WHAT I DID ON MY HOLIDAYS by HERMANO SEGUNDO (Aged 42yrs and 11 months)

On my holidays, I went to Spain. It was very nice and warm and I liked it a lot.

My dad and my little brother met me at the airport but first I had to wait for ever such a long time for my small bag. After a while, I took a look through the hole where the bags came out and saw a man smoking a cigarette who was watching his friend do a dance on each bag before he sent it out onto the conveyor belt.They were laughing a lot. It reminded me of the flamenco dancing I had seen on TV.

Once I had my bag and had met my dad, they took me straight to their favourite beach bar where I ate lots of little fishes that had been fried until crunchy. I was allowed to have some wine with this by my dad and ended up drinking nearly a whole bottle which made my head feel a bit spinny. So I had to go and lie on the balcony for a bit until I felt better.

In the evening because I had been quiet all day (unlike my little brother whose snoring caused the neighbours to complain ) I was allowed to stay up late and go into the local town and eat a large plate of ham. It was nice and the owner of the restaurant was very friendly and gave me a glass of a fruity red drink called Pacharan which made my head feel a bit spinny, much like it had done in the afternoon. I felt very happy and sang some songs on the way home. I think they were about virgins from Scotland.

The next morning, I did some PE and then took my little brother on a train to the big city of Malaga. It was very exciting and, when we got there, we ran around trying to see as many places as possible, which served more of those little fried fishes and more of that ham. I think we went to about thirteen places and all the owners were very happy to see us and let us drink beer. I drank a lot and until my head became a bit spinny. Before we left we sneaked into a place with lots of barrels that served a sweet drink they make in the city and they gave us three or four glasses. I slept on the train home. I think I dribbled.

The next morning, I felt a bit poorly and think I had caught a cold. So, my dad treated me to some hot chocolate and a big plate of churros which are a bit like doughnuts but much, much better. I felt a lot better after this and walked along the beach for a long way. I noticed, although it was cold, there were lots of girls on the beach and they were not wearing many clothes. Girls are funny.

I think the chocolate worked as, by the evening, my cold had gone and I felt much better. So, we all went for dinner. I had some prawns that came out sizzling so loudly that the noise scared my little brother. I was a brave little soldier, though and made them go quiet by eating them. After that, I ate the leg of a baby lamb. I think baby lambs are cute, but they are better dead and in my tummy. The owner gave us all more of that nice drink, Pacharan. My head felt spinny and I sang more songs on the way home. This time a funny song about a man who was mayor of Bayswater and his family.

After more PE on Monday morning, I felt tired again and, as the sun was shining, sat on the balcony all day and read my story book.

Meat is good and I like to eat it whenever I can. In the evening we all went to a place called Casa Navarre. It is on a hillside and they only give you meat. I ate a big piece of meat and so did my dad and my little brother (he could not eat as big a bit as me though.) . Before that though, we had some more ham and some pudding that my dad tells me was made of blood ( I think he is fibbing ) I was allowed to have some wine with it and something called Orujo which made my head feel all spinny. I didn’t feel too well and did not sing any songs on the way home.

The next morning, my cold had returned and I felt a bit sick. So. I spent the day on the balcony again. It was nice and my story book was good although the bits where the man and the woman kissed and stuff made me feel weird down there.

Then, the next morning, I had to get up very early and go to the airport. I had to stand in a line for a long long long time and I used some very naughty words. I was lucky my dad was not there or he would have been very cross. When I got back to England I felt very unhappy. Everything was cold and grey and that was just the people. I miss Spain a lot.

Now I am home and am drinking a nice cup of tea. I wish it was that nice Pacharan.

THE END

Dinings

YOU TAKE A WALK ON BLEAK STREET
TONIGHT COULD BE THE NIGHT YOU CRASH

The night loomed ahead like an unfilled tax return. All I had to keep me company was a copy of the Money Observer with this year’s ISA Best-Buys (which is about as interesting reading as The Observer itself i.e. not very). The fridge yielded up HS’s vast supply of Actimel and several bottles of the weird aguardimente I am so fond of. So dining out it was…at the appropiately, though rather weirdly, named Dinings.

There's a lot in common between the Japanese and the Spanish – the obsessive love of fresh fish, deep-fried food and a fondness for a smoke, a drink and a sing-song - so when I looked at the menu of this newly opened restauant and saw a selection of cold and hot tapas on the specials list it sort of made sense.

The place is pretty small with a sushi bar upstairs and a not much larger bunker-like dining room in the basement. Deciding that watching the Sushi chef would be preferable to staring at a concrete wall or the numerous visiting gaijinn (that'll be me then) I took a seat at the bar.

A warning for those of a nervous disposition. When you enter all the staff will look at you and shout. They did it to everyone else too but you may be tempted to run away. Which would be a shame because the food is rather good. The chef is from Nobu and the Sushi bar has an appropriately serious bloke with a razor sharp knife dishing up the Sushi, rolls, salads etc. From the former I got some Beef Tataki made with Wagyu. Small pieces of buttery, rich, beef with a perky little spring onion salad and a dip. Pigeon had been roasted rare and left to rest so that all the bloody juices made a little sauce. A deep-fried seafood hamaki (a sort of superior spring roll stuffed with crab and shiso) showed the deep-frying skills of the kitchen. Teriyaki Chicken and Quail dishes which I saw going out also looked pretty good.

From the man with the very sharp knife (who I shall now call sir) a sashimi plate of Otoro, Unagi (Eel) and Snow Crab, a salad of sabre-fish (a new one on me) which looks quite vicious in it’s whole state but tastes quite delicious when cut up into little cubes and topped with scallions. So good in fact I had it again with some more sashimi of Otoro (again) and razor clams. There was also a salad of octopus which took me back to a DH visit to Northern Spain. The octopus, very tender and creamy matched well with a fresh tasting cress salad. In fact everything was so fresh and clean tasting it made me feel positively healthy although the two flasks of hot Uragasumi Junmai may have balanced things up a tad.

I don’t think I’ve ever had pudding in a Japanese restaurant before so I was more than happy with my Black Sesame Crème Caramel especially as I discovered a blob of ice-cream under it’s tan surface.

I rarely go for a Japanese without friends or at least HS to hold my hand and guide me through the meal, but this time I managed all by myself. There’s life in the old dog yet. Woof.

Great Eastern Dining Room

IT'S EVEN BETTER THIS TIME AROUND
WITH COLTRANE ON THE K.L.H.

I’ve always had a mistrust of fusion food (a bit like Les and his terrible fear of chives). Isn’t it just a method of dishing up cheap stir-fries at inflated prices and when there is something echt on the menu the result is usually watered down because “the British don’t really like foreign food, do they ?”. However, on the occasions I’ve been dragged into one of Will Ricker’s Pan-Asian joints I’ve always ended up eating pretty well. Several visits to Cicada and E&O spring to mind although this may have been not unconnected with the fact that Ian Pengelley was cooking there at the time. With this in mind and partly to expunge the horrors of the previous night’s disastrous Iberian campaign I popped into Great Eastern Dining Rooms which also happens to be in the DH hood.

I hadn’t been here since the late nineties during the restaurant’s previous incarnation as a not-bad Italian. The decor hadn’t changed and looked similar to all the other restaurants in the chain, a sort of functional, worn, chic. The place was a buzzin’with thirty-somethings sporting chunky spectacles and designer sideburns. Makes a change from the Hoxton Fin (or rather Hoxton Fillet/combover as Wikipedia would have it). And yet again, despite initial misgivings I had a very enjoyable meal.

A dry martini though a bit short on the visceral punch of gin was still acceptable and the array of dishes which turned up more than passed muster. There was the signature chilli salt squid which was good but lacking a bit on the chilli side of things. Crispy pork belly was several bit-sized cubes of unctuous percy offset by a tart black vinegar dip. Prawn tempura were large greaseless specimens that were crunchy and good.

A reasonable delay to let that lot go down was followed by some more pork, strikingly similar to the starter but cut in larger cubes which came with a son-in-law egg which Google tells me is a Thai dish of deep fried egg covered in a tamarind sauce. The tamarind was non-existent but the egg was rather nice as all deep fried food tends to be. There was also an zest salad as an accompaniment. Black Cod came on a unnecessarily elongated plate but the dish was sound. A dense piece of lacquered fish that broke up pleasingly into thick flakes which could then be dipped into a sweet miso sauce. Finally a salad of deep-fried shoft-shell crab which delivered great deep fried hunks of crustaceans and another vibrant salad.

Everything was served up with efficiency and brio by the young staff who thankfully avoided hunkering down at any point (always makes me feel about five years old).
I was even offered a newspaper to read although even if the light - set at date-friendly levels – was brighter I think the sight of a middle-aged gent reading The Indy amidst the Jeunesse Dorée of Shoreditch would have been incongruous enough to turn one or two stomachs…if not mine (and that was already turned the previous evening).

EYRE BROTHERS

Drowned at the bottom of your mystery
Down in the bottom of the Wine Dark Sea

Every time I have a duff meal a little bit of me dies inside. Admittedly eating bad food is not the worst thing in the world, but for one whose life is mostly driven by what the next meal is going to be it’s pretty much up there. I lost a whole bunch of my insides after a miserable meal at Eyre Brothers.

I’ve visited this restaurant probably half a dozen times in as many years and it’s never really convinced, indeed each visit has witnessed a decremental change in food and service. This was a new low.

The service was friendly enough, although confused. The wine list was ok. The room, all mahogany and leather, remains a handsome in which to dine. It’s just the food which is the problem. It’s crap.

A starter, smugly described as Jamón Ibérico bellota (“Quercus Magno”, Guijelo [sic], Salamanca) on the menu, took longer to read than to eat. Annoyingly, I had to send the first plate back because when I’m paying £16 + 12.5% for some jamon I want it cut properly and I want a decent ratio of moist ham to dried up pieces of leather. One of the eponymous brothers (David, I think) brought me the replacement with nary an apology but just an enquiry if it looked any better. Well I’d have to taste it first I replied. I did and it wasn’t. Please compare and contrast with a plate DH enjoyed at El Faro. I make no apology for posting it again to show how it should be done. The charred toast covered with a crude tomato concasse and a few oregano leaves was just rubbing it in (how it should have been made).

My other starter of Morcilla was forgotten so I stated on my main of Hake with poularde clams and prawns, Basque style. This was a sad piece of fish swamped by a muddy gravy. There were some overcooked prawns and clams and rather a lot of peas. The Basque nation are justly renowned for their cuisine. What would they make, I wonder, of this dish named in homage to them. I think they would be very unhappy indeed.

I really should have called it a night there and but ever the sucker for punishment I decided to have my missed starter. The morcilla was actually pretty good as morcilla goes but it was spoiled by an unsympathetic pairing with black-eyed beans and a nasty undertaste.

Oh and the double espresso was the worst I’ve ever tasted.

The shame of it was that those most upset and apologetic about this car crash of a meal were those least likely to influence things. Nobody else gave a toss. At least HS wasn’t there, not only because I wouldn’t want flesh and blood to experience such a miserable meal but also because he would have been more critical and vocal than me…and it wouldn’t have been pretty.

PS And if you’re going to get all poncy about ham at least take the trouble to find out how to spell the name of the town it comes from

SUSHI-SAY: SAKE ON THE JUBILEE LINE

I am, considering that I am now on the skiddy slope to penury (just outside Sidcup, I believe) in remarkably good fooling.

I had some excellent meetings this morning and the Sun was making a real stab at taking over the March sky. Quite a lovely day to be me and I don’t say that very often.

So, when my elderly but sprightly chum, Nick made the unlikely suggestion that I may want to head out to Willesden Green for lunch, I took it in good spirit and humoured him, waved my oyster card at someone in uniform and sat for about an hour on The Jubilee line.

To be fair, his offer of “some of the best sushi in London” was not a surprise to me as Sushi Say on Walm Rd has often been cited as one of the finest in the city and worth the, what I am guessing is at least, 150 mile trek away from London’s fashionable SOSHO.

I have never quite got my head around going there before. But, now I have nothing better to do than swap middle aged men stories about cholesterol and people who claim to be Dr’s sticking an extended digit where the sun don’t shine, I thought it may be worth the effort.

Well, yes it is. Recently refurbished, Sushi Say looks like a small neighbourhood joint but offers a whole lot more. The quality of the fish is superb. But, more than that, the quality of the cutting made the difference. A skilled sushi chef will create textures and mouth feel but the way they cut the fish and here, real skill was on show.

Even in a standard offering of set sashimi, the quality is evident. Lean tuna, sea bream, salmon and mackerel were as good as I have found in London and probably would justify the trip on their own.

If I was not convinced by that point, a selection of nigiri would have made my mind up that this was certainly a place out of the ordinary. Razor clams were meaty, sweet shrimp, while not up to those at Eddoko last week, were achingly fresh and slices of the larger “horse” mackerel stole the show.

Tempura was more average, but I am a sucker for good frying, where ever in the world it may originate, and was soon picking at the scraps of batter on the plate after we have polished off the mixed assortment of shrimp and vegetables.

With a couple of flasks of of warm sake, the bill came to about £70 including tip. Add on the tube fare and the cost of a bodyguard and that is still cheaper than the equivalent quality in central London.

On the evidence of this visit, I may have to reassess my view of the outer reaches of our fair city.

SWEETINGS: SCHOOL GRUB FOR GROWN UPS AND LAYABOUTS

Well, it is official. I am unwaged and one of the great unwashed.

I left my real job on Friday and am now in full pelt towards the start date of EAT MY GLOBE. Exciting huh? Well, yep and fricking scary too. Scary enough to have me waking up in the middle of the night in flash sweats with thoughts of returning to London in a year or so, a battered and broken man with nothing more to offer the world than the fact that I can do fantastic porno shadow puppets. It is, as the strap line to our blog says “not much, but it’s mine” My “happy bunny does anal” is worth the entrance money on its own.

There is however an upside. The leisurely lunch. It is, as HP would say, what separates us from the beasts and it is one of the most truly decadent things a man can do.

There are few better companions for such pleasures than my friend, Martin. Retired and retiring, Martin is the most amiable of table mates and is always up for a decent meal.

I had been meaning to try Sweeting’s for as long as I can remember. But, as it is only a lunch place and not open at weekends, the opportunities had been few and far between. It doesn’t take bookings, so I arranged to meet Martin outside at 11.30am just as it was opening its doors to the waiting throng of, well, the two of us.

Someone unkind once described Sweeting’s as a place where fathers took their sons before shipping them off to boarding school so they could get used to how foul the food was going to be. It’s a lot better than that suggests but, I can see what they mean. Sweetings is the sort of place you would bring someone to show them how things used to be done when they were done properly and how good they could taste with little faffing around.

The menu is almost entirely fish based and as we perched precariously on the slightly wobbly bar seating, Martin started with some fabulously mild soused herring and I had fried whitebait. Mine, while fresh and served with a tartar sauce that I wanted to put my head into and go ‘blubbery” was slightly disappointing and lacked the necessary crunch.

Main courses are very traditional fish dishes and you can choose from Dover Sole, Plaice and Halibut, grilled or fried. We both chose other options. Martin had never encountered Barramundi before so this was as good an opportunity as any to pick one of the specials. What he got was a perfectly prepared chunk of this most meaty of fish on a slightly gloopy looking red wine sauce. Better, was my choice of two thick slices of smoked haddock topped with two poached eggs with pristine set whites and runny yolks which dribbled pleasingly over the fish when I speared them with a fork. Side dishes of chips and peas were a little canteen like, but the fish was the star and star it did.

Then it all went pear shaped. Actually if went Jam Roly poly shaped. The puddings at Sweeting’s are, quite rightly, the stuff of legend. The stuff that built the empire. They are stodgy, filling, dense and damn, damn tasty. We ordered the afore mentioned roly poly and a slab of spotted dick perfect examples of the genre both. However, Martin chose this moment to start loudly lamenting the current condition of restaurant custard. Our server, Jodie, was charm itself. I would have leapt over the counter and slapped him several times hard with an extra one for good measure and an added one just because I enjoyed it. She looked serene, defended the custard to her best ability and even offered to bring us some ice cream as well in case it did not pass muster. I am pretty sure she said “ in case your senile old grandad doesn’t like it” but Martin, thankfully did not hear that.

Whatever was wrong with the custard, he still ate enough of it as he ladled it on to his, er dick ( I normally have to pay people good money to do that, ahem) and managed to tuck away more than his fair share of the roly poly too.

This is The City, so it is not cheap. But, great fun and great fish. The bill for the two of us was a hefty £120 including a very good bottle of Petit Chablis, an unfeasibly large glass of non descript Graves with our puds and a well deserved tip for Jodie who had to put up with my annoying friend.

Not a bad way to start the next part of the uphill journey that is my life or my first ever stint of unemployment. Please be aware though that I will soon be appearing on a street corner near you holding a sign saying “ will drop trousers for food”

Be warned

EL FARO: A SHINING LIGHT IN CANARY WHARF

I hate it when this happens.

There I was safe in the knowledge that all Spanish restaurants in the UK were useless, a view that I had promulgated on more than one occasion. Then, what happens? One comes along that is not only not useless but actually very good indeed.

And, El Faro, in the unlikely setting of Turnberry Quay near Canary Wharf, is very good indeed. The closest I have come in the UK to the restaurants and food we eat so regularly and with such gusto in Spain.

El Faro is owned and run by people from Northern Spain, the menu, with a extraneous additions for the locals, reads much as one would in Spain and the extensive wine list is a well priced delight.

We became rather excited when we saw the menu and ordered five starters. The lovely Madrilena front of house seemed a little concerned that we would not finish out main courses, but she has obviously not seen us eat.

Pulpo all Gallega was spot on, warm soft slices of octopus drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with paprika. The pimientos de Padron was a sizeable portion. Easily the highest pepper to cost ratio of any restaurant I have been to in the UK ( shame on you Fino) Daditos de cerdo, were chunks of crispy confit belly pork thick with the scent of thyme and honey.

The croquettas were probably the weakest starter, but agreeable enough. Filled with chunks of Jamon, but a little less creamy than I like. They still didn’t last long, mind you.

Best of all, was a large plate of Jamon Iberico. Expertly hand cut, as it should be, from a large whole ham at the counter. This stuff is the real deal, the Cinco Jotas ( five acorns ) brand and you can taste the acorns in the rich silky fat. Often in the UK, when you can find ham this good the cutting is not up to snuff or, heaven forfend, the hack it off with a machine slicer. Here, the cutting was spot on and the ham was served with slices of pan con tomate where the rich tomato juices had soaked through the bread. With the possible exception of a huge steak. A plate of this would be my choice for a last meal.

Talking of a huge steak, the main courses are on the money too. Various cuts of Galician beef are on offer including the 600gms chuleton de buey which caught HP’s attention.

I am a bit steaked out after yet another fine example at Hawksmoor ealier in the week, so went for the Codero Lechal ( baby lambikins to you and me ) which came from Catalunia.

The chef also comes from Catalunia and, like all Spaniards from that area can’t leave well alone. So, here, instead of just a plate of meat as you would get in God’s own country, there were a few unnecessary additions like some roasted tomatoes and crushed potatoes. Not awful in and of themselves, but a little pointless. They did not detract, however, from what was as perfect and echt a plate of Spanish grub as I have ever got my mouth around in this country.

The beef chop was cooked rare as requested and required the necessary chewing that all good beef should. It came with a fat slab of beefy fat too without which it is just a hunk of dead protein.

The Codero lacked the crispiness of lamb from an Asador but was a pretty good stab at this staple of Northern Spain.

We pondered on dessert, but, as they had no “helado mixta” on the menu HP went straight to a well made café solo and an Orujo Blanco while I sucked down a Pacheran.

I mentioned the wine list, didn’t I? Well, it deserves another mention. This is a serious wine list for lovers of Spain. The obvious Rioja and Ribero are complimented by wines from all regions of Spain. One of us was celebrating, one of us was drowning our sorrows ( a long story ) so we had a couple of bottles. A deliciously leathery Pequera Crianza and a more unusual Alzania from Navarre which gave of a heady waft of licorice the moment the bottle was opened.

We pushed the boat out a bit and this was reflected in the bill of £180 for two ( of which the wines were about £70 + ) so, a very decent meal here would come in about £100 including service which was entirely charming even when the place began to fill to capacity.

Spain and Spanish food is our thing as you may have gathered if you have read the blog for a while. It takes a lot to impress us when we are not in Spain and few places in London capture that sheer generosity of spirit that the Spanish have in such abundance.

Well, El Faro is not just close, it’s the real deal and, if it were not for those bloody roasted tomatoes in one of the pictures, I would almost think these were photos from one of our recent visits.

It’s that good. Go there.