can never compensate for the second.

When I got home there was news of more carnage in the Middle East which made me think that if the worse I can say about my life is that I get jejune saucing in a restaurant then I’m not really doing that bad.

LIKE A BIT OF THE COCK TAVERN IN THE MORNING ?

Blogspot has been down nearly all day and it is only now that I can share with you how splendid my breakfast at The Cock Tavern was this morning in words AND loving pictures.

Mind you, that kind of sums up my life right now. Lousy enough to make me think that any day I don’t jump off a tall building is a bonus (There will be more about tall buildings later, keep up).

I have a day off which has been oh so much fun. A long session at the Osteopath first thing as he attempted to relieve a back problem that is painful enough to mean that I have had no sleep in a week and am barely able to sit. Enter HP with sympathetic noises about “buying a rubber ring”

Then, talking of leaping off tall buildings (see) I went to see Superman Returns not realising it was three hours long. Three hours of sitting on a damaged sacral bone was not my wisest move and I had to get a cab home and am now laid prone on the sofa. You'll believe a grown man can cry.

Still, as my dear granny always said, a good brekkie will set you up for most things. So, this morning, as I cannot train at the moment but am not able to sleep, I decided to head to Smithfield Market and join the cheery porters for their breakfast at The Cock Tavern at a little before 7am this morning.

A pretty full on thing it was too. Sausage, egg, bacon, livers, kidney, black pudding, tomatoes and beans. Along with a large mug of “builder’s” tea, it came to a massive £7.40. Good value and good quality. The kidneys, in particular were a thing of beauty and managed to cheer me up for an all too brief moment.

No sign of any “cheery” porters though. The place was almost empty when I first arrived apart from a group of drunken Scots taking advantage of the unusual licensing laws. By a count of the numbers of empties on their table, I guess they had taken quite a lot of advantage.

After 7am, as the market began to wind down, more porters began to arrive and fill the room with their fun loving Cock-er-ney banter. I left just as the men at the next table began to describe in all too graphic detail what they would like to do to Jordan. That was too much for me on a full stomach.

Still it was a very nice breakfast indeed ,and now the cretins at Blogspot have got things sorted, you don't have to take my words for it.

MASTERS SUPER FISH

MASTER’S SUPERFISH: I WOULD LOVE TO TOUR THE SOUTHLAND IN A TRAVELLING MINSTREL SHOW

This city never fails to astonish me. Whenever I think I have the hang of it after nearly 25 years living here, it comes up with something astounding. Whenever I think I know it inside out, someone says “ why don’t you meet me at X?” and I am introduced to a new part of town or a street I never knew existed.

Just like last night.

HP was having to do what he does to pay bills and I agreed to meet him for a drink after work before heading off to Waterloo to try Master’s Superfish, an old haunt of his and the original destination for our meal last week when we got sidetracked by the whiff of beef at The Anchor & Hope.

HP, suggested meeting at The Royal Oak on Tabard St. The where? On where? Yet another place I had never heard of. Anyway, Google map to the rescue showed Tabard St just South of Borough and The Royal Oak turned out to be a hugely agreeable old school pub which served Harvey’s beer from Sussex.

A couple of pints of mild there and HP said “let’s have another at The King’s Arms on Roupell St. The where? On where? God knows how often I have been through Waterloo and I had no clue that Roupell St even existed. A row of old worker’s cottages which probably now sell for a small fortune. It is one of the most attractive streets I can recall. The King’s Arms is its local. Unfortunately, it serves an atrocious pint. Really, really horrible and to be avoided at all costs. Ho Hum.

We sipped less than half and then left to head for supper.

Master’s Superfish is on Waterloo Rd. It is just down from The Cut and The Old Vic and I must have passed it about a 1000 times and never given it a second glance. HP, of course knew it well, but had not been there for over ten years.

It is obviously a great favourite of our cab driving friends as there must have been about 15 of them parked up outside and there appear to be one or two tables that seem reserved for their exclusive use. Probably the only time you will get a cabbie to go South of the river

The best Fish & Chips I have had in London in recent memory have been at The Golden Hind in Marylebone. I am going to stick my neck out and say that these, if not up there with the GH push it a very, very close second.

As soon as we sat down, a small plate with three fresh prawn were plopped in front of us as a freebie. That is just as it was the last time HP visited and so apparently is the décor.

We began with three starters, some stunning, fresh whitebait which was not over fried and left the meatiness of the small fish to speak for itself. A crab shell filled with the flaky white flesh and pasty brown flesh of a Cromer crab and some crunchy succulent calamari. All well worth a try but only a distraction while we waited for things to come.

We both ordered Haddock & chips and a side of mushy peas. Fantastic. Huge fillets in a crunchy batter with not a trace of oiliness, inside, moist flaky fish which let off a breath of steam ( as it should ) once the batter was pierced, and perfect double fried chips.

Best of all though, the pickles. The waitress brought over two big bowls, one containing gherkins and the other house pickled onions. What can I tell you? The onions are worth the visit just on their own. Easily the best I have ever tried and this is coming from a man whose Welsh granny’s pickled onions were talked about as far as Tonypandy. Truly, the pickled onion is a mark of a civilised society and there are none better than those at Master’s Superfish.

We could barely finish the vast amounts of food placed in front of us and were so stuffed we decided to walk North of the river and homeward. As we walked the skies darkened and rain decided to pour down. Fortunately, we were just by the OXO Tower and could shelter from the refreshing deluge while enjoying yet another view of St Paul’s in the changing light. Quite magical and a whole new view of a building I have seen a million times

Like I said, this city never runs out of ways to astonish. A beautiful view of St Paul’s and another great place for Fish & Chips. And, of course those pickles. Oh, those pickles.

CLAM BAM THANK YOU MA’AM

I was watching Rick Stein last night.

I am not proud of that and, to be fair all his “ Whenever I look at a fillet of Chubb, I can’t help thinking about that poem by W.B Yeats” bollocks drives me to mental distraction. Even though i have been known to quote Congreve on this blog in relation to a plate of jerk chicken!

However, while sipping on a small glass of something last night and being too idle to reach for the remote, I watched his French Odyssey where he pontificated about all things French, ate eels and quoted from whatever poet his researcher had dug up to say was his favourite.

Still, at some point he sat at a roadside café and ate clams and I could not help but be reminded of that passage from ….. Ah, stuff it, I just fancied some clams. No poetry, no citing Elizabeth D. I just wanted a bowl of clams

So another of my visits to Mr Hatt for a box of his Palourdes. Next door, to the grocer for some shallots, parsley and garlic and to Nicolas for the perfect accompaniment, a bottle of Muscadet.

Simple preparation, sweated off lots of garlic, shallots and some salt & pepper and then added the rinsed clams. A couple of glasses of white wine to make some steam and then finally huge amounts of parsley.

With a big plate of crusty bread to mop up those juices and some slow cooked chipolatas that happened to be in the fridge, this was as close as perfect as I can imagine without reading that poem by, damn, he’s got me doing it now.

HAWKSMOOR REDUX AND A BIT OF BREAD & WINE

Another cancelled supper with a friend tonight ( plus ca change ) left me at a loose end and, after another grim day at work, in need of a few cocktails

HP recently declared those at HAWKSMOOR as some of the best he has tried in London and, as we know, when it comes to matters shaken and stirred, he is a man of exquisite taste

I arrived at the bar to find it empty bar a few staff. I suspect that the understated sign and the location don’t help. That is soon going to change as Time Out have just reviewed as have The Daily Candy. Both were reasonably glowing and with very good reason as I can say without much hesitation that HAWKSMOOR serves the best cocktails I have tried in a very long time and at a very decent price with drinks ranging from £6.50-£7

Admittedly, with few distractions other than an ugly, bald, half welsh/Bengali man to distract him, Lucas, the Polish mixologist produced three of the finest cocktails I have tried in a long time. A dry Martini that was close to ending my shallow search for the perfect one and could only have been made better by chilling the Plymouth. A Manhattan was “perfect” in so many ways. However, best of all was an Old Fashioned. Lucas asked me if I wanted it “ hygienic” or “ unhygienic” I had to ask. Apparently, for a good Old Fashioned, the level of dilution has to be spot on. This cannot be achieved by taking ice in a scoop from a bowl as it remains too cold. The best way is for the mixer to add the ice by hand cube by cube and by so doing slightly melt the outside of the cube. He does wash his hands first, of course, but I can imagine this method is not to everyone’s taste. It does, however, produce a drink that is smooth and powerful, Magnificent. From now on, I can see myself asking a mixologist to “ wash your hands and make us an Old Fashioned.

HAWKSMOOR is owned by the people who own Green & Red and The Marquess Tavern. The man in charge is Nick Strangeway. He is, if you don’t recognise the name, The Don of London cocktail making. The man behind any number of amazing bars in London, The list is serious and long and well worth planning an evening or two exploring. Loved the glassware too

The food will take more work. The recently took over this space from a Turkish restaurant that never seemed to have anyone in it. They seem to have done little to the room and still offer a limited range of food. Today was, in fact, their first day with anything more than bar snacks and the offer is still ill formed in both content and price. They recognise this by offering a big discount on the food. Still, the intention is there with meat to be sourced from The Ginger Pig and competent staff in the kitchen.

I just ordered a sandwich. A Popcorn Shrimp Po’ Boy which was tasty enough but listed at £12 which is just plain silly. Even if it had come with chips and some of their coleslaw ( an extra £3 a pop on the menu) that would still have been too much. Still, as I say the intention to do something interesting is there as the serving of very good house made mayo and ketchup proves.

By the time I left, one other couple had arrived and were gnawing on ribs that looked well worth the effort. They also ordered a mint Julep which, in proper cups, had to be photographed if not tasted.

My three cocktails and sarnie with a tip came to £26. Good value on the drinks even if the food needs work.

Afterwards I walked the 100 yards to St John Bread & Wine and sat at the counter for dessert. The last time I was here, one of my dining companions got stuck in the toilet stall for about 30 mins. The rest of us were too pissed to noticed which made for an interesting chat when she finally got out. Mind you, the meal was pretty lousy too and I have felt no great need to return until popping by tonight.

This time, a honey cake with lemon ice cream. The cake was dry as old boots and only came to life when I poured half my glass of Vielle Prune over the top. The ice cream was good though. Still, £15 inc tip?

So, as food goes, undistinguished. But, for cocktails, a real find. Not mine as HP was there first although, as usual, I am more than happy to take the credit.

Oh, they were playing Elvis ( the real one not the pudgy Irish one ) for most of my visit in the bar which makes me even more inclined to return.

I can see myself propping up the bar at HAWKSMOOR on many evenings in my future

A STIRRING IN THE LOIN

Not much to report today.

While I was out on another course (Teaching Circuits for the record) HP was lollygagging around and pondering on a late Sunday lunch

So, I was greeted upon my return by the sight of a glorious loin of pork from The Ginger Pig, thick with fat and with a crunchy bubbling layer of crackling I can think of few things better.

Served with a few roast onions and heads of garlic, some tart gooseberry sauce and bitter crunchy curly kale.

I am going to let the pictures speak for themselves

ANCHOR & HOPE REDUX: SEGUNDO CAVES IN

Ok, I admit it. I was wrong. It has been known to happen. Not often, mind, but it has been known.

But, I was finally persuaded by HP to join him at Anchor & Hope in Waterloo and I rather liked it. Hated the room, loved the rest, but more of that later.

I had been on a course all day (Torso Training, if you must know) and agreed to meet HP afterwards for a pint at The Market Porter before heading for supper to Master Superfish in Waterloo.

In Rotherham, if any pub is rumoured to serve a “ bad pint” word soon gets around and that unlucky establishment soon begins to resemble the Marie Celeste. Well, unfortunately, in London, people don’t seem to care because The Market Porter serves a noxiously bad pint and, being so much part of the Borough Market scene, it was packed to the rafters. We ordered one pint of mild. It was disgusting. We asked them to change it and chose a bitter. It was worse. Like someone had given us a glass from the slops bucket or no one knew how to wash the pipes out. Give me the Wenlock Arms any day. We took one sip of the second pint, grimaced and walked out. Did anyone give a flying toss? Of course not. They were too busy selling pints of crappy Magner’s with ice to young folk.

So, we traipsed to Brewarf hoping that their homebrewed beer would be better. It wasn’t. They have renamed some of their beers after the favourites of the now defunct Youngs Brewery. The resemblance stops there. There were definitely “Ordinary” and not “Special” and certainly not the “ Best” Better than those at the Market Porter but not by much.

Ho Hum!

Dispirited, we decided to head to Waterloo. En route, we realised that we were close to Gambia St and Mar I Terra, a passable Tapas bar near Southwark Station. Not really worth stopping for a full meal but, a good stopping off point for a reviving drink and a plate O’ pig. A half bottle of La Gitana Manzanilla and a plate of Pata Negra took the taste of that vile beer out of our mouths and put us in much better spirits.

As we walked along The Cut to Waterloo Rd and our planned large plate of Fish & Chips, we passed The Anchor & Hope. I have railed in a true “ nose to spite my face” kind of way against this place for as long as it had been open because of its non booking policy. Despite the fact that all who I know who have been there tell me that it is the place that “ St John used to be” I have stood firm and defiant.

Last night, however, as we passed by, we noticed the room was empty. HP, got the whiff of beef in his nostrils and found it hard to pass by. I insisted though that if the wait was going to be any more than 15 minutes, we would stick to our original plan. Sure in the knowledge that we would be told we had to wait two hours and I would be reaffirmed in my dislike of this place based on nothing more than my own prejudice.

No such luck, we were shown straight to a table for two by an exceptionally friendly waitress and some excellent bread and butter was plonked down before I had chance to complain.

I really didn’t like the room. Curtained off, small and cramped with uncomfortable chairs. I just kept thinking “ it had damn well better be good” Thankfully, it was. Flawed in places, but on the whole worthy of the fuss and attention it has received.

While we pondered on the menu, we ordered a small carafe of Xacoli from the well chosen wine list.

Starters were slightly disappointing and I began to think this was not going to be all it was cracked up to be and I would have another reason to dislike it. A foie Gras ballotine and a pigeon terrine were, as HP has coined the phrase “ fridge fresh” and lacked sufficient seasoning. The bread with it was excellent though.

The poor Portugese waitress looked most disconcerted when we ordered out main course. We decided to go for the Rib of beef for two (£40 )with fat chips and béarnaise sauce. That would have been fine but, when she asked if we wanted any sides, we asked for another main course, The faggot with broad and green beans. “ That’s far too much food” she implored. “ don’t worry about it, love” I replied. “ The beef is very large” she tried again. “ really, don’t worry about it, love” I replied.

Finally, she rolled her eyes and said “ don’t say I didn’t warn you” as she walked off to put the order in.

In reality, there was nothing for any of us to be concerned about. Portions were indeed very big but, nothing that DH have not faced before and certainly nothing that HP could not have managed on his own let alone with help from a younger sibling. This is a man, after all, who ate Peter Luger’s Porterhouse for two on his own with nothing more than a couple of Martini’s to wash it down.

The faggot was excellent if a little under seasoned. Cooked off in caul fat and sat on top of unshelled young broad beans and green beans. A nice distraction but no match for the beef which was redolent of the chuleton we have regularly in Spain. Beautifully rare, unafraid to wallow in its fat and with the bone to provide gnawage potential at the end. The fat chips were not great. A proplem, HP argues with the notion of fat chips themselves rather than any failure in the kitchen. It makes them hard to crisp up and floury in the middle. However, the real star was the sauce. Bernaise sauce is, if I remember my philosophy classes from University, one of Barclay’s proofs of the existence of God. This was as good an example as I have ever tried. Unctuous, thick and sharp. I just sat and spooned it into my mouth and then asked for another big bowl which they happily brought immediately. Spectacular.

An inconsequential Pic St Loup from the Laungedoc failed to live up to the flavours of the beef. Our fault for ordering. It would have been fine with most dishes on the menu and was a staple on the St John wine list for years.

Puddings were also from the “ St J stable” and all the better for it. A gooseberry fool and cherry tart. Not much to report, the pictures speak for themselves.

The bill, including impeccable service, came to £115. Again, this reflects our ability to order another main course alongside our meal. I still think it represented pretty good value for money.

So, that was what all the fuss was about. Now, if only they started taking reservations, I would lose all my, er, reservations.

P.S The picture of St Paul’s is for no other reason than I thought it looked stunning as we pottered North and towards civilisation.