I have been moved to merge my two sites into one... I was getting so confused. Now you followers of food can also enjoy wine and vice versa! Please follow me on http://corkscrewsandcutlery.blogspot.com/ (you will find nothing changed!)
Best wishes,
Lou
Monday 5 July 2010
Monday 10 May 2010
A Regency feast, fit for a party prince...
It is not unfamiliar, waking up on a sofa bed in a strange room wondering what hit you, and then remember drop by painful drop, the night before. Difficulty swallowing that comes from the dry mouth and the knowledge the body is working from the beat, beat, beat of the thumping head; the sore stomach, puffy eyes and morning stubble (and, no, I didn’t need to reach out to check if I was alone!) There is only one way to overcome such feelings of shame and self loathing: a full English fry-up.
Is it the atmospheric buzz of a café that brings an element of life into the protesting body? The combination of noisy chatter, kitchen clashes and cooking smells? The sweet meaty scent of frying bacon, the warming yeasty aromas of bread slowly browning under the grill, the crackling sounds of the sizzling eggs? A ‘morning after’ fry-up cannot truly be called breakfast without all this.
One place that provides all this is the Regency Café. Tucked away off Horseferry Road, it is the traditional haunt of taxi drivers, builders, Channel 4 media types, and countless civil servants, made more famous by appearing in advertisements and television dramas. Hard hats and i-phones, boiler suits and puffas, Regency Café is one of the best so called ‘greasy spoons’ you will find in town.
From the street, the booming voice of the owner’s banter can be heard in the street. (Repeated calls for ‘breakfast with chips twice!’ followed by ‘Oi! Darlin’! Do you want me to fax it to you?’ a clue to some of the weekend clientele, though always said with a smile and a wink, gives an idea that breakfast is already in full swing). Inside, it is like a set from the swinging sixties, tables with wicker effect Formica and walls covered in photos of grateful celebrities (I sat next to a signed photo of Al Pacino). Always busy, always popular and more importantly spotlessly clean, army fashion.
So, what can you say about the food? Well it is a fully fried English Breakfast, Do I need to say more? Well yes. The sausages at Regency were really tasty, slightly herby, plump and juicy, and well cooked. The black pudding was also good, black to aubergine dark coloured slices of velvety sausage with flecks of oat in, giving a textural contrast to the smooth centre (thankfully, this variety did not have the white lumps of fat that some black puddings have). The eggs fried and yolks runny enough to dip the toast in. Beans are beans and hash browns generous in size but obviously not home made (well it is not the Ritz now is it!?) Sadly the bacon was a little over cooked for me, though previous experience tells me that this was an exception. I shared a pint of orange with my friend, the only healthy part of my breakfast. And of course, what would the morning fry-up be without the tea? Strong and orange brown in colour, served in a mug and piping hot. It would put hairs on your chest, as the expression goes, if I hadn’t enough of my own already. A filling, fully satisfying meal and excellent value for under ten pounds (waxing not included).
Regency Café, 17-19 Regency Street, London SW1P 4BY
T: 020 7821 6596
Is it the atmospheric buzz of a café that brings an element of life into the protesting body? The combination of noisy chatter, kitchen clashes and cooking smells? The sweet meaty scent of frying bacon, the warming yeasty aromas of bread slowly browning under the grill, the crackling sounds of the sizzling eggs? A ‘morning after’ fry-up cannot truly be called breakfast without all this.
One place that provides all this is the Regency Café. Tucked away off Horseferry Road, it is the traditional haunt of taxi drivers, builders, Channel 4 media types, and countless civil servants, made more famous by appearing in advertisements and television dramas. Hard hats and i-phones, boiler suits and puffas, Regency Café is one of the best so called ‘greasy spoons’ you will find in town.
From the street, the booming voice of the owner’s banter can be heard in the street. (Repeated calls for ‘breakfast with chips twice!’ followed by ‘Oi! Darlin’! Do you want me to fax it to you?’ a clue to some of the weekend clientele, though always said with a smile and a wink, gives an idea that breakfast is already in full swing). Inside, it is like a set from the swinging sixties, tables with wicker effect Formica and walls covered in photos of grateful celebrities (I sat next to a signed photo of Al Pacino). Always busy, always popular and more importantly spotlessly clean, army fashion.
So, what can you say about the food? Well it is a fully fried English Breakfast, Do I need to say more? Well yes. The sausages at Regency were really tasty, slightly herby, plump and juicy, and well cooked. The black pudding was also good, black to aubergine dark coloured slices of velvety sausage with flecks of oat in, giving a textural contrast to the smooth centre (thankfully, this variety did not have the white lumps of fat that some black puddings have). The eggs fried and yolks runny enough to dip the toast in. Beans are beans and hash browns generous in size but obviously not home made (well it is not the Ritz now is it!?) Sadly the bacon was a little over cooked for me, though previous experience tells me that this was an exception. I shared a pint of orange with my friend, the only healthy part of my breakfast. And of course, what would the morning fry-up be without the tea? Strong and orange brown in colour, served in a mug and piping hot. It would put hairs on your chest, as the expression goes, if I hadn’t enough of my own already. A filling, fully satisfying meal and excellent value for under ten pounds (waxing not included).
Regency Café, 17-19 Regency Street, London SW1P 4BY
T: 020 7821 6596
Wednesday 28 April 2010
A bit of a fiasco...
You know when some programmes don’t work? They just aren’t that funny but the canned laughter makes you think that you should laugh? Or films where they throw in every plot line taking it from implausible to downright surreal? Like those mobile phone ads, some executive types have an idea in the boardroom and everyone throws in their two-penneth’s worth leading to complete lack of focus. The same applies to restaurants in a group.
A night for catching up in an old haunt in Covent Garden followed by a cheap meal and a chance to try something new brought me and my brother Ben , and our guests to Kitchen Italia.
There have been many businesses at this location since the cellar housed the Freedom Brewery (I used to really like their IPA, but I am a wine drinker... what do I know?). Always bustling and lively. Tonight though, it was empty save for a table of foreign students. Empty, quiet and very, very large. In fact, apart from the smiling staff it was rather soul-less!
Deciding to keep the evening light, we started with bread, olives and pizza nibbles, and then order a main and maybe a pudding for the sweeter toothed, wine (noticing that it was by the carafe rather than an option of glass, carafe or bottle, and at what mark up?) and endless water. At this point I noted that the menu issue is November 2009 which says that they should consider an update!
Bellinis were suggested while we thought about our orders. It was written down as a “White Peach Bellini” (now to be pedantic, is there any other kind? When Arrigo Cipriani invented it at Harry’s Bar all those years ago it was the Bellini rather than as something that implied variety). Peachy, yes, but a bit flat due to the amount of the juice.
“Focaccia with Extra virgin olive oil” for Ben and his beau. Bready rather than golden, moist and spongy, and a bit dry. However, being surrounded by bottles of olive oil, from the shelves around the restaurant to the trough in the table, there was opportunity enough to rectify this. (And what a choice: natural, garlic, chilli, herby, dopey, sneezy, etc… Ok I’m being silly now). Links on the website tell you that their oils are from Marfuga a fattoria in Umbria that has a picture of the owner and his wife that reminded me very much of the photograph on the box of the seventies game Mastermind, with the gorgeous Eurasian lady and the sleazy Mafia don.
I thought that F and I would go for the garlic, parsley and butter pizza would be a lighter alternative (well she and I both have our figures to think about). The thought of a warm slightly crusty flavoured base, oozing garlicky and herby oils and made richer by the butter, the kind that you need a few napkins to clean your hands and mouth; peppery herbs and the slightest dusting of flour, all combined to make an effective but simple starter. But we agreed that this was floury and cardboardy, scratchy and tasteless. Like the atmosphere, rather lifeless. There was no evident richness from the butter and the herbs looked dried. (I didn’t get to the olives as they had already been consumed at the other end of the rather large table).
The main courses arrived surprisingly quickly, Mafaldine (pasta ribbons with crinkly edges to you and me) with spicy sausage, two of those. Tagliolini with black truffles and Gnocchi with peas, mint and Gorgonzola.
Generous crumblings of spiced sausage meat kept moist by a rich tomato sauce and perfumed from the fennel was not to be. The pasta, a good sized helping, fennel flavoured and peppery, lacked evidence of the spicy sausage which was hidden by breadcrumbs and sauce. It looked like it had been baked, the tomato sauce was dried out, like a red version of sea weed clinging to hot rocks. Was it the service counters lights? And why would that be when the mains arrived quickly?
F wanted the truffle on tagliolini with a light mushroom cream sauce, as she felt it sounded filling and rich. Mushrooms sliced, fried with garlic and herbs, tossed into the pasta, and given lightness of colour and mellowness of flavour from a modest amount of cream, speckled on top like caviar, the black truffle and some pepper. A sweetness of mushrooms, sourness of spicy pepper, nebulous perfumed truffle filling the mouth, all tempered by the cream. Tempting isn’t it?
Where was the mushroom cream sauce that F imagined clinging to the strands of pasta and speckled with pepper and truffle (or was that the description of the colour?) Modest amounts of cream? This was virginal! The truffle itself tasted of wood; chewed pencil. No ethereal perfume, no comforting creamy richness. Nothing. Again, a rather unenthusiastic experience for F.
So to me. My plate was altogether different. Well it was gnocchi not pasta, so bound to be. I always remember watching cookery programmes where they said that gnocchi is not difficult to make but easy to mess up.
A plate of several quail egg sized gnocchi, cloud-light to the bite and maybe flecked with a little herb (maybe not), tossed in a creamy sauce, lightly spiced from the green vein of the Gorgonzola, the richness cut through by the pea and the hint of mint that brings down the pea’s sharp greenness.
Well, the creamy sauce was indeed creamy, with a light touch of Gorgonzola. Although too much cream for me, there was some balance. A few peas, not very many, and a subtle hint of mint gave the sauce a bit of freshness, preventing it from being sickly. The dumplings themselves had some lightness to the initial bite but were more marshmallow in texture. I was still pulling it off my teeth at the end of the meal.
So what went wrong? Well as I said, this smacks of a group of executives wanting this to be everything to everyone without really focusing on what that ‘everyone’ is. Who are they trying to compete with, Carluccio’s or Wagamama’s (if the latter then they have missed the point of Italian eating, surely)? In this case, the group of executives is from a company called Sweet Potato, an investment company that operates several brands including, rather surprisingly, Villandry and Villandry Kitchen, both of which are quite successful and the latter, in Chiswick, I have already covered in a previous post.
Overall, aside from the friendly and attentive staff, we were left with a cavernous sense of disappointment, as lifeless and empty as the restaurant itself.
Kitchen Italia 41 Earlham Street, London WC2H 9LX T 020 7632 9500 E earlhamstreet@kitchen-italia.com
A night for catching up in an old haunt in Covent Garden followed by a cheap meal and a chance to try something new brought me and my brother Ben , and our guests to Kitchen Italia.
There have been many businesses at this location since the cellar housed the Freedom Brewery (I used to really like their IPA, but I am a wine drinker... what do I know?). Always bustling and lively. Tonight though, it was empty save for a table of foreign students. Empty, quiet and very, very large. In fact, apart from the smiling staff it was rather soul-less!
Deciding to keep the evening light, we started with bread, olives and pizza nibbles, and then order a main and maybe a pudding for the sweeter toothed, wine (noticing that it was by the carafe rather than an option of glass, carafe or bottle, and at what mark up?) and endless water. At this point I noted that the menu issue is November 2009 which says that they should consider an update!
Bellinis were suggested while we thought about our orders. It was written down as a “White Peach Bellini” (now to be pedantic, is there any other kind? When Arrigo Cipriani invented it at Harry’s Bar all those years ago it was the Bellini rather than as something that implied variety). Peachy, yes, but a bit flat due to the amount of the juice.
“Focaccia with Extra virgin olive oil” for Ben and his beau. Bready rather than golden, moist and spongy, and a bit dry. However, being surrounded by bottles of olive oil, from the shelves around the restaurant to the trough in the table, there was opportunity enough to rectify this. (And what a choice: natural, garlic, chilli, herby, dopey, sneezy, etc… Ok I’m being silly now). Links on the website tell you that their oils are from Marfuga a fattoria in Umbria that has a picture of the owner and his wife that reminded me very much of the photograph on the box of the seventies game Mastermind, with the gorgeous Eurasian lady and the sleazy Mafia don.
I thought that F and I would go for the garlic, parsley and butter pizza would be a lighter alternative (well she and I both have our figures to think about). The thought of a warm slightly crusty flavoured base, oozing garlicky and herby oils and made richer by the butter, the kind that you need a few napkins to clean your hands and mouth; peppery herbs and the slightest dusting of flour, all combined to make an effective but simple starter. But we agreed that this was floury and cardboardy, scratchy and tasteless. Like the atmosphere, rather lifeless. There was no evident richness from the butter and the herbs looked dried. (I didn’t get to the olives as they had already been consumed at the other end of the rather large table).
The main courses arrived surprisingly quickly, Mafaldine (pasta ribbons with crinkly edges to you and me) with spicy sausage, two of those. Tagliolini with black truffles and Gnocchi with peas, mint and Gorgonzola.
Generous crumblings of spiced sausage meat kept moist by a rich tomato sauce and perfumed from the fennel was not to be. The pasta, a good sized helping, fennel flavoured and peppery, lacked evidence of the spicy sausage which was hidden by breadcrumbs and sauce. It looked like it had been baked, the tomato sauce was dried out, like a red version of sea weed clinging to hot rocks. Was it the service counters lights? And why would that be when the mains arrived quickly?
F wanted the truffle on tagliolini with a light mushroom cream sauce, as she felt it sounded filling and rich. Mushrooms sliced, fried with garlic and herbs, tossed into the pasta, and given lightness of colour and mellowness of flavour from a modest amount of cream, speckled on top like caviar, the black truffle and some pepper. A sweetness of mushrooms, sourness of spicy pepper, nebulous perfumed truffle filling the mouth, all tempered by the cream. Tempting isn’t it?
Where was the mushroom cream sauce that F imagined clinging to the strands of pasta and speckled with pepper and truffle (or was that the description of the colour?) Modest amounts of cream? This was virginal! The truffle itself tasted of wood; chewed pencil. No ethereal perfume, no comforting creamy richness. Nothing. Again, a rather unenthusiastic experience for F.
So to me. My plate was altogether different. Well it was gnocchi not pasta, so bound to be. I always remember watching cookery programmes where they said that gnocchi is not difficult to make but easy to mess up.
A plate of several quail egg sized gnocchi, cloud-light to the bite and maybe flecked with a little herb (maybe not), tossed in a creamy sauce, lightly spiced from the green vein of the Gorgonzola, the richness cut through by the pea and the hint of mint that brings down the pea’s sharp greenness.
Well, the creamy sauce was indeed creamy, with a light touch of Gorgonzola. Although too much cream for me, there was some balance. A few peas, not very many, and a subtle hint of mint gave the sauce a bit of freshness, preventing it from being sickly. The dumplings themselves had some lightness to the initial bite but were more marshmallow in texture. I was still pulling it off my teeth at the end of the meal.
So what went wrong? Well as I said, this smacks of a group of executives wanting this to be everything to everyone without really focusing on what that ‘everyone’ is. Who are they trying to compete with, Carluccio’s or Wagamama’s (if the latter then they have missed the point of Italian eating, surely)? In this case, the group of executives is from a company called Sweet Potato, an investment company that operates several brands including, rather surprisingly, Villandry and Villandry Kitchen, both of which are quite successful and the latter, in Chiswick, I have already covered in a previous post.
Overall, aside from the friendly and attentive staff, we were left with a cavernous sense of disappointment, as lifeless and empty as the restaurant itself.
Kitchen Italia 41 Earlham Street, London WC2H 9LX T 020 7632 9500 E earlhamstreet@kitchen-italia.com
Tuesday 20 April 2010
Resistance is futile...
Silent and clear spring skies, thanks to Iceland’s volcano, made this particular Friday even harder than usual to resist escaping the chains of wage slavery early. So I pushed the ‘off’ button on my computer, told my work colleagues what I thought of them (I didn’t actually, but one day... one day!!) and headed down to Borough Market to get some gastronomic inspiration, purchase a bottle or two of wine, and meet with a few fellow bloggers and tweeters.
Coffee fuelled chatter between @Tehbus, @gingergourmand, @KaveyF and me, in the ever bustling Monmouth Coffee shop, came to a conclusion when we decided to go next door to Neal’s Yard Dairy.
Where the outside was noisy, busy and colourful, with it’s Victorian terrace of tea coloured bricks (where’s the bunting?) and glossy paint touches, the interior was spacious, cool and white walled; hallowed even. Hints of dampness barely noticeable against the strong aromas circulated around the shop; temptations of hard, soft and cream cheeses piled up on counters, slatted shelves or in tubs, lured the customer to purchase. This was the perfect environment for a cheese lover; pieces of heaven, rind coated and wrapped in waxed paper.
I held back, merely happy to watch Kavey’s love and knowledge of cheese in action. My hands remained firmly in my pockets refusing to open the floodgates of purchasing (the principle being that one purchase leads to an avalanche of useless purchases and eventually to an empty wallet and a red face). And I did hold back. I resisted, I really did. However, in the street by the entrance to the shop, they had pitched a stall of their top sellers. And that is when it happened. Like Kavey’s Stichelton, I crumbled in front of everyone, and bought the cutest little ‘handbag-dog’ of a cheese: Milleen.
So how does one go about describing this pocket of joy? This modest purchase, this tan and mud coloured roundel of about 4 inches in diameter; soft-skinned rind speckled with mould and the criss-crosses where it had been resting? How indeed?
Made from pasteurised cow’s milk and traditional animal rennet, it is washed in water. The humidity and proximity to the coast (Eyeries, Co. Cork) does the rest, creating the perfect environment for the soft cheeses the Steele family produce, according to the Neal’s Yard.
Released, at home, onto a wooden board, the kitchen filled with high smells of cabbage, earthy muddy aromas, straw and a hint of, well, wee actually. Yes, I said ‘wee’ (did they really only wash the skin in water?!) Clashing with the strong aromas of a simple roast chicken I could barely smell the wine that I had also bought at the market (a post on that later). Having been wrapped in waxed paper, in a bag that sat in my rucksack, it was clear why I nearly had the carriage of the train to myself.
Cutting into this cheese was almost ritualistic; silence and awe (helped by a candle lit room). Barely resistant skin gave way to a light cream soft centre. Salty sweetness on the tongue, made rich and luscious by a creamy egg yolk quality. This gave way to a slight graininess (that possibly meant it should have been brought out earlier), contrasting with the grassy elements of the rind, toffee cloyingness to the teeth and long lasting flavour.
Ignoring any bread, I went hell for leather with the Milleen and the (almost) matched glass of wine. And so it went. Gone. Disappeared. A mere will-o’-the-wisp of a cheese, or maybe I was really just plain greedy. However, sated, I was glad I only fell for the one cheese.
Neal’s Yard Dairy, Borough Market, 6 Park Street LONDON SE1 9AB
T (0)20 7367 0799 E boroughshop@nealsyarddairy.co.uk
Coffee fuelled chatter between @Tehbus, @gingergourmand, @KaveyF and me, in the ever bustling Monmouth Coffee shop, came to a conclusion when we decided to go next door to Neal’s Yard Dairy.
Where the outside was noisy, busy and colourful, with it’s Victorian terrace of tea coloured bricks (where’s the bunting?) and glossy paint touches, the interior was spacious, cool and white walled; hallowed even. Hints of dampness barely noticeable against the strong aromas circulated around the shop; temptations of hard, soft and cream cheeses piled up on counters, slatted shelves or in tubs, lured the customer to purchase. This was the perfect environment for a cheese lover; pieces of heaven, rind coated and wrapped in waxed paper.
I held back, merely happy to watch Kavey’s love and knowledge of cheese in action. My hands remained firmly in my pockets refusing to open the floodgates of purchasing (the principle being that one purchase leads to an avalanche of useless purchases and eventually to an empty wallet and a red face). And I did hold back. I resisted, I really did. However, in the street by the entrance to the shop, they had pitched a stall of their top sellers. And that is when it happened. Like Kavey’s Stichelton, I crumbled in front of everyone, and bought the cutest little ‘handbag-dog’ of a cheese: Milleen.
So how does one go about describing this pocket of joy? This modest purchase, this tan and mud coloured roundel of about 4 inches in diameter; soft-skinned rind speckled with mould and the criss-crosses where it had been resting? How indeed?
Made from pasteurised cow’s milk and traditional animal rennet, it is washed in water. The humidity and proximity to the coast (Eyeries, Co. Cork) does the rest, creating the perfect environment for the soft cheeses the Steele family produce, according to the Neal’s Yard.
Released, at home, onto a wooden board, the kitchen filled with high smells of cabbage, earthy muddy aromas, straw and a hint of, well, wee actually. Yes, I said ‘wee’ (did they really only wash the skin in water?!) Clashing with the strong aromas of a simple roast chicken I could barely smell the wine that I had also bought at the market (a post on that later). Having been wrapped in waxed paper, in a bag that sat in my rucksack, it was clear why I nearly had the carriage of the train to myself.
Cutting into this cheese was almost ritualistic; silence and awe (helped by a candle lit room). Barely resistant skin gave way to a light cream soft centre. Salty sweetness on the tongue, made rich and luscious by a creamy egg yolk quality. This gave way to a slight graininess (that possibly meant it should have been brought out earlier), contrasting with the grassy elements of the rind, toffee cloyingness to the teeth and long lasting flavour.
Ignoring any bread, I went hell for leather with the Milleen and the (almost) matched glass of wine. And so it went. Gone. Disappeared. A mere will-o’-the-wisp of a cheese, or maybe I was really just plain greedy. However, sated, I was glad I only fell for the one cheese.
Neal’s Yard Dairy, Borough Market, 6 Park Street LONDON SE1 9AB
T (0)20 7367 0799 E boroughshop@nealsyarddairy.co.uk
Monday 5 April 2010
Woodbine’s Good Friday Fish Pie Experiment
However, the sea was too choppy for the ferry (a catamaran style, hence it not running) and I returned with an unchecked shopping list and a bag empty of duty free delights and French produce.
The fact that Waitrose had an offer on their fish pie mix had nothing to do with it, not at all. I had the spring of the Easter bunny, the joys of Easter, the inspiration of the old tradition of fish on Friday, and what better day than Good Friday? I decided to tackle my very first Fish Pie (no, it really is my first time) and see how it goes.
My mouth was watering for flakes of pearlescent white fish, pink sweet prawns, rich salmon flavours and hints of smoke from the haddock; elements of spring from the fresh, green petit pois, contrasting sharply with velvety egg yolks, peppery parsley and the slightly salty creamy fish sauce. Sliced potatoes layered fish scale style on top to complete the picture. Hang on... sliced potato? Well, yes. I want my pie’s topping to reflect the contents. (I have sighed at several recipes by the great and good who have mashed their potatoes. Is it just me?)
The mixed bag consisted of ivory white fish (Coley? I forgot to ask), bright golden smoked haddock, glistening salmon chunks in orange-red hues, and from the freezer, pale pink prawns, petit pois, and a further sliver of salmon asking to be used up. The rest came from a raid on the cupboards.
So off we go:
1lb of mixed fish
250g prawns (defrosted)
150g frozen petit pois (defrosted)
1 scallion shallot (banana shallot)
3 eggs hard boiled and quartered lengthways
1 bay leaf
500ml fish stock
250ml white wine
250ml double cream
2 egg yolks
Juice of a lemon
Salt and pepper for seasoning
1lb potatoes (maybe a bit less) sliced to about ½ centimetre thickness.
Parsley
Butter
Mince the shallot and place in the bottom of a pan with the wine and bay leaf, boil for a few minutes then add the fish stock. To the liquid add the cut up pieces of fish and poach for about 5 minutes.
Meanwhile, in separate jug, mix the egg yolks and cream together with the lemon juice, and season. Drain the fish, returning the stock to the pan, and place in a deep sided gratin dish which has been buttered. The sauce is made by spooning about 2 tablespoons of the hot stock into the cream mix, then pouring the cream into the pan of hot stock, whisking constantly. This needs to boil until it is reduced to a double cream consistency (do not be afraid to let it really bubble).
To the gratin dish of fish pieces, add the prawns, peas, some parsley the hard boiled eggs, mixing carefully. Pour over the thickened sauce and then place the potato slices on top (some will sink but it should settle) in a scale style.
So how did I fare? Well, not a bad first attempt, even though I say so myself. Any thoughts or tweaks? The sauce could have benefited from further reduction, and I only used half a lemon. It did have good flavour thanks to the stock and the egg cream thickening (rather than the cloying effect a roux can give). However, if there had not been smoked haddock in the mix, I might have thrown in a tiny frond of tarragon, a mellow aniseedy contrast to the lemony zing. I might have added a sharp saline kick of smoked bacon. There could have been potential to add anchovy essence, the sharp briney fishiness working well with the boiled eggs...if, if, if... If I had done that, perhaps I would be moving from fish pie to lily gilding.
Wednesday 31 March 2010
Sustenance and sustainability...(not a Jane Austin sequel)
Moonlight glistened on dark water and the reflection of light sparkled, adding a dreamy quality. Dreamy? Isn’t this Newcastle? Well, er, yes. Between the Millennium Bridge and the wonderfully monolithic wrought iron Tyne Bridge, that makes Newcastle’s landscape famous; along the quayside, with Baltic, the brutalist art museum, and Norman Foster’s undulating curves of the Sage (Newcastle’s equivalent to the Sydney Opera House, according to the taxi driver), in the new heart of Newcastle, lies one of the City’s prize assets.
Café 21 is the inspiration of Terry Laybourne, author of the cook book Quest for Taste, and the first chef to bring a Michelin star to the North East. Although the Café's aim is for informality, the initial impression, from the sleek bar, dark wood surfaces, dimmed lights and hushed tones of the diners (through enjoyment, I should add), is of formality and this is reflected in the menu, bringing together classic European dishes and English food, most of which is locally sourced from artisan producers.
A combination of work and a chaotic journey north had darkened my mood. It was late and I was tired and cranky, so I felt disappointed that I didn’t have time to indulge in a couple of dishes or more. I settled, though, on the one dish that could ease my mood and hit all my bases at once; the North Country Hot Pot (well I am in the North!) with ham knuckle smoked sausage pork belly and lentils. Pork, pork and smoked pork! (Did I mention the pork?)
Brought to the table in a cocotte big enough for two but with a perfectly portioned plate for one. A cloud of steam released the sweet smell of meat and muted woody aroma of lentils as the lid was lifted.
Succulent hock from Middlewhite pigs, boned and slow cooked, pulling apart to the touch of the fork, and with biting-into-velvet softness. Adding to the richness of flavour, a generously thick slice of salted pork belly, stripes of pink meat and full flavoured off-white fat. Smoked Morteau sausage from Lyon, thick cut discs, finished the combination of meat flavours, spongily resistant and gently smoked; sweetness, smoke and savoury. Smooth textured lentils cooked in ham stock formed the luxuriant base to which fibrously crunchy French beans, wilted baby leaks and green leaves, chateau-cut carrots and potatoes, were added. Fully satisfying and just right, so sad it had to end so quickly.
Back to the dreamy quality of Newcastle, and the palate of colours, sights and sensations in my mind as I drift off to sleep with a smile painted on my face. I am looking forward to going back.
Café 21, Trinity Gardens, Quayside, Newcastle upon Tyne NE1 2HH T: 0191 222 0755 www.cafetwentyone.com
Café 21 is the inspiration of Terry Laybourne, author of the cook book Quest for Taste, and the first chef to bring a Michelin star to the North East. Although the Café's aim is for informality, the initial impression, from the sleek bar, dark wood surfaces, dimmed lights and hushed tones of the diners (through enjoyment, I should add), is of formality and this is reflected in the menu, bringing together classic European dishes and English food, most of which is locally sourced from artisan producers.
A combination of work and a chaotic journey north had darkened my mood. It was late and I was tired and cranky, so I felt disappointed that I didn’t have time to indulge in a couple of dishes or more. I settled, though, on the one dish that could ease my mood and hit all my bases at once; the North Country Hot Pot (well I am in the North!) with ham knuckle smoked sausage pork belly and lentils. Pork, pork and smoked pork! (Did I mention the pork?)
Brought to the table in a cocotte big enough for two but with a perfectly portioned plate for one. A cloud of steam released the sweet smell of meat and muted woody aroma of lentils as the lid was lifted.
Succulent hock from Middlewhite pigs, boned and slow cooked, pulling apart to the touch of the fork, and with biting-into-velvet softness. Adding to the richness of flavour, a generously thick slice of salted pork belly, stripes of pink meat and full flavoured off-white fat. Smoked Morteau sausage from Lyon, thick cut discs, finished the combination of meat flavours, spongily resistant and gently smoked; sweetness, smoke and savoury. Smooth textured lentils cooked in ham stock formed the luxuriant base to which fibrously crunchy French beans, wilted baby leaks and green leaves, chateau-cut carrots and potatoes, were added. Fully satisfying and just right, so sad it had to end so quickly.
Back to the dreamy quality of Newcastle, and the palate of colours, sights and sensations in my mind as I drift off to sleep with a smile painted on my face. I am looking forward to going back.
Café 21, Trinity Gardens, Quayside, Newcastle upon Tyne NE1 2HH T: 0191 222 0755 www.cafetwentyone.com
Sunday 21 March 2010
You can’t always get what you want...
As Julie Christie might have said in the film Darling, “Chelsea is so gay” (well not in the modern sense of the word, but then again, I was surrounded by interior designers and arty folk so who knows?) Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Instantly trendy places come and go like shooting stars, and older ones from the time of Darling exist but never adapt. And, two minutes walk from the King’s Road is such an establishment.
Pellicano sits behind the lumbering blocks of flats on Sloane Avenue, and is frequented by the transient clients staying there or local people. Although it had a modern feel it was still very old fashioned. So it was with a certain apprehension that, dressed to pull and surrounded by the arty and interesting crowd, I accepted a glass of light and apple and lemony Prosecco and joined in the revelry. But that was where the problems began.
I was hungry, very hungry, so I decided on a starter of Tagliatelli with Rabbit; visions of creamy yellow tagliatelli contrasting with pale pink fleshed rabbit and flecks of maybe, parsley or thyme. However, reality kicked in the moment it arrived.
This was a rather hearty portion for a starter (serves me right, I guess), and my vision of pale yellow pasta and meaty ragu was distracted by a rather mean desert spoon serving of shredded and cheesy rabbit meat placed in the centre on top. The pasta itself while glistening was slightly over-cooked.
Over-cooked? Well that might be a bit harsh, but I wonder; were they catering for an English palate or were they too busy to cope? Either way, it is meant to be the genuine Italian article. Regardless, it was just a little too soft. Not al dente enough. (I once went to a place near the Vatican that served pasta so al dente that I wondered if water had actually been applied. But I digress).
I guessed that this was farmed rabbit, rather than a fuller flavoured wild rabbit, as it didn’t have that slightly woody, gamier quality that I thought it should have (it has been a while since I last had rabbit so please correct me if I am wrong), and it is the end of the hunting season. Drowned by the flavour and made slightly greasy by the cheese, it tasted more like the meat in a tin of Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup, so a desert spoon was more than enough. I was left with an acrid after- taste and the desire to dive into a glass of the red wine staring back at me in a wanton manner.
My main course Quail with Fennel and Pancetta on Polenta. Again, I imagined pancetta wrapped roasted birds on a bed of golden polenta. This was close, presented with Italian panache and looking quite appealing, there were two pretty, boned, roasted-to-a-chestnut colour quail nestling in soft, creamy mash and surrounded by a rich meat jus; two bronzed bathers on a golden atoll surrounded by a dark sea; parmesan and sweet saline smells from the polenta and pancetta. Ah, but again, what met the eye failed to meet the expectations of the mouth and mind.
The quails were stuffed with the fennel and pancetta giving them a plump cuteness and keeping them moist. Sadly, however, the overwhelming flavour was of pancetta; pancetta, pancetta, pancetta. The subtlest hint of aniseed and the tiniest meaty taste of the quail struggled to rise above the bacon. Nor were they helped by the not-so-subtle parmesan in the polenta, nor the jus. Keeping with the sixties film quotes, Michael Caine’s “you were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!” cry to his bomb expert for a more subtle approach to cracking a nut comes to mind, the complete lack of balance in flavours and excessive use of bacon was equally heavy handed.
Will I go back? Let’s put it this way, the only things that came out tops were the prosecco and the postcard that came with the bill.
Pellicano, 19-21 Elystan Street, London SW3 3NT
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