DON'T MAKE ME DO IT WITHOUT THE FEZ ON

No review today as I find myself hors de combat after a bizarre gym accident and find the act of typing very painful (you lucky people).

THE GARRISON: GASTROPUBS AND ALL THAT

The people at The Garrison must have thought I was really enjoying myself at supper tonight. I was, after all, smiling and giggling like a good un all through my meal.

Unfortunately, it was not the meal that was the cause of such pleasure but a single line from Craig Brown’s very, very funny new book “1966 and all that” As a publisher, I know all about copyright, but I hope his publishers will treat the extract below as free publicity. The line in question was

“ during the early part of World War II, the German war machine bombarded Britain with “Teach Your Self German” pamphlets. This part of the war became known as The Berlitz” For the second time in two days, I snorted liquid through my nostrils.

A great shame that the rest of the meal could not live up to it.

I was pondering on where to have supper tonight when a new “special someone” suggested I meet them for a drink near London Bridge before they had to head off homeward. A bit of net searchage later, I came across The Garrison. A gastropub on The Bermondsey Rd that seems to be a hit with the good denizens of SE1.

After waving my chum off, I headed down to the pub which was full of bright young things and was shown to a table for two in the middle of the room.

The menu is very standard GP shtick and there were the pre-requisite specials chalked on a blackboard.

Some blah bread was brought out while I looked at the menu. I tasted a bit, not worth the effort.

To begin, I chose a special of crispy fried squid with a chilli jam. How bad can a dish get? Look at the picture, my friend, look at the picture. This was a few slivers of crappy squid that looked like it came from Iceland ( the freezer store where they sell complete meals for a £5 not the country just in case there was any mistake ) on top of a mound of leaves from a “ready to eat” bag drowned in too sharp a dressing. This is as bad as food gets without being declared unfit for human consumption. Truly, truly horrid.

I almost cancelled my main course, but was half way through an innocuous glass of vigionier, so stayed put.

I had misread the menu and thought I had ordered steak & chips. I had not. The dinner menu was actually steak and new potatoes with red onions and beef gravy. The beef was actually not so bad. A decent chunk of Charolais cooked medium rare and with a good ribbon of fat through the centre. However, everything else about the dish was a misfire. The potatoes were nondescript, the onions undercooked and the gravy akin to Bisto. A saving grace was a very good Sauce Bernaise. Sharp with enough vinegar and thick with tarragon. I asked for some Dijon mustard and got some Coleman’s French mustard. It is that kind of place.

A glass of insipid Malbec at £6 barely limped out of the glass before I got the bill and limped out of there.

I know a lot of people who criticise gastropubs claiming that food and pubs should never mix. I am not one of them. I think the ability to get a decent, simple meal at a reasonable price without necessarily booking is a boon to the London dining scene. But, we have come a long, long way since the opening of The Eagle where people queued to go "ooh" at the thought of a simple, well prepared meal. There is more choice in London now and expectations have been raised by places like The Fox and the much missed Sutton Arms. The Garrison could have passed muster ten years ago, but now?

Mind you, it was packed to the rafters, so what do I know? I’ll tell you what I know. I know Coleman’s French mustard when I taste it and I know that £33 for a meal as ordinary as this is just not on

DOS HERMANOS DO BRUSSELS

DAY TWO: THE EVENING EDITION ( IT”S ALL WATERZOI UNDER THE BRIDGE)

As we headed back to the hotel, we made another couple of stops.

MARY’S is by all accounts, by far the finest choclatier in Brussels. The store itself is stunning and the service charming. How could we just walk by without sampling some of their offerings? We could not. Well, they are every bit as good as their press. We bought a selection of about 20 and managed to polish most of them off on the way back to the hotel. We did managed to keep a few which were scoffed the moment we arrived back home, but I am getting ahead of myself.

Before we headed back for a well earned nap, we stopped of for one more beer at LE TRAPPISTE another survivor from the early part of the 20th Century. The beer was fine though paled in comparison to some of those we had tried before. It was enough, however, to push us over the edge and into the point where a sleep was not just welcome but positively necessary.

A few hours later, though, we were refreshed enough to head out for our last meal of the trip.

AUX ARMES DE BRUXELLES is another Brussels institution. It sits on the horrible Rue De Boucher with its rip off tourist restaurants fronted by people trying to bark in the unwary to eat their overpriced seafood. Aux Armes, however, was here before all of those and booking is essential. It is a definingly bustling brasserie and the food is as hearty as that implies. We began with more Pied de Porc and some stunningly good calf’s brains which were poached in acidulated water. HP did not find them to his liking so I polished them off. The pig’s feet were better prepared than the night before and we spend a good time gnawing the bones to get off all the jelly goodness. Main courses were equally challenging. For HP a baked cod dish with a seafood sauce and for me a classic Belgian dish of Waterzoi, a stew of chicken cooked in a cream sauce. My first experience of this dish and worth trying. HP was fading a little by now, so I helped him out cleaning his plate ( cue the mystic sounds of “two little boys”) while he concentrated on finishing the bottle of white Burgundy which complimented the whole meal well.

We were too stuffed for pudding and got our bill and left wanting to get away from that grim street as quickly as possible. We also wanted to try one more beer place. Another bar with an enormous list from which to choose, BIER CIRCUS. HP was beered out so went of some Esprit De Achouffe, a spirit akin to Eau De vie. I paid homage to Mr Cantillon again with yet another geuze.

But, that was it for us. We were finally beaten and headed home at the relatively early hour of 11.30pm to hit the hay.

There is little to report about Day Three. We got up, had far to big a brekkie which put the dampeners on our thoughts about having a nice big lunch. We wandered around the Ixelles district to see the Art Nouveau buildings of Victor Horta, we had a couple of beers and then we headed back to the Eurostar.

Three hours later, we were home, a cup of builder’s tea in hand and finishing off the last of the Mary’s chocolates. A nice reminder of a great trip

This was only my second visit to Brussels and the first in which I had been able to get to see it in any depth at all. HP’s research, of course, added to the enjoyment as we knew where all the worthwhile bars were and, boy did we try to hit them all?

I always judge a place by whether I would go back and I would go back to Brussels in a heartbeat. The people are friendly and decidedly un up themselves. The food is damn tasty and I find myself developing an alarming taste for the beer.

Talking of which, I wont say how HP described the city, but it did make me spray a very decent beer out of my nostrils. What a waste.

DOS HERMANOS DO BRUSSELS

DAY TWO: THE MORINGING EDITION ( UP THE KRIEK )

Imagine how you would feel the next morning after a bottle of wine and the best part of a litre of strong beer? That’s how we felt and it might explain why we did not wake up until 9.30am.

We showered and rushed downstairs for our free brekkie before heading out to face the damp morning and our one full day.

HP had planned the day with military precision and our first port of call was THE CANTILLON MUSEUM OF GUEZE which is based in the original brewery of this legendary beer maker in close proximity to the Gare Midi. Not the greatest area of the city but well worth a visit.

I know next to nothing about Belgian beer. Suffice to say, I know a lot more about it now. Cantillon is one of the few remaining brewers of true Lambic, a beer that is created by self fermentation through being left open to the air so the natural airborne yeasts can start the fermentation process. A number of Lambics from different years can be blended to create Geuze or it can be blended with fruits to create the fruit beers that Belgium is famous for.

For €4 you get a self guided tour of the brewery and a small tasting. It is an entirely agreeable way to send an hour or so and it was doubly pleasurable as we got to chat to one of the Cantillon family who is still the head brewer. The small tastes of their lip quiveringly sour gueze and a stunning Kriek ( lambic blended with cherries ) set us up for the day and certainly put us in the mood to try some more of these most excellent of drinks. Mr Cantillon was also kind enough to give us a list of the bars where their beer is available. Many were on our list, but some were new to us and we added them on promising to try as many as possible.

First up was CAFÉ CHEZ MARCEL as traditional a Brussels bar as you are likely to find and far from the madding crowds found on the edge of a local flea market. We tried a rival gueze there from the Timmerman’s brewery. It showed the difference between an artisnal maker and a commercial brew. This was sour, but lacked the real complexity of the beer we had tried after our tour.

Still, we had a bit of a buzz now and, after a bit of a route march we found ourself by another bar recommended by Mr Cantillon, POECHENNELLEKE which is situated a few strides from the entirely missable Mannikin Pis. The bar had a pretty impressive range of beers too. HP stuck with the Cantillon gueze. I wanted to try something new so went for a Kwak. One of those chillingly strong beers served in a ridiculous glass that resembles a test tube holder. All very nice and that, but at 9% I did begin to think that this might just be a long day.

We needed some food by this time so we headed to the old town. A mistake as it was rammed with tourists who never seem to want to leave the safe enclaves of this small area. So, we wandered a little farther to the St Katharine area which is replete with bars and restaurants. There was one there which HP has researched, well of course he had.

L’ACHEPOT is a small, family run restaurant on an attractive little square. The menu is scrawled on blackboards and changes daily. The cooking is as hearty as anything we tried in the city but a little more thoughtful. Croquettes were made with small brown shrimp and a seafood cannelloni was a crisp wrapping around a dense but hugely tasty seafood boudin. HP again went for mussels, but again, the sauce was lighter than the previous night’s offering. My main course was as close to perfect as it gets for me. A round of house made blood pudding which was softer than its UK counterpart, atop sautéed apples. We polished off a bottle of rose with our meal which came to €100 including a charge for service which was handled by one single woman who kept on top of a packed restaurant without missing a beat.

Time for a nap now? Not a chance. We had at least 20% liver function left and were going to use every last iota of it.

DELIRUM CAFÉ is officially the stockist of the widest range of beers in the world. They had a certificate from Guinness to prove it too. The list of beers is in a folder that is about 200 pages thick and needs to be as it carries over 2000 beers. Would that we could have tried more than the two we tried. Another Cantillon brew, this time the Kriek and a Faro, another slightly sweeter beer.

We decided to walk back to the hotel but on the way, unsurprisingly for gentlemen of our age, we needed to siphon the python so we stopped in a little neighbourhood bar for another gueze, this time from the Belle Vue brewery. One in one end, three out the other. We both felt more comfortable.

A nice way to end the first part of the day

DOS HERMANOS DO BRUSSELS

DAY ONE: IT”S JUST LIKE A REAL CITY, ONLY SMALLER.

A few months ago, I was having one of my regular bouts of profound miserablism and decided to do what normal people do and use all of my holiday entitlement and book a weekend away to cheer myself up.

Spain was the obvious choice, but me and HP already have a week in Extremadura planned for later in the year. France was an option, but, I found it hard to get excited over the thought of that. In the end, I settled on Brussels. There were some sweet deals to be found on the old t’internet and, with the “joys” of Eurostar, it is only a couple of hours from London.

HP liked the idea too and agreed to join me for the weekend. So, Friday evening saw us arrive at the comfortable but slightly clinical Sofitel on the Toison D’or a little before 10pm after a swift journey of the Eurostar which saw us drink up most of their airline sized bottles of wine.

As ever, I had done no research but trusted in HP who has had his nose in any number of guide books since we made the booking. Actually, that’s not strictly true. We often choose places to visit by the lack of guidebooks available as that means they are not yet fully on the tourist trail or, if they are, they often get overlooked in favour of prettier places. There are surprisingly few books dedicated just to Brussels. Lot’s of people go there, for certain, but Brussels is to Bruges as Madrid is to Barcelona. The latter two are prettier and afford less challenging access to their relative cultures. The former, being capital cities are, of course, larger and offer more opportunities to avoid the hordes. I know which I would choose every time.

We wasted little time in dumping our bags and heading out to sample our first beers.

As I mentioned, HP had done plentiful research and we headed up to the old town to the first of many bars we were planning to cram into two days.

LA BECASSE is a short walk from the main square, the ever so impressive Grand Place with its stunningly attractive architecture. The bar is legendary but easy to miss hidden away as it is down a small alley. Once we did find it, it proved worth the effort and we were soon sipping on their Lambic Doux, a sweet beer served in traditional jugs. A good start.

The first beer gave us a good buzz, so we toddled around the corner to LE CIRIO another famous bar and a former haunt of Jacques Brel. The range of beers was impressive though it paled alongside some of the bars we were to try the next day. Still, a Chimay Bleu and a Gueze continued to improve our mood no end.

By now, it was a little after 11pm and I was hungry enough to eat a horse, er, so I did.

T’KELDERKE is another well known restaurant, slightly hidden away in a basement location just on the Grand Place. Unlike many of the restaurants we passed that night, particularly those on the entirely nasty Rue Boucher, T’Kelderke seems to be populated primarily by locals and is open until well after midnight.

Portions were enormous and to begin we had Pied de Porc Grille and Croquettes of Langoustine, both of which seem to be on every menu in town. The trotter is boiled and then breaded and grilled and served with a sharp tartare sauce to cut through the gelatinous piggy goodness. The croquettes are creamy and entirely delicious also benefiting from the sharp sauce.

For a main course, horse. Well, you have to don’t you? Actually, I quite like horsemeat and regret that we can’t get it in the UK. More dense than beef and with a tougher texture it gives up a slightly more minerally flavour than the cow. Here, it was served just grilled with, of course, frites. For HP, the other obvious choice, Moules also with the ubiquitous frites. To drink, the house brown beer which comes in a, quite frankly, scary 1.5 litre bottle enough to almost push us over the edge, but we toughed it out and polished off both food and brew before staggering back to the hotel a little after 1am.

Brussels, it would appear had been a good choice.

VASCO & PIERO AND, ER MARTIN: OLD FRIENDS INDEED

Friendships are funny things. You can lose touch with people for a long time and then, if the friendship was based on anything of worth, just slot back into them again as if no time had passed. So it is, I think with restaurants. Some places are just like taking off the tightest, squeakiest pair of new shoes and slipping your feet into your favourite slippers.

A few years ago I was an habitué of a number of food internet sites. For reasons too dull to go into here I stopped using them. It certainly freed up a great amount of time and I left them with little regret. I did, however, regret losing touch with some of the people I had met through there. One of them was Martin.

Now Martin, by his own admission is a bit of an old codger, exceptionally good company and as food obsessed as the next man. Unless of course, the next man happens to be one of Dos Hermanos.

I had lost touch with him and we had not seen each other for well over two years.

However, recently, I was back looking at one of the food boards “lurking” I believe the young folk call it and I noticed he had posted about a “find” in Soho. An Italian place called Vasco & Piero’s Pavilion. I had to laugh as this was always my favourite Italian restaurant in London and has been around, in different locations for over 30 years. It seemed the perfect opportunity to renew my acquaintance with the three of them, Vasco, Piero and Martin

After getting back in touch, we agreed to meet up for an early supper at 6.30pm and after some initial confusion over our booking we were shown to a large table.

The room has not changed since they moved from their original location some 15 years ago and since I was first brought here by some Italian friends about 12 years ago.

Then, my friend Luca told me that this was the only Italian place in London he would eat and that the calf’s liver was the best thing on the menu. That too remains unchanged.

The place was packed and the kitchen was obviously stretched so they kept us happy with a little plate of nibbles while we waited for our starters. For Martin, a simple but ample dish of Tagliatelle with tomato and basil and for me Tortelloni with radicchio and ricotta. This is what Italian food is to me. Simple ingredients, beautifully fresh and not buggered about with. Splendid and beautifully served by a bottle of La Cala from Sardinia.

We both opted for the liver. I had forgotten quite how good it was. Perfectly cooked a little pink for me, with a beautiful crust and meltingly sweet inside. We spent a good part of the evening discussing food, but the moment we took our first bite of this, a silence descended as we both enjoyed what I believe remains one of the best tastes in London. It is served simply with some spinach which is all it needs.

An over priced but entirely delicious bottle of Ruffino opened up in the large glasses and certainly helped wash it all down.

Desserts are perfunctory but, as there are three courses for £26, we went for some poached peaches and some chocolate truffle cake. Perfectly fine but just a way of providing a full stop to the evening.

The meal is not cheap. This is, after all, The West End and drinks are marked up pretty high here. The bill for two came to £120. That being said, that is about the same as I paid recently at Passione for two without wine and the cooking, while able was not a patch on this Umbrian beauty.

I can’t think of many better ways of catching up than a meal here and, while not many of you will have had the pleasure of meeting Martin, I really do urge you to make the acquaintance of Vasco & Piero

PHAM SUSHI: LOUSY SUSHI IN THE NABE

Way back when, scarcely after the beginnings of recorded history, there was a suggestion that I would need to go and spend an extended period of time in New York.

Of course, I railed against it. It is a fine city, no doubt. Possibly amongst the top 10 or so in the world, but I just could not imagine myself being that far from access to things of cultural importance.

One thing however did almost make me change my mind. The fact that NYC has staggeringly good Sushi places not just at the high end, but at every level and in every neighbourhood. London just does not come close.

I mentioned on a post when I first started this blog that my understanding of just how good Sushi can be came from when a then friend of mine took me to Jewel Bako in New York. It was an epiphinal experience filled with extraordinary tastes and delicate balance the like of which I had not experienced before. It is one of the few moments of eating that truly changed the way I thought about food. More recently, the Omakase at Yasuda took it to another level again. Although I am no longer in touch with the friend in question, she retains a fond place in my memories not least for this reason.

Even at the meanest neighbourhood level in NYC it is possible to get sushi of a level that London finds hard to match. Sure, we have some exceptional places, Matsuri being my favourite. Also, we are developing some very acceptable neighbourhood options. Blossom is a good example ( although it has now closed in Hoxton Square and moved to a grim site under City Point ) Saki in Smithfield is as good as I get anywhere and there are a number of others but, there is just not the range that London Lite ( I mean NY ) has to offer

A number of people have told me that Pham Sushi, on my own doorstep, was a great neighbourhood place and one or two said it was amongst the best in London. I have been there once before but cannot claim to remember a single thing about the meal as the person I was with informed me as soon as we sat down that she loved me and the rest of the meal was, unsurprisingly a bit of a lovely blur. That, however is a whole ‘nother story.

Tonight after a brief drinkie with a chum in The Star & Garter in Soho, I had a real sushi jones, so hopped in a cab back to Whitecross St, the location of Pham Sushi and plonked myself at the bar.

The place was packed and they were turning people away at the door which gives testament to its popularity and made me think I was on a winner.

Wrong.

A simple order of a mixed tempura and a mixed set of Nigiri, Maki and Sashimi seemed a perfectly decent way to try out the place, particularly when added to an extra order of sweet shrimp nigiri.

But, quite frankly, it was dreadful. The tempura was oily and lacked any crispness. The sashimi was lacking in freshness. Not off, just lacking the spark. The nigiri looked dull and the rice was mushy. Worst of all were the maki where a soft shell crab filling took more chewing than half a yard of biltong.

Quite awful.

With one beer, the bill was a massive £30. Hardly a neighbourhood price and certainly not acceptable for the level of sushi that would have any owner in New York run out of town on a rail.

There are very few moments indeed when I regret not taking up the offer to live in NYC. When I am craving great sushi forms the majority of them.

This was not great sushi. Far from it and I did not even get the compensation of someone telling me they loved me.

Ho hum