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ENGLAND’S BEST OLIVE OIL?: STRAIGHT OUT OF COMPTON ST

Well, don’t take my word for it, but New York Magazine recently announced that the best olive oil in England was to be found in the unlikely setting of the Embassy Electrical Supply Shop on Compton St in Clerkenwell.

Bearing in mind the tiresome American craving for absolutes

“squeal, where is the absolute best poppy seed bagel between 93rd and 96th St on Amsterdam, squeal?”

and the fact that the very same magazine announced that The River Café was following on in the London tradition of classical French restaurants, ahem, you can take this announcement with as many shovels full of salt as you can imagine.

However, what is certainly without question is that this small store selling fuse wire, cutters and all manner of goods of the electronic variety is home to some of the finest olive oil I have tried in a very long time and, on top of which, a rather splendid pomegranate molasses.

How? Why? What the hell? What gives?

Well, the owner, Memhet is of Turkish Cypriot extraction (see what I did there, olives, extraction? Please yourselves) and inherited olive groves from his parent’s small farm in Lurigina. He started selling the oil and olives from his shop under the name Murat Du Carta and it took off

Last year he brought in nearly two tonnes of the stuff and, this year, thanks to the New York magazine, he will bring in over three tonnes of single estate first cold pressing along side Heaven knows how many tonnes of black olives.

He has been so successful that he has now purchased another property in Turkey and has planted a grove of a further two thousand trees.

The new batch was picked last November and is on the water as we speak and due to arrive on the 25th June. Memhet gave me a taste of the last batch, it was still beautifully fresh and lawny with slight citrus undertones.

Memhet sells the oil in 1ltr or 2.5ltr containers and, if he likes you and your bottles are clean and to his satisfaction, he will even decant in your own glassware overnight

He is doing a special offer of a litre of oil with half a kilo of black olives for £8 to celebrate the arrival of the new batch. I suspect, as he has done before, he will sell out very quickly, so it is worth seeking out for something a little bit different.

I have no idea if it is the best in England. But, squeal, I do know that it is absolutely the best, squeal, in Clerkenwell, between St John St and The Goswell Rd, squeal.

GALVIN BISTRO DELUXE

I am a huge fan of Chris Galvin ( and his brother, Jeff). His was the only tenure where The Orrery became bearable and Galvin at the Windows was amongst my top meals of 2006 even if the cost of a meal for two still gives me the shudders.

So, when it was time again to sit opposite my good chum, Nick for lunch, this was the first and only place on my mind.

It’s a lovely room. The perfect place to linger over an unhurried meal. However, the closeness of the tables does cause problems for those of us God blesses with bladders the size of walnuts. So, every time I, or anyone on our side of the restaurant, wanted to use the bathroom, the whole row had to get up, move their tables and rearrange themselves to make it happen.

A few years ago, I named this phenomenon The Piss Waltz with particular reference, to Blue Hill in NYC, the ne plus ultra of parsimonious table spacing. Well, GBD does not come close to that, but it does almost allow one to become gyaenocological with people neighbouring tables should one so wish and our bread came in contact with the buttocks of a large lady to our left one or two more times than I would consider strictly necessary.

A minor quibble for the chance to try cooking that is, on the whole, of a very high standard.

Starters were simple, but well done. A steak tartar spoke of perfect ingredients and a large salad of endive, walnuts and Roquefort showed just how good a composed salad can be when people put in the effort.

The main courses were more of a mixed bag. Nick’s won out with beautifully fresh halibut flaking in a mound of broad beans and herbs. As good a light lunch dish as you are likely too find. Mine was less successful. Belly pork was slow cooked but not enough of the fat had rendered down so the end result was greasy and left a slick of oil on top of the accompanying sauce. The top layer had a pleasingly crispy crunch to it and it sat on a layer of choucroute which gave off a waft of juniper berry. But, the weakness of the main player let down the dish.

I had pondered on Duck Confit as I always do when I see it on any menu. Seeing one carried passed as I ate my own slightly disappointing dish made me wish I had stuck to my original plans.

We did not have pudding and we stuck to water ( on my part at least because I am still drying out after the bar show) which kept the bill at a manageable £60 including tip for service which was unobtrusive and efficient.

They offer a set lunch of two courses for £15.50 which, for cooking like this represents terrific value. Well worth trying again.

SNAZZ SICHUAN

PINK DRINKS, RED FOOD & THROBBING GRISTLE
After about 20 minutes trying to fight our way through the hordes in Whole Foods, I turned to Petra with a pleading look and said “ please get me out of here” so, she took pity on me and led me up to the haven of peace and tranquillity that is the bar of The Milestone Hotel on Kensington Gore.

It never ceases to amaze me how many places like this London has. A new one on me, The Milestone is a charming, old school hotel with a charming, old school bar with a charming, old school tender making charming, old school drinks.

It was a welcome relief from the retail explosion outside and, if truth be told, after two days of bar show watching bright young things show off their skills and bright new creations, it was equally welcome to have the calm, cool, collected mixing of an old pro.

Petra had told me that barman, Walter mixed a mean drink and he certainly produced the goods with a decent Sazerac and his own twist on a cosmopolitan.

Petra became slightly alarmed when she found out that Walter and I shared the same taste in late 70’s music from The Fall to Cabaret Voltaire and, when the words “Throbbing gristle” were mentioned she announced, in her usual imperious way, that it was time to leave.

As ever, I had to come up with somewhere to eat and it just wasn’t going to happen in Kensington. So, we headed up to Euston to try Snazz Sichuan, the latest offering from that region of China which has been getting good crit from journo’s and punter alike.

I liked Bar Shu a lot, but the fact I have not rushed back too often since my first visit speaks to the fact that this cuisine, while fun and often challenging, does have its limitations. The main ones being that the use of the lip and bum numbing Sichuan chilli can make every dish sing from the same hymn sheet and the plates from the same style sheet of “something in a slick of fierce looking red oil”

So it was here. Not bad at all, but as the pictures show, all a bit on the rouge side of things.

Cold dishes of thin slivered belly pork with garlic and “ strange flavoured” rabbit were more a texture than a taste thing. Beef sliced with noodles came in the Hades hot broth that we have come to expect from restaurants representing the region and even a dish of aubergine managed to sit in a slick of oily chilliness.

I wanted to try a few of the dishes involving intestines and other good stuff, Petra did not. She expressed a foolish concern that she was developing a belly which, if you saw her, you would know is patently untrue.

Unconvinced by my arguments, she decided to put her stomach on show for others to see and, when she began using her fingers to make her belly button move like a mouth while talking in a brummie accent, I thought it best to get her out of there before there was a scene.

Snazz Sichuan is good value, £47 for two including tip and tea, and there, I am sure, is potential there for a less ochre meal than we experienced.

I suspect the end result of indigestion and the morning after will be the same whatever you order.

Me? I am just trying to get the image of Petra’s belly button out of my head.

WHOLE FOODS

WHOLE FOODS: A WHOLE LOT O’ NUTIN’
As in so many things, whither goest The good ol’ US of Stateside so goest Blighty.

It is no surprise then, that yesterday, the squealing hordes descended upon the first UK branch of Wholefoods, the uber chain which has transformed US food retailing and whose appearances in NYC were greeted like the second coming.

I quite like pottering around the Whole Foods in Manhattan ( three of them that I have visited, I think). The displays are pretty spectacular and the range of goods on offer, impressive . I rarely buy anything there, mind you as the queues, even once the novelty of the store opening wears off, are truly hateful and who has time to stand in line for an hour to buy a smoothie, even if you are a brit and queuing counts as leisure time?

The opening of the first European branch of Whole foods in the former Barker’s site in Kensington has been greeted with equal brouhaha and, when I wandered in with my chum, Petra, at about 5pm, the place was mobbed and the queues were already beginning to test the patience of customers.

Like their US counterparts, the product range in the new branch is very extensive and, as a place to buy interesting brands and unusual items, it is certainly worth a visit. No more so, on first glance admittedly, than a well stocked Waitrose

However, also like its US counterparts, the fresh food is a real triumph of style over substance. Well displayed fish had a mat sheen and dull eyes that would never pass muster in Steve Hatt and the meat displays were very limited in choices and cuts with bright red beef alongside a limited choice of pork and lamb joints and far too many of those pre-prepared marinated this and stuffed that for the lazy cook.

A Pies & Pasties area was disappointingly empty with less stock than the counter at Selfridges and even though they had the Joselito Bellota on sale, it was being hacked at by a staff member with all the skill of a navvy. All for £16.50 for 100gms which is about a quid more than Brindisa, I think,

Upstairs in the “restaurant” area there was little more to persuade me that it would be worth travelling across town to come here on anything other than an irregular basis. Tired looking pastries, dried out pizza, a faux tapa joint, a small beer selection and gelato that was, for £1.79 a scoop, greasy and no better than supermarket premium range.

It will be colossally popular in the UK, of course where enthusiasm for food still outstrips knowledge, and, as I read one of the evening free sheets, I saw the first of what will be many vox pops squeaking about how fabulous it is and how it will change the shape of food retailing in the UK.

The latter may well be true, the former certainly is not, on a first hurried visit, at least. As Petra, quite rightly, put it " on a macro level it is extraordinary, but it doesn't hold up to micro examination" It is more a triumph of logistics than one of excellence in food.

And, be warned folks, those queues are never going to go away. Take a sleeping bag if you are popping in for a bag of sugar.

SEAFRESH

SEAFRESH: WILLINGLY BATTERED AFTER THE BAR SHOW
I have a saying. Every now and again and just for all too brief a moment, life stops kicking you in the ass.

Today was one of those days. More of The London Bar Show and London Bar Week, which you can read about (when I sober up after five days on the lash) over on EAT MY GLOBE brought me to the first day of the show proper, although both I and my liver are pretty sure it has been going on for days now.

I spent much of the day wandering around the show being offered samples of spirits and beers by women in little or no clothing at some point, there were women in little or no clothing dancing in a cage. If there had been Jello involved or one of them was dressed as Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, I would have used up all of my three wishes in one go and required a change of clothing to boot.

When I got tired of that, I headed out to The Beefeater VIP area to which I had been given a pass and sat in a deckchair in the sunshine drinking G&T’s or Elderflower Gin Breezes.

As I said, just now and again, life stops using the rectum of Hermano 2 for target practice.

My old chum Paul was at the show too and we took the opportunity to catch up for supper. So, after a nostalgic couple of pints at The Elephant & Castle in Kensington, we hopped in a cab down to Seafresh in Victoria. It had been on my Fish & Chip radar for as long as I can remember but, I had not had chance to head down there until tonight.

It gets very good word of mouth and I can see why. Starters of fried calamari and whitebait were examples of good frying technique and came with a plate of decent pickles and a bought in tartar sauce.

As good Northern lads, we both went for Haddock for our main course. Perfect bubbly batter cracked to reveal steaming flaky fish cooked just to point. Large mounds of chips gave up just enough crispy bits to keep me happy and a plate of mushy peas was just the correct shade of fluorescent green to make us both feel homesick.

With a bottle of something white which, I am afraid, has joined the mists of drinks downed in the last few days, the bill came to £50 including service. Most of which, I think, went on the wine.

Not bad at all and I would place it a close contender to Masters Superfish in Waterloo and The Golden Hind in Marylebone in the ranks of London Chippies.

Two more days to go.

The Granville

What will it be - some soothing herb tea ?

I knew when I proclaimed that Magdalen was my meal of the year that I may have to er…eat my words but I didn’t think I would have to a) wait until half the year had passed by and b) travel outside London . But my recent meal at The Granville has wrested the mantle from Magdalen and now takes top spot. Let me explain.

The Granville has the same owners as The Sportsman in Seasalter which I visited and really enjoyed a couple of months ago. Like the The Sportsman it’s a pub situated outside of a town. In this case it’s a few miles from Canterbury. I was warned that walking wasn’t really an option but fool that I am I tried. It started raining, there were no signs, the bushes were rustling ominously (and rustling bushes are always ominous). After an interminable walk down a muddy track I gave up and slunk back to the town, wet, tail between my legs and got a cab instead.

A short hop and I had arrived a little early at the pub and spent an awkward five minutes testing the locked door and kicking my heels. Very reminiscent of standing outside a pub at five to five (note to younger readers: licensed premises had to close between three and five in the good old days). Once I got inside a couple of pints of the lovely Early Bird Spring Hop Ale from the Shepherds Neame brewery made me forget about my bedraggled state.

While waiting for the meal proper I chomped down on the lovely Focaccia that I had tried at The Sportsman and a bowl of toasted pumpkin seeds. It also gave me a moment to take in the utilitarian décor. A style I quite like – giving less (or preferably no) money to David Collins always seems to equate to a better meal. Strange that.

The food was the star though. My starter of Baby Dover Sole was as good as you’d get in Spain (and if you’ve read DH you’ll know how much of a complement that is). Simply grilled it had a small dollop of the best Tartare Sauce I’ve tasted. These two elements on their own would be good enough but someone in the kitchen had had the idea of saving some of the cooking juices and serving them on the side. A simple idea, sure, but a great one which added another twist to the dish.

“Sliced Meats - For Two” sounded a bit more prosaic but turned out to be a fine section of Italian Antipasti including a wonderful home-cured bresaola. In place of the usual, sad, floppy salad leaves there were a couple of lightly dressed, crisp Romaine. It looked pretty good. It tasted even better.

A main course of Brill came as two generous braised fillets. The Pommes puree was perfect .i.e. not loaded up with butter (which would have been just wrong in this context) and the spinach was the best I’ve tasted (apparently, it’s from the chef’s garden). The whole was surrounded a light cream sauce speckled with chives, an ingredient that rarely contributes anything to a dish but in this case did. Another cracking dish.

Taking a little breather and checking out the other dishes being sent out I saw large tranches of chicken liver parfait, whole sea bass, pan fried steaks and hunks of chicken and crispy duck. For once I bemoaned the absence of HS (and it’s not often I can say that) as we would have been able to cover more of the menu. Well, most of it actually.

A good restaurant should have a certain sort of rhythm. And The Granville on this particular service seemed to have hit the perfect beat. The three FOH staff were variously serving the dishes, pouring pints, refilling water jugs and answering the phone (sorry, no tables available for Sunday lunch). None of this I guess was unusual, though, given the large number of regulars tucking into plates of great food and creating a very nice buzz on my lunchtime visit.

I knew I was going to like whatever pudding I had and the Tirmaisu failed to let preceding standards drop. Again, there was a lightness of touch to the dish that made it a pleasure rather than an over-sweetened chore to eat. The addition of the cherries marinated in kirsch was yet another sign of a kitchen with ideas. Oh, and I had to try the home made ginger ice-cream which was ace.

I’m not saying anything about the coffee and PFs but leave it for you dear reader to guess whether I liked them (but of course I did).

Out of the DS, HS is the one who likes to hobnob with chefs (me, I just want to eat their food rather than be their amigo) but in this case I thought the meal was so good I just had to thank the kitchen personally at the end of service. Actually, I was quite shocked to see how young the brigade was. This was, after all, a meal that would make most places in London look like the nasty rip-offs most of them are. Whereas here the food was intelligent, well prepared and tasty. And that in the end is all I ask from a meal. I’m checking out the cost of season tickets straight away and so should you...

NORDIC BAKERY

NORDIC BAKERY: YOU’RE PULLING MY EAR
I have a Finnish friend and gym buddy called Martina. She, like so many of my female friends, can be horribly annoying. But, in between periods of sublime irritation, she has her uses.

Like today, when I wanted to go and sample London’s first Suomi-Kahvila after reading about it in Time Out.

She was a mine of information and informed me “Finns do two things well, coffee and suicide” She also told me it would not be a Kahvila of any kind without two things on the menu. Karjalanpiirakka ( Karelian pie) and Korvapuusti ( cinnamon buns) which literally means “pulling your ear”

Well, she will be pleased to know they have both.

It is, in true Finnish style, beautifully designed if unhampered by enough chairs and the small displays of open sandwiches, were appealing if few in variety.

A few years ago, it is reported that Jacques Chirac lost the Olympics for France when he said the only place in the world with worse food that the UK was in Finland. The Finnish delegate promptly changed his vote leading to pleasing pictures of Parisians soap dodgers crying and wailing openly. Tee and indeed hee.

He obviously didn’t try the Karelian Pie which is delicious. A thin pie of rye pastry with savoury rice and milk topped with the traditional (I am told by Martina) layer of egg butter. All very melt in the mouth-tastic.

Less so the Korvapuusti which was more challenging. Frighteningly solid and chewy, it needed dipping into the excellent hot chocolate before I could polish it off.

A quick visit to the tiny downstairs kitchen found baker, Sini preparing rhubarb and chocolates cakes for the rest of the day. The only thing they don’t make is the bread which is flown in from Finland. She also explained that the owner, Jali Walsten is, apparently, a well known ex professional ice hockey player who now helps small Scandinavian companies set up businesses in the UK. That may explain why the cinnamon bun was as hard as a puck.

Quite if there is the market for a place like this, I am not sure, but it is worth a visit for the pie. Perhaps they commit suicide by getting someone to drop one of those cinnamon buns on their head from a great height and, perhaps if fatty Chirac had tasted one of those lovely pies, he would have kept his gob shut and it would be Parisians facing an enormo bill for a two week sporting occasion rather than us Londoners

Afterwards and to walk off some of the calories, I wandered home via the monthly market in Whitecross St. All the usual suspects to bore you with but I was heartened to see my good chum, Petra from Chocstar and Ian Hartland, who was still talking to me after my recent visit to make Mrs King's pork pies for EAT MY GLOBE.

One welcome new addition was Luardos, run by a young chap called Simon who was selling very good looking Fajita and Quesadilla from a luminous green van.

The market is there for another couple of days. Worth checking out.

ORIENTAL CITY: SAVE OUR SOBA

After yesterday’s return to South London a la recherché de hubcaps perdu and the shameful admission that I actually used to live there, it seemed only fitting that I spend today heading up to the other end of The Northern Line to two more of my old stamping grounds.

Back in the early 90’s I left publishing for an all to brief moment to go and work for a brand licensing company. I hated every last minute of it and six months later I scampered back into the welcoming arms of the first publisher who asked me.

The only good part about the whole wretched experience was that the owners of the company used to take us to lunch most days at a rather splendid food court off the top end of The Edgware Road where I had my first Bibim Bap, my first Pho and more dumplings than you can shake a won ton at.

Back then it was called Yohan Plaza. Now it is called Oriental City. But, not for much longer. Why? Because the good cretins of Brent Council have decided that what London needs is not one of its food treasures, but a B&Q. Patently it is more important to most people to be able to have a regular supply of Artex than a plate of Hokkien noodles.

If you have been reading along (and if not, why not?) you will know that I just got back from a few weeks in Australia. One of the things that really did impress me was their food courts which offer a bewildering variety of Asian dishes to a wide audience at very little cost. We have precious little of that in London and now, we are about to lose the one example we have.

They are fighting it, of course, and, if you look at the picture of their poster you can see the link to post a complaint to the council should you so desire. But, today, there did seem to be an air of inevitable despondency about the place. It was buzzing with a mixed lunchtime crowd and the stalls were all chopping, stir frying and steaming to full effect, but it just seemed a bit weary. The food was fine though and, for £11, I got a big plate of noodlage and some decent crispy pork in big enough portions to feed two people.

After lunch, I wandered through into the supermarket which also seemed to be weighed down under the burden of inevitable closure. Shelves once laden with the weird and the wonderful were empty and while there was still lots to look at and go “ what the fuck is that?” or “ who knew the Thai’s made wine?” It did all seem a little bit dispiriting.

So, it looks like another foodie landmark is about to fall off the map of London. Still, you all know now where to go if you need some polystyrene coving.

To make myself feel better, I stopped off on the way home at another area I used to call home, Golders Green. I don’t think I have walked down The Golders Green Rd for nearly twenty years since I lived there after leaving university.

Little has changed, it would appear. The local Jewish populace still seem to be the masters of the triple park and the sound of honking horns is as constant as it ever used to be. The other constant is Carmelli’s Bagel Bakery, a local institution.

People seem to think it has been there forever, but, if my memory serves me correctly, it only opened in 1986 (or this branch did) a fact I recall because I was their third ever customer. As I stopped en route from station to flat and pondered on what to have for supper, my nostrils were assaulted ( in the most positive sense of the word) with the waft of baking and I stepped in to buy my first ever onion bagel. What a memory.

Today, though, just four plain bagels and a few pictures. But, at least this place is unlikely to be replaced with a B&Q.

O CANTINHO DE PORTUGAL: LITTLE LISBON DOWN STOCKWELL WAY
I used to live South of the river. I know, I know, I find it hard to believe now that I am a sophisticated young (shut up) urbanite that I could have ever comprehended such a thing, but that was in the early 80’s. I was a student and, consequently, thick as a Ghurkha’s foreskin and broke to boot so had little option. I got better of course and now, even the thought of setting foot in The Swamps, let alone living there brings me out in hives.

Mind you, even in those days I had more sense than to go to Stockwell. It was (and is) one of the less pleasant areas of London whatever those people who want to, but can’t afford to live in Clapham, may tell you.

It does however have one redeeming feature. For reasons I can’t quite figure out, it is the home to a large population of ex-pat Portuguese and, therefore, also home to any number of cafes and restaurants providing a little taste of home to those from the poorer part of the Iberian peninsula.

Of these, the most well known is O Cantinho de Portugal. For as long as we can remember, DH have had it on out list of must tries, but have never got round to it primarily because we can always find an alternative in an area of town where we have a better than 50% chance of survival.

Today, however, we decided to chance our arm and headed down on the Northern line and along the Stockwell Rd, passing about seven other cafes on the way. All packed to the rafters with Portuguese families enjoying a bank holiday lunch.

O Cantinho was too, but they found us a table in the main restaurant where, true to Iberian form, TV’s were blaring and people were talking at a volume that would have people from neighbouring Brixton complaining that the noise was drowning out the sound of Megadeth at The Academy

The menu is fairly short and to the point and complimented by half a dozen pleasing looking chef’s specials.

We both went for clams in wine and garlic to begin which saw us presented with large plates of meaty shellfish with enough tangy sauce to mop up with bread or scoop up with an empty shell depending on how carb conscious you may be feeling. Not a bad start for £7 a pop

For main courses, HP went for a standard plate of pork chops which, in true Portugese fashion came with both chips and rice. The chops were thin, but grilled perfectly and the chips, cooked in olive oil were suitably crunchy.

Better though, was my own plate of Maozinha, a cocido-a-like stew of chickpeas, Portuguese sausage and gelatinous veal trotter. A hefty plateful that defeated even DH despite HP’s sage advice to “ focus on the meat, only the meat” We sucked on fatty trotter and chewed on spicy sausage but the sheer quantity began to draw beads of sweat and I had to give up in the end. I am a grave disappointment to my family in so many ways. This will only add to it.

For pudding we filched their last remaining Pastel de Nata which was fine, but barely worth the calories.

The wine list is small and exclusively Portuguese and a bottle of Reguengos Reserva came in at £18 and suited the meal down to the ground.

With a couple of beers and a couple of fierce aquardente, the bill came to £75 inc tip which was a bit of a shock to the system after the barely scratch the wallet joys of Australia. Still, we left there replete and definitely planning to return one weekend when they serve up big plates of leitao a faia to a homesick crowd.

So, perhaps South of the river is not so bad after all.

What the hell am I saying?