EATING FOR BRITAIN: BURNS AND THE DOGS

Just by the Brig O’ Doon, where across did Tam O’Shanter ride, in the small town of Alloway, home of Robert Burns, there is an imprint in the soil. It is rounded, deep and shows signs of sticky out ears.

It is, in fact, me shaped. A sort of mud angel created when yours truly went arse over tit into the muddy earth on my way back to my charming B&B after a liquid heavy evening to launch the year of Scottish Homecoming. I arrived, well past midnight, with the slurry of the rain sodden earth dripping from me like chocolate oozing from a well made fondant.

Up to that point, however, it had all been rather fun. The disappointment of finding there was no haggis on the menu for the event (not to worry, plenty of haggis yet to come) was soon forgotten as I sipped on a Whisky based cocktail and then found myself entering the stunning dining room of the Brig o’ Doon, house hotel alongside assorted dignitaries and even the Scottish First Minister himself, gathered to celebrate Burns birth with a blow out meal.

In between each course, of a supper based on excellent Scottish ingredients, we were serenaded by well known artists, including the sublime Sandi Thom, giving us their renditions of Burn’s songs. And, while the meal suffered the usual banquet problems of over saucing, the quality of the scallops and langoustines in one dish alone made the journey from London worthwhile.

Here is a quick competition, the evening ended with a toast to Burns made with one of 250 bottles of 37 year old Famous Grouse. Why are the numbers significant?

Waking up groggy headed and still finding mud in improbable places the next morning, I made my way the short hope to Edinburgh, where, after depositing my car at the next B&B, I headed out to find something to eat. A hugely depressing experience as the best Edinburgh had to offer, outside of its Michelin starred elite seemed to be grubby shops selling, pizzas, kebabs and, for some bizarre reason baguettes. I bought a bottle of wine and some fruit and retired to my room to catch up on my writing.

A solid rib sticker of a breakfast made me feel more sanguine about the whole thing and I decided to make an assault up Arthur’s seat, to make room for lunch. It had been nearly 25 years since I set foot in the city as a fresh faced, idealistic student appearing in a play on The Edinburgh Fringe. It and I were appalling, but my concerns that someone might recognise me and ride me out of town on a rail for crimes against theatre were unfounded and I soon found it time to meet my new chum, Martha Bryce, at her choice of lunch venue, The Dogs.

In a city seemingly filled with poor budget eating options, The Dogs stands out. In fact, The Dogs would stand out in any city and every city, no every neighbourhood, should have a place like it. It is a dining room in the true sense. Well made food in small, sharing portions made from good ingredients with no dish over £5.25. If HP had been with me, I suspect we would have ordered the lot.

As it was, both Martha and I began with soup. My disappointment that the Cullen Skink had run out moments before was short lived when we were both presented with bowls of steaming Scotch Broth. This is the sort of soup my granny used to make with a deep stock offering up a few scraps of meat and lots of swollen pearl barley and a few carrots. Nutritious and nourishing, the sort of dish I was hoping to find on my journey. Like wise a special of Ox Liver with onions, which, gave up pink chunks of offal and slivers of sweet red onion in a sharp sauce. It was spot on, as was Martha’s own choice of haddock coated in crunchy pinhead oatmeal, with only the silly fat, unpeeled chips adding a duff note.

I have a feeling that my experiences in Scotland so far will prove to be common as I travel around the whole of the UK. Incredible ingredients balanced by lots of crappy places selling crappy food and some real gems to be unearthed by happenstance or local guideance.

I wonder if I should change to book title to EATING FOR BRITAIN:THERE’S SOME GREAT FOOD OUT THERE IF YOU TRY HARD ENOUGH

BURNS NIGHT: LIKE AMBER BEAD

By birth I am Scottish. Along with the obvious advantages this bestows (good looks, intelligence, generosity) there are one or three disadvantages. The love of Bagpipe music being one. Using the word Sassenach too many times in polite conversation is another. There’s also the little-known problem which afflicts those of Caledonian origin: they must keep up a regular intake of Haggis to maintain peak physical and mental health.

The result is that by the time Burns Night arrives one is literally sick to the stomach of the stuff. Actually, that’s not quite true, I love the stuff. It’s just the embarrassment of having staff at my local Waitrose greet me with a cheery “Hola Hermano, we have your Haggis waiting for you at checkout three”.

As I’ve already done the trad thing courtesy of HS I thought this Burns Night I’d play with the form a bit – it’s my birthright. The Haggis was broken up into pieces and whizzed together with an egg and some spices: turmeric, coriander, chilli powder and the like. I then moulded the resultant mixture into small patties (or shami kebabs) just a bit bigger than a falafel. These were then baked in a moderate oven until cooked through and nicely browned on the outside. Neeps were mashed and mixed with cumin seeds and olive oil. There was a little Mint Raita on the side.

For an impromptu supper it wasn’t too shabby although what really made it special was the accompanying drink, John Glaser’s impeccable Peat Monster Whisky (see Dos Hermanos passim). Monstrously good in my humble opinion.

For pudding a little Chocolate pot made from a water-based ganache with a little Whisky and some Orange zest mixed in…

…and another wee dram as a nightcap

Sláinte !

OSTERIA DELL'ANGOLO: STANDING ON THE CORNER

I was sitting in a bar the other day nursing a headache and a large Dry Martini - which amazingly took care of the headache - when I heard some Northerners moaning about London prices. Now if there’s one thing that really gets up my nose it’s dozy bumpkins coming to my town and whingeing about stuff. If they don’t watch out I’m going to send that Jamie Oliver up there to sort them out. If he hasn’t already.

To stop their whining here’s a little tip: free, gratis and for nothing. Not many visitors know there’s an unofficial tax on drinks bought by non-Londoners. But you can get a discount if you order in the right way. A cheery “Wotcher me old cock sparrer” always goes down well with bartenders here and if you mix in a few “God bless the Queen Mum”s and “Not Many”s you’ll achieve beverage bliss. File along with haggling with Black Cab rivers is actively encouraged.

Anyway, this was all a pleasant prelude to a good meal at a new Italian joint from serial restaurateur Claudio Pulze. In truth I wasn't expecting much from Osteria Dell’Angolo. It's located in Victoria, that most non-descript areas of London. Faceless and dull - and that’s just the MPs and their Civil Servants - good eating places are as rare as hens’ teeth.

Signor Pulze recent restaurant openings have been a mixed bag. I found his gastropub The Beehive very underwhelming and his French joint Brasserie Saint Jacques was received with lukewarm and limp reviews. With Osteria Dell’Angolo he seems back on more sure and happier territory.

There’s been a number of Italian restaurant openings over the past year and for every place in the credit side (L’Anima, 500, Bocca di Lupo) there’s been a clunker on the debit (Apsleys, Avista, Manicomo). Happily O D’A sits firmly in the first column.

The room isn’t going to win too many design award but it’s functional and comfortable. Service a couple of days after opening was spot-on and as sweet as pie. More importantly the food is terrific from the bread that is served throughout the meal to the rather splendid Duck main course. Everything spoke of decent ingredients, freshness and a light touch in the kitchen.

An amuse of half a rich, deep-fried egg in a tomato broth brought back memories of when I was a lad. The combination of the fried coating, egg and tomato reminded me, for some bizarre reason, of Sunday breakfasts my Dad used to cook. Such is the power of food and memory

Wafer thin slices of pressed Pig’s head were served, correctly at room temperature with a good endive salad to provide bitterness as a foil to the fattiness of the pork.

A Tagliatelle with some Ragu was homely and delicious. It was taken from the Mother’s Tasting Menu which specialises in dishes from the comfort food as oppose to the cutting edge end of the spectrum.

The kitchen’s culinary chops were more to the fore in my main course of Duck. The breast had been poached then made into four dense, meaty roundels. They were topped with little ducky scratchings and accessorised with superb Celery Croquettes (mmm…croquettes) and a bitter Artichoke salad which performed the same contrast as the Endive in the starter.

Despite being well stuffed – that bread just kept on coming and coming – my eyes were obviously bigger than my stomach. A massive beef chop or Bistecca alla Fiorentina was served to a neighbouring table. One Kilo of Italian Chianina Beef, charred on the outside and beautifully rare within, was carved up for people who, well they just wouldn’t have appreciated it half as much me. It really was the palle dei cani. Reality kicked in, of course, and I made a mental note to return ASAP.

As well as pudding, there’s a separate page in the menu for Italian Cheeses which I’m sure would be as good as everything else.

The kitchen is not making its own Gelati at the moment so I consoled myself with good Espresso and a Grappa and thought what a clever move it was to open in this particular area. You see, despite the financial problems Britain is suffering there is still a potential group of diners whose job security is pretty much guaranteed and for whom the future is always bright, especially if you’re at or near the top. The Palace of Westminster is a ten minute walk.

HAGGIS: FEELING THE BURNS NIGHT

Friday sees the official start of my EATING FOR BRITAIN trip.

In the early morning, I shall throw a few things in the back of my recently purchased, battered old Ford Focus and point it Northwards to Scotland where for the next eight months I shall be travelling in search of some of the finest that this beautiful country of ours has to offer.

What better way to begin, given that 2009 marks the 250th anniversary of Robert Burns birth, than to head up to Alloway, his home town and accept the kind offer to attend a large, traditional Burns Night, celebration. There will, of course, be the wailing of pipers, the intoning of the immortal words over the “wee timorous beastie” and, possibly even some men in kilts offering me the chance to see their dirks, ahem.

We wont be alone, however, as on the day itself, the 25th January, over 1500 official Burns Suppers have been registered around the world with many more going on in the homes of teary eyed ex-pats.

By way of preparation, last night I cooked up a small little example of lung, hearts, liver, oats, barley and spices in a stomach, from the finest of all makers of Haggis, MacSweens and served it with a traditional side of mashed turnips and slightly less conventional additions of mashed sweet potatoes and a thick parsley sauce.

There are lots of ways of cooking a haggis, but I went for the quick method of using the microwave, which may seem controversial, but is in fact a tradition that goes way back to the mid 1960’s where it was invented by the feared Clan McWhirlpool.

To make sure it did not dry out, I doused the meat with a good glug of whisky while cooking and, of course, made sure to do the same as I was eating it.

My journey is going to bring me, I am sure, into contact with some amazing food and some equally amazing people, but there could be few better ways to begin than to pay homage to this little creature from North of the border

BI-WON: GET ONE FREE

Well, no we actually didn’t get one free, but how sweet a title would that have been if we did? What we did get was a very decent lunch of well-prepared Korean food for around £10 a head, so sue me.

It’s that time post Christmas where belts are being tightened and, added to the credit crunch, my chum and food writer, William Leigh was begging for an option cheap enough to save him from turning to gay porn and a situation where he might become imprisoned by Boy George. Being the good chum that I am and not wanting him to go GFP, my research brought us to Bi-Won, a small but tidy little restaurant on Coptic St, minutes from The British Museum.

Alongside a large normal menu, including some appealing looking BBQ dishes, Bi-Won offers a bargain selection of lunchtime plates from which we chose my own particular favourite, Bi Bim Bap and a Chigae (spicy bean curd) soup for William. We supplemented them with a plate of kim chi, upon the quality of which every Korean restaurant must be judged and Mandu, their own take on the gyoza.

The Kimchi struck me as a little muted as if it had been toned down so not to scare whitey. But, the mandu were excellent, moist filling inside light dumpling crust with a slight crunch from a brief moment in the frying pan.

Likewise the Bi Bim Bap was a very decent example of the art of stuff in a hot bowl. Hot enough in fact that the rice in touch with the base, as it should, scorched to form a pleasing crunchy crust that had William looking over with slightly green eyes as he enjoyed his spicy soup about as much as anyone can enjoy a dish made with bean curd.

As we finished our meal and paid our bill, a paltry £22 including a cup of ginseng tea, we noticed a procession of staggeringly gorgeous women wandering by each with a map in their hand. We decided from their blank looks that they were obviously models looking for a nearby casting call. That parade of lovelies alone might have been a reason to return to Bi-Won, but in the current climate, I think a decent £11 lunch is even an more attractive proposition.

BULL AND LAST: GREAT GASTRO IN HIGHGATE - NO SHIT

On one of those rare occasions when I could hear myself think (very rare in the cut/thrust, hustle/bustle of the City - although for some strange reason the place seems a bit quieter recently) I pondered upon the subject of my favourite time to eat.

With advancing age a big breakfast is out of the question. A midweek dinner usually means indigestion - it’s those big, greasy steaks, you see - and a fuzzy head the next morning.

I came to the conclusion that if I could only eat at one time then Saturday lunch would be it. When most people are visiting the DIY Superstore, mowing the lawn or heaven forfend, buying clothes, sensible folk (that’s us) are slowly getting sozzled while scoffing great grub. Well, that’s how it usually goes.

The Bull and Last pub in Highgate hasn’t been open that long but has already garnered great reviews (as has its sister The Prince of Wales in Putney). This would normally be the kiss of death for any place for me but I decided to give it a chance and wandered along last Saturday for a spot of lunch with HS.

My initial concerns increased when I saw that all but one of their ales was off. And so it begins I thought when I saw a pile of Scotch Eggs and Sausage Rolls behind the bar. The Harwood Arms cooks them to order I huffed to HS.

As it turned out I was just being unusually and extra-curmudgeonly. The Bull and Last is an absolutely terrific gaff.

Those Scotch Eggs and Sausage Rolls had just been cooked. Both were excellent especially the Roll where the buttery, flaky pastry encased good Pork Sausage meat which had been studded with little nuggets of Black Pudding. Such a good idea I’m surprised you don’t see it more often.

Our little bar-side amuses finished we rolled up our sleeves to get stuck into the menu proper. This kitchen doesn’t hang around and the first three dishes weren’t long in arriving.

Crispy Squid was indeed, crispy, and very fresh. A pungent Aioli had us using our fingers in the only way that DH know how. Some more Porky (and Ducky) treats came on the Charcuterie board: a silky Liver Parfait was refined but with a pleasingly Offaly kick. A terrine of Belly Pork was little underseasoned but was good and fatty. As were the Rillettes.

Best of the lot was the Deep Fried Lamb Breast coming on as an English version of the Iberian Croqueta. Notably good Lamb had been shredded and breadcrumbed and fried properly so that the coating complemented rather than dominating the whole.

A dish of Pig Cheeks with Sauerkraut and Prunes had HS coming over all Greg Wallace (“It’s deep, it’s savoury, it’s…etc”) which is a bit of a coincidence as

a) they’ve both been naughty boys at a football match (although HS’s punishment was disappointingly lenient - a stern telling-off from plod ) and

b) they’re both bald.

Perfect comfort food, then, but done with no little refinement. Perfect ingreients too and, a nice touch here, instead of hiding the provenance of the ingredients in the menu they’re prouly displayed over the bar.

Triple cooked chips were up there with the best and had us engaged in one of those unseemly squabbles over the correct and fair distribution of the same. If the friendly and efficient staff hadn’t been quite so busy they would have wondered what on earth was going on. Sad, really quite sad.

While taking cinquo minutos we saw other plates of food pass by: Beef Pies with flaky, crusted tops; a big fist of Deep Fried Haddock with more of those chips; doorstep sandwiches; a steaming pot of Moules, this time served with great looking Frites. O-M-G, this kitchen does TWO types of chips.

After what had gone before it would have been a major surprise if the puds had been anything other than great. I really liked my Praline and Chocolate Ice Cream. It seems to have just the right texture, HS astutely noted.

Even better was the Marmalade version with his Chocolate Orange Fondant, both of which had HS going off on one (“it’s sweet, it’s chocolatey, it’s…etc”).

Things were beginning to liven up by the time we drained the dregs from a half bottle of Sauterne. The Nappy Valley families who had come for an early lunch had moved on to be replaced by a mixture of locals, dog-walkers and groups of lads devouring big plates of Sausage Rolls and chips. A pretty mixed crowd making for a buzzy yet civilised atmosphere. A model for pubs of the future ? Possibly, but certainly a model pub for today. Other hostelries please take note.