BURY MY HEART AT WALMERSLEY CHIPPY
Let’s get this out of the way. This is my first attempt at posting a video to the blog. Fellini it aint, but give me a break. OK?

My girlfriend has relatives who own a chippy and yours does not. Nah, Nah, Nah Nah and, indeed, Nah.

The fact they also own a small chain of Kebab shops is an added, unexpected but altogether welcome bonus.

After a bit of a lay in on Saturday morning we pottered the short walk from our vile hotel to the rightfully famous Bury Market. Officially the best market in the UK plentiful signage was keen to point out. In truth, it is just a lot of stalls selling tat. However, amongst the bric a brac are some real gems selling local food.

The Eccles Cake is, thanks to Fergus Henderson, well known in that there London. But, not so, the Chorley cake. Well, Thanks to Harry Muffin, purveyor of fine sweet comestibles to northern folk, I can now announce to the world that they are a lot better than Eccles cakes. So there.

After a bit of nibblage on those, we stopped for a bacon and sausage muffin (in Bury, apparently, a bread roll is a muffin. Go figure) which seemed to be the lightest option on offer at a market café where most people seemed to be tucking into full English fry up’s on plates the size of steering wheels.

All this and passing by once more by the stall of the good people of The Bury Black Pudding Company made us a bit peckish so we wandered the mile or so to The Walmersley Chippy, the latest cog in the growing empire of Dawn’s relatives Mehrdad and Denise. Open a mere six weeks and already experiencing a very steady stream of business, The Chippy is one of those places that makes you despair of ever getting good Fish & Chips in London or at least anything that comes within a north country mile of what we had here.

Fresh fish, cooked to order, was thick with bubbly crunchy batter while the haddock (always haddock up North, of course ) was protected inside to steam gently to a gorgeous flake. Chips were proper chip shop chips and only benefited from a liberal dousing with vinegar. As good as it gets.

Well that is of course, unless you get to go backstage and see it all being done, which I did. As I mentioned, I have a GF who put me on the guest list for the VIP room or at least the room where they cut the chips.

Pretty full up by now obviously, but not too full to pop next door but one and try a few slices of a fresh kebab crisped up on the grill topped with their homemade chilli sauce. It’s a good life.

A long walk home failed to burn off all the grub we had ingested and we made the mistake of going to use the Hotel gym which resulted in us both turning a most unusual shade of green and having to lie down for a while.

But, man it was worth it for those Fish & Chips.

Did I say Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah? If not, just take it as a given. OK?

MR THOMAS’S CHOP HOUSE: A VICTORIAN FOLLY IN MANCHESTER

I love to mooch. In fact, I don’t think there is anyone who mooches better than I do. I am The Mooch Meister, The Moochatollah. The, if you will, Uber Moochen Fuhrer.

So, on Friday, when I had finished the EAT MY GLOBE part of the trip to Bury to see the people of the mighty Bury Black Pudding Company, Dawn wanted to head off to see her Dad who lived close by, I was more than happy to occupy myself for a few hours, use the health club and then head into Manchester.

On the tram, no less and while reading a copy of The Manchester Evening News I found on the seat next to me. By the time I arrived, I was practically a character in Coronation St. Er, happen.

Bar a brief visit to see Ricky Hatton hit someone a few times, I have not set foot in Manchester for twenty years and it has, as is much documented, changed out of all recognition (pause while the entire population whines in a nasal way “we’ve got a Selfridges”) and I spent an entirely agreeable few hours pottering around Chinatown, The Gay Village, The Printworks etc only disconcerted by the fact that the female population seems to be entirely orange. Not a healthy tan orange, but full on Tango man orange. Like they have eaten sweets they shouldn’t have at Willy Wonka’s factory and are about to be dragged off by the Oompah Loompah’s ( and, if you have ever been dragged off by the……… well, you can finish that one yourself)

After about four hours, I needed an drink so headed to the Arora Hotel in Chinatown and their pleasing basement bar, Obsidian. Apparently, it has the biggest back bar in the UK outside our fair capital and it was well worth a visit for a number of exemplary cocktails made by a well trained staff.

By this time Dawn had joined me and, a few drinks to the good, we headed off to supper at Mr Thomas’s Chop House on Cross St. A friend had texted me “ignore the theme park silliness and order the corned beef hash” He is a man of good taste, so I did.

In truth, I didn’t find the room too theme park. I rather liked it. But, the menu does have lots of silliness with references to “food like your mum used to make” and “ perfect for rainy days” They even describe HP sauce as “legendary” which is one step from “our world famous sauce” after which, it would not just be Ricky Hatton getting violent.

Still, service was charm itself and our starters were not bad at all. Fish cakes were plump and filled with decent ingredients and, even better, the corned beef hash came as a small, perfectly fried cake with smooth mash and house made corned beef that is as good a mouthful as I have had so far this year. The little comma of “legendary” HP sauce was a welcome addition.

Unfortunately, from here, the meal went downhill alarmingly. Dawn’s steak was cooked to order but came with an announced, but unnecessary topping of cheese which smothered any flavour. My dish was apparently “ back by popular demand” which makes me think Manchester still has a way to go. A honey coated belly pork should have been everything I adore but instead was stringy. It was topped with a few slivers of crackling, so hard they could live in Moss Side. The five spice lentils had been over cooked to the point of mushiness. A big fat flop of a dish.

Talking of big and fat. The chips were of that annoying variety and not great either. A bit flacid and floury and we left most of them as we did an overdressed salad that had transgressed another of my rules and was harbouring some raw peppers.

A pudding of crumble took things down an extra notch with the dish being long on stewed fruit and short on crumble with a blob of non descript ice cream on top. We left most of it.

The wine list is short, but well formed and a bottle of something from Navarre was well priced at £17.50. Service could not have been more charming if it had been to finishing school and it deserved the 12.5% which helped make up the £71 final tally.

Unusually, my friend was wrong. I didn't mind the theme park silliness, I should have just ingnored the food.

Suka

AND THEY WANDERED IN
FROM THE CITY OF ST. JOHN

When I was at University in…well put it this way, I looked like a Life On Mars extra (think long hair, flares and a love of sticking it to the man) I shared my living space with a man called Thomas. Thomas was from Malaysia and while us Brit students existed on a diet of Pot Noodles or the infamous Full English in a tin, Thomas would have his Malaysian friends round and would prepare Malaysian food. There might be Chicken Curry, a Rendang or a Fish Curry. A Satay or two might make an appearance and there was always steaming bowls of rice. I was lucky enough to be invited to join one of these feasts. Although I always ate well at home, this was a real wake-up call for the tastebuds and the hot, salty and sour flavours are something I will never forget.

I wonder what Thomas and his mates would have made of Suka, a new restaurant at The Sanderson Hotel which promised “modern authentic Malaysian cuisine, prepared with European sensibility and technique”. Not very much, I reckon after my visit yesterday. I went hoping for a Madeleine moment but left with a bad taste in my mouth thanks to a rather unlovely dish of Chinese Brocolli with Dried Fish. The greens had been cooked into oblivion and then doused in something which was very salty (oyster sauce ?) before being sprinkled with the dried fish. The result was salty and sour but not in a good way. I then had a very dry mouth for the rest of the evening. With the greens I had a beef rendang which came as a large of hunk short ribs which had dried out somewhat and so made for relentless eating.

Similar carelessness with the cooking showed up in a couple of my starters of a salad of pork belly and melon. The pork was tough (not a patch on the stuff I got at GEDR) and came with some more pieces of dried pig, in this case Serrano ham. The shrimp Popiah (a sort of non-fried spring roll) and an accompanying salad of leaves and green mango should have been bursting with flavour and general zinginess but was as damp and dismal piece of food I have had in an eastern-themed restaurant.

Mention Malaysian cuisine and you probably think of satay and the examples I tried weren’t too bad, in fact the ribeye one was quite good (as it should have been at a whopping £15). It had a nice smoky char and went well with the small slivers of foie gras interleaving the steak. The Scallop one was less good and would have been helped by a bit more colour on the outside. Both types came with an anaemic peanut sauce and some sad cucumber and rice cakes.

I feel so depressed just writing this that I won’t even mention the ten minutes the staff took to “explain” the menu to me or to describe the tray bearing some bowls of lime, sambal and rock salt (you can squeeze some lime onto the sambal, apparently). I‘ll desist from yakking on about the overloud music and the crappy décor. And I will definitely leave out the fact the service was 15% but they still had an entry for an Additional Gratuity on the bill. Hope, as they say, springs eternal (or should that be Abandon hope all ye who enter here ?). The Paris Hilton wannabes sitting next to me seemed to be enjoying themselves so it will probably be a roaring success so what do I know ?

Incidentally the PR blurb makes much of the involvement of Zak Pelaccio of Fatty Crab fame and other NY eateries but on the evidence of this meal it can't have extended to more than a scrawled note and a ‘Will this do ?” tacked on (allegedly of course).

LOLA ROJA: NUEVO NO NO ON THE NORTHCOTE RD

I am a man of simple tastes. Particularly as I get older. I want simple decent food that has not been fooled around with too much. Food which is a testament to good sourcing rather than an example of the chef’s three years in catering school.

The greatest of all sins is to take a great quality ingredient and then smother it with extraneous ingredients because you don’t know how to leave well alone.

Today was a prime example.

A blousy Glaswegian of my acquaintance invited me to join her for lunch at Lola Roja and relatively new Spanish place on The Northcote Rd (apparently now dubbed “the Ludlow of South London” because of the sheer number of restaurants and food stores.)

It is an appealing, light airy little space and the menu reads well in a slightly “Nuevo Tapas” kind of way with about four each of hot, cold, meat and fish tapas on offer.

We began with a plate of Jamon, naturally. Paler than most Iberico, but beautiful and beautifully carved with layers of fat and marbling. A perfect start.

Croquettes were evidence of excellent frying but slightly dry inside as were small balls of cod which cried out for something to dip them in.

Majorcan bread topped with anchovies and olives reminded me of a pizza I once made from a recipe on Blue Peter.

All standard enough to this point, but it was when the more substantial plates began to appear that the inability to leave things be became apparent with swirls if this and splodges of that leading to improbable combinations which failed to convince but succeeded in masking good main ingredients.

A confit of mackerel plopped tasty slabs of fish on top of an unlikely combination of mushrooms, aubergine and sun dried tomatoes. Good fish, the rest entirely pointless.

Suckling pig had a lovely tasting piece of soft pork with excellent crispy skin entirely swamped by a vanilla apple sauce and a bizarre Thyme sorbet all sat on a sprinkling on vegetable crisps. Hurrah for innovation.

The only dish that worked was a coulant of octopus with crushed potatoes, rich with olive oil, surrounding a soft poached egg topped with Galician style pulpo sprinkled with paprika. It worked, the others did not. Simple as that.

Puddings were an equally odd mix. I left most of a white chocolate soup to my companion because it was cloying and I made sure she got the salty bit of that most odious of combinations, chocolate, salt and olive oil, a dish I have never quite got my head around.

I half expected them open the bottle of red from Navarre and mix it with Tizer just to see what would happen, but thankfully, it was one of the few elements of the meal not messed around with.

We ate quite a lot and my chum thought the bill for £81 represented good value. I didn’t. The service, while friendly enough, was haphazard and we had to remind them more than once of things they had forgotten and, while we certainly ordered enough dishes most of them were, well, not very good.

After lunch, we strolled along looking at the myriad other restaurants on Northcote Rd. Some of them even looked worth visiting. Lola Roja,unfortunately, isn’t one of them.

IT’S FUN TO EAT AT THE INDIAN YMCA
There are very few places in London where you can eat for under £6. Go on try to think of a few.

If you go to Pret (and why the Hell would you? Their sandwiches all taste the same to me whatever they say on the packaging) and buy a butty, a drink and a bag of crisps, you will spend more than that. If you were dumb enough to go to one of the fast food places, you would spend even more.

That’s where The Indian YMCA in Fitzrovia comes into its own. For as many years as you care to remember, it has been dishing out dirt cheap canteen style Indian grub to a motley assortment of tourists, students and Indian businessmen.

Lined with communal Formica topped tables, the system has remained unchanged for as long as I can recall. You collect your cutlery, your tray, a glass and a few paper napkins, you walk passed the large open serving area where polite staff spoon out rice and breads and tell you what different dishes are on offer,you help your self to small bowls of what you fancy and you walk to the pay counter where you realise it is going to cost about half what you expected.

Today, a big mound of pilau rice, a fiery mackerel curry, some restorative dahl and a few pakora came to a grand total of £5.60. Just the job on a day that was turning increasingly chilly.

Unknown by many, but one of the great treasures of London dining and well worth searching out for lunch or supper when you want a change from the bog standard curry houses that litter this part of town.

TUBBY ISSACS: WHELK OME TO MY WORLD
Let it never be said that I am not a man of the people. Admittedly, my people are the literati and glitterati of London’s fashionable society but, I still like think that I am credible, if not on a street level, at least on a leafy avenue in Surbiton level.

Today, after splendid lunch of pork loin with greens wilted in goose fat, I was all set to sit back, read the papers and do a little work on my EAT MY GLOBE trip.

I had forgotten, of course, that I was, as part of my community service order, due to take my annoying Australian friend, Chelsea for a walk.

As we strolled down towards Tower Bridge, she began whining about being hungry. At least that’s what I think she was on about. With her broad, almost incomprehensible Melbourne accent, she could have been on about anything. But, she usually only gets in touch when she wants free food, so I made an educated guess.

Fortunately, we were just coming down towards Aldgate East so it was the perfect opportunity to introduce her to the world of Tubby Issacs, one of the few remaining Eel stalls in London. There used to be hundreds of these in London and, with a handful of exceptions they have all but died out. A great shame if, like me, you are a fan of jellied eels, cockles, pints of prawns and, best of all, whelks

We ordered a tub and shared them as we strolled along. The meaty whelks went well with large amounts of vinegar I sloshed on them. Like a taste from ages past and unfortunately, unlikely to be a taste for ages future as these places reach their natural end. Shame really.

Chelsea seemed to quite like them and there was the added benefit that the slight chewiness of the whelks stopped her talking if only for an all too brief time.

Only an other 200 hours to go. Mind you, it will remind me never to try and take a surreptitious leak in the Turner Room at The Tate Britain again.

BENJA: THAI BOXING IN BEAK ST
We all have our little peccadilloes and mine is an unhealthy love of boxing. Shameful I know in this politically correct day and age, but there you go. The sight of two men bashing lumps out of each other for my pleasure still fills me with a worrying level of excitement.

Years ago, I used to even think I had it in me to be a bit of a boxer myself. I soon, literally, had that silly idea knocked out of me when I went to a gym and did some sparring. The trainer said they were going to sew dusters to the seat of my shorts so I could polish the canvas when I was down there as I was most of the time. Ho hum. Cue change of career plan from multi millionaire sports superstar with all the best lasses and that to a man who, up until recently, flogged books for a living.

I thought about this last night as I walked down Beak St towards what used to be the Lonsdale Boxing Store where I went to buy my gear for my short lived stab and sporting excellence. If I am correct, it is now the site of Benja, the latest attempt at “authentic” Thai dining in London.

My GF, Dawn and I did a walk in last night and, although it is a tiny room, the staff were sweetness itself and managed to find a small table for two right by the entrance where the heavy bags used to be kept if I recall rightly (there is a joke in there somewhere)

Like Indian food in the capital, I still think that most Thai restaurants are like looking through a glass darkly at the cuisine, a slurred vision of the real thing with hints towards the real tastes but muted for western tastes.

They admitted as much here while explaining the menu. But, while I am as far from an expert on such matters as it is possible to get, I came away with this impression that they are trying to come up with a close approximation of the real deal.

Small amuse were called Meng Kham, betal leaf filled with a mixture of dried shrimp, garlic, chilli, lime juice and a few other bits and bobs which, when chomped in one go, gave a pleasing, mouth cleansing taste.

Standing in loco Primero, Dawn joined me in upholding the tradition of three starters. Minced lamb in garlic wrapped in betal leaf resembled dolmades, and were slightly chewy if tasty enough. The other two were more successful. A mound of fried, crispy vermicelli with fried shrimps was good enough for me to take the last bits from the plate with a licked finger and, best of all, minced curry chicken puffs with a tangy cucumber dressing which the waitress disarmingly described as being like “mini Cornish pasties” No they weren’t. But, they were very good and, Dawn being a good girl allowed me to finish the third one.

Main courses, were much more standard. A Yam Talay, was a seafood salad of mussels, shrimp, monkfish and squid in a sharp, hot dressing of lime and chilli seemed to me to represent everything I like about Thai cooking. Clean tastes with an underlying heat and the savouryness of fish sauce. A mussuman beef curry was less appealing. The sauce a bit muddy and the beef a bit stringy and a “four seasons vegetable" could have been found on any menu in Chinatown.

I am not drinking for a few days after my over indulgences in Spain (which probably explains the slightly shaky images as my body spasms from the effects of detox) so just drank mineral water and a fresh Pineapple juice. Dawn had a couple of glasses of an unexpectedly drinkable Thai Columbard which brought the bill to £78 for two including tip for service that was almost puppy like in its eagerness to please.

I don’t eat Thai food that much in London. As I said, it never quite convinces. But, for a place to dip into when you are not sure where else to go, Benja certainly has its charms and the bonus is, even if they wanted to, no one tried to beat the living daylights out of me.

PETERSHAM NURSERIES CAFÉ: LET’S DO LUNCH

Today was a pretty momentous occasion for me. It was the first “official” day of the EAT MY GLOBE trip and I spent a hugely informative and enjoyable morning in the company of the passionate John Glaser, the founder and blender of Compass Box Whisky. You will be able to read about that in due course on the EMG website but, suffice to say, I could not have wished for a better beginning to the rest of my life.

Talking of my new life, I am beginning to rediscover the joys of lunch. Until now, a few nuts, the odd bit of fruit and a stroll around the block have been about as much as I had to look forward to. Now, I am able to meet interesting people over a decent meal without thinking I have to run back to the office to have a meeting about when we are going to have a meeting about the agenda for another meeting. Result.

After our morning, John was kind enough to treat me to lunch at The Petersham Nurseries Café. This is one of those places that you read about, read good things about and would love to visit. But, as it is only open for lunch, you never get around to it. It is also way across town from London’s fashionable SOSHO so, well you get the picture.

The new me, however? I have bags of time and was more than happy to linger over a thoroughly agreeable lunch in the almost Spring sunshine.

The chef, Skye Gyngell is carving a bit if a name for herself these days. A rather good book called “ A Year in My Kitchen” (I wonder of Fergus Henderson should do a book called An Ear in My Kitchen?) and a host of celeb clients.

The food coming out of the kitchen here reeks of great ingredients, fresh, imaginative combinations without any frippery or self indulgence. It and the surroundings of the pretty dining area suit each other perfectly.

To begin, two salads, mine an interesting if not altogether successful combination of celeriac sliced wafer thin in the mandolin, with green chicory and a remoulade dressing over slices of malenca beef. I may never say these words again, but I think it may have worked better without the meat component.

Better, in fact, terrific was John’s salad of raw green and white asparagus with aged parmesan, hazelnuts, truffles and saparoso balsamic. I cadged a mouthful and wish I had made his choice instead of mine.

This is not a cheap place. Starters range from £11 to £14 and mains from £16 to £24, but the quality of what was on the plate and the thought that has gone into presentation and preparation make it good value.

A dish of red mullet and slow cooked fennel came with what looked like a fierce saffron aioli. The bite I filched however, was strong but did not over power the fish which was cooked just to point.

Another salad for me. This time of medjool dates, barrel aged feta and strips of cold pink lamb. As good a salad as I can recall in a long time.

John was picking up the bill bless him, so I don’t know the cost. I would guess around the £120 mark for two including a couple of glasses of Silvaner to begin and a Malborough Pinot to follow. Service was charming and suitably leisurely and deserving to the 12.5% they add to the bill.

This is a place for people who have time and money to lunch. The new me is just beginning to realise how lucky they are.

MANGAL OCAKBASI: BURNT OFFERINGS IN MEMORY OF MUSTAPHA

OK, I know. I keep harping on about it, but damn, I miss The Angel Mangal.

This is the last time I will mention it (for a while at least until I get another serious mixed grill jones ) but, no other place has come close before or since. No one quite gets the spicing right or grills with such attention to detail.

Not even, I am sad to say The Mangal Ocakbasi in Arcola Rd, the original and often held up by many as the best of the lot.

After failing to get a table at The Marquess Tavern, HP persuaded me to the long walk down The Balls Pond Rd and up The Kingsland Rd to The Mangal.

The queue was out of the door and their conveyor belt system was in full effect. You walks in, they tell you a table will be about five minutes (which it usually is) While you wait you points to the bits o meat in the chill cabinet that you fancy, they slam it on the grill and, by the time you sit down the food is ready to be plopped in front of you.

And there in lies the problem. It is really a café and they need to turn the tables, so the food is not prepared with anywhere near the care they were able to give it at Angel Mangal where it could take twenty minutes as Mustapha’s brother lovingly turned the skewers while dousing with lemon and spice mixes. Here it was tasty enough but charred in places and dried out. The adana was fine and had a good shot of chilli through it. But, from there it was downhill. The pinwheels of lamb were cooked so quickly they turned to rubber and the quail had dried out. Chicken wings and thighs were better, plump and juicy, but lumps of lamb loin were almost black.

We were heartened to see our chum Memhet who used to work at Angel Mangal and made all the right noises when he asked us how the food compared, but in truth, it just reminded us of how good the old place was even if it was, because of its location, twice the price.

This was as cheap as it gets in London, £25 for two including breads, a chopped tomato salad and some patlican. Even with a decent tip, it still only came to £15 a head. Which, makes me think it might be worth trying again when it is not so rammed and they can take more time over the grilling.

The search for DH’s regular grill fest home continues.