Darling readers, you may have noticed a distinct lack of my postings recently. Fear not, good sirs and ladies, for I haven't forsaken the good ship Illustrated London Noms for a quiet life of contemplation and prayer at a monastery (not least because my most well-known and practiced talents would be frowned upon by most monastic orders). However, due to circumstances beyond my control I have had to undertake a series of rustifications to avoid the excesses of scandal waiting for me back in the city.
Hence I am currently seated in Carrot Manor, my ancestral pile, with nothing but some vintage wine of the fizzy variety, several dogs (who mostly seem to pine mysteriously for Aunty Peas since her last visit), some cats (who mostly ignore my presence), and a few chickens. As you may have noticed from previous posts, while I come from a country background, I am in my ways firmly a city gentleman used to the benefits of varied shops, fine restaurants, and an over-abundance of pretty there for the taking, so being in this situation is deeply unsettling (not least as my darling Sister who is currently watching over Carrot Manor does not have quite the selection of esoteric ingredients I would have in my own kitchen).
However, needs must when the devil drives (an apt turn of phrase since I am also currently insured on the family car), and frankly in the newly arrived summer heat I was craving something spicy, porky, and fresh. Now I often make a Thai red curry stir fry at home, consisting of red curry paste, pork belly, and crunchy green beans. But could such a thing be accomplished in the provinces? Only a short trip to the local supermarket would tell...
Tuesday, 1 July 2014
Sunday, 6 April 2014
The Anchor and Hope
One of the joys of the internet, my dears, is the
fascinating people you meet.
It will surprise no one to learn that when I first
encountered my dear Julian, my sister feared he was one of the ravening axe
murderers she had read so much about, and pressed me to change my will to leave
my worldly belongings to her.
Alas, what little I own is so deep in hock that it would
benefit her little – my soul goes to whichever god can find it, and my goods
return to the moneylenders.
In the meantime, I spend what I have on good food and good
drink in good company, and it is not a bad way to live.
Such an evening took place last week in the company of the ever-loyal
Mr Green, darling Julian, and a new friend. For the sake of internet anonymity,
we shall dub her Captain Canada.
Now, Cap is a wonderful woman – erudite, interesting, and
well travelled – and was passing through London on her way from the Continent
back to Canada. Would, she asked me, I like to meet up for a convivial evening
of food, conversation, and the latest Captain America film?
Well, I could hardly say no, could I?
I managed to get opening night tickets to the film at the
BFI Imax on the South Bank, and then the only question was where to eat. The
answer presented itself almost immediately. I’ve wanted to eat at the Anchor
and Hope since I first staggered in on a Sunday morning and they eased the pain
of existence with Bloody Marys, Marmalade Martinis, and crab on toast.
Sadly, they don’t allow tables to be booked in advance, but
meetings at my place of business allowed me to get there for five, so we
managed to secure a table when the dining room opened at six.
Now, should you go there, it’s useful to know that the
dining room is quieter than the bar – you can hear your companions talk, and
it’s all the better for it. We got to know each other over starters of snail
and bacon salad, kid’s kidneys on toast (the baby goat kind – not the stolen
organs of some young urchin), green salad, and risotto which is one of the best
ways to get to know anyone, and most useful when you’ve chosen mains to share.
We’d gone for a Longhorn Steak Pie and Seven Hour Swandale
Lamb, which provided an immense amount of delicious food. From the golden pie
crust, propped up with a piece of marrow bone, to the buttery cabbage; from the
meltingly soft stewed lamb’s neck to the creamy dauphinoise it was delicious.
Julian described it as home cooking done really, really well, and that was a
good way to sum it up.
We weren’t able to finish everything, and they packed up the
remainder of the lamb for us in a bucket that seemed hilarious at the time,
while we shared a brown sugar meringue with the best whipped cream I’ve had in
a long while and sipped at damson gin.
It came to £148 before service, which was so shockingly low
I had to check they’d included the pre-dinner drinks and the bottle of wine.
They had. I was impressed.
From thence we went to the Imax, and anyone who describes a
group matching our description pouring cocktails into a water bottle to smuggle
in is wholly mistaken. Ours was a relaxed Wednesday evening of good food and
fine superheroes, and any dip in global productivity the following morning?
Utterly coincidental, my dears.
The Anchor and Hope, 36 The Cut, Waterloo, London, SE1 8LP, 020
7928 9898
The Peas Family Reunion: Part Two, The Purple Poppadom
We had a few days to recover from this before we went to the
Purple Poppadom (a sentence that skates over such sights as my sister and
father pulling a chicken carcass apart with their hands, my sister getting
tipsy on a school night for the first time in living memory, a car blowing up,
and all the other related drama that occurs when the Peas clan is forced to
share a pod) and due to some baby-sitting issues the guest list went through
some flux.
In the end, I was joined by Rasputin, Mr Green, my sister
and her husband, and my seven-year-old niece, La Petite Pea.
Now, on a table this size, it is nearly impossible to keep
track of what other people are eating, and there were some dishes I didn’t get
to try, much to my regret.
Everything was exquisitely done, however. The starters alone
were a masterpiece in presentation and content. Admittedly, La Petite Pea
didn’t like her starter, but my sister and I made short work of her potato
cake, Bombay Chat, and puffed rice salad. It was nice enough, but couldn’t hold
a candle to the Nandu Trio we had both chosen – soft shell crab fried in a
crispy batter that was as light as a thought, a coconut and crab salad with
sweetcorn, and a tasty little crab cake. Writing about it now makes me sad I’m
not eating it right this minute. Mr Green had chosen Fresh from the
Creamery which used paneer, Tintern cheese, and a warm goat’s cheese
to great effect – and although I still preferred the crab, it was really
interesting to see the way they combined Indian and Welsh food.
Fortunately, La Petite Pea enjoyed her main course much
more, and she finished her Lamb Chukka with evident delight. She and my sister
had chosen the most traditionally Indian dishes of the meal – my sister had
Chilli Coconut King Prawns. The rest of the table had opted for dishes that
showcased the same meeting of cuisines that had been apparent in Mr Green’s
starter. Rasputin had chosen the Anglo-Indian Pork Roast, which sated his
appetite for belly pork so fully that I didn’t even get a chance to look at the
plating. I had chosen the Tiffin Seabass, which has to have been the first time
I have ever had mashed potato in an Indian restaurant. I’d have it again –
topped with a piece of perfectly cooked fish and a coconut, mango, and ginger
sauce. It was beautiful, but rather suffered by comparison to Mr Green’s Trio
of Venison. It had a pie, dear reader. A pie topped with flaky pastry and
filled with venison curry. And a burger that was spicy and wonderful. And some
lumps of venison that had been cooked in the tandoor. But mostly – pie. My envy
was only assuaged by the fact that Mr Green is a caring soul who shares pie. Which
was lucky. Events might have taken a nasty turn otherwise.
How can you top pie, though, I hear you question. Well, it’s
tricky, but you can do it. Two words, my dear: chocolate samosas. Chocolate
samosas moreover where the pastry is perfectly crisp and the insides are full
of melted Belgium chocolate ganache and which come with vanilla ice-cream. For
the record, the dessert wine went amazingly well with the ice-cream, and I
would recommend it thoroughly.
It was also remarkably prudent. Dinner for six came to £264,
including drinks, but not including service. They deserved more than the 10%
added to the bill – they’d been informative, professional, and unobtrusive
throughout the meal – so I dealt with that separately. A remarkable place –
surprisingly so, given its location above a row of shops in Canton – and I will
definitely be going back. Darling Julian needs to see this one, and I most
definitely need to try the tasting menu.
Purple Poppadom, Upper Floor
185a Cowbridge Road East,
Canton,
Cardiff,
CF11
9AJ, 029 2022 0026, www.purplepoppadom.com
The Peas Family Reunion: Part One, Arbutus
I come from a widely spread family, dearest reader. Father
Peas resides in an island in the Med, Sister Peas and the Pea-Sprouts in the
convivial Welsh climate. There are other branches to this legume-inous family
tree, scattered around, but by and large I am a Pea without a Pod.
Imagine my joy, then, when the paternal Pea decided to
visit. Finally! There could be a familial Forty for Forty! I plotted and
planned and in the end came up with two marvellous meals: Arbutus with Father
Peas (or Rasputin as he shall hereafter be called) on the evening of his
arrival on our shores, and The Purple Poppadum with as many family members as I
could cram round a table.
They were, I have to confess, both amazing meals.
Arbutus is one of my favourite places to eat in London, but
I usually go for the pre-theatre menu. This time we chose from the a la carte,
and I am so very glad we did.
From the starters of a silky pearl barley risotto, topped
with a melting poached egg, and a square of deep fried pig’s head, savoury and
crunchy and paired perfectly with a smooth potato puree and some translucently
thin slices of pickled turnip that provided a sharp-sweet foil to the richness
of the meat, Rasputin was won over.
“This doesn’t look like I imagined,” he said, tucking in
with gusto. “I expected to see the pig’s face. Do you think the trotters will
be on the bone?”
Having grown up to the educational sight of my father
tucking into trotters he’d boiled himself, and tripe he had boiled with onions
in milk, I didn’t like to tell him the Pieds et Paquets he’d ordered would
arrive looking pretty and refined. This is a man who thinks the poshest thing
one can do to a trotter is to singe the bristles off, and possibly to trim the
toenail.
I feared for disappointment, for harsh words said to our
charming and oh-so-patient waiter – but my fears were groundless.
The dish arrived (over two stages, a sliver of toast topped
with minced trotters followed the heaped dish of lamb’s tripe and shoulder.
Readers of discrimination will be pleased to hear the tripe was unctuous and
savoury and hadn’t seen a pot of boiling milk at any stage of its preparation) and
Rasputin signified his approval by tucking in.
“It’s a good thing I’m getting my trousers let out,” he
said. “I’m going to the embassy for St Patrick’s day and they won’t fit after
this.”
Mr Green and I were facing a similar problem. We had both
plumped for the saddle of rabbit, served with carrots, and accompanied by a
slow-cooked cottage pie, and oh. It was all perfectly executed, though the star
of the show for me was the cottage pie. Comfort food at it’s finest.
Because our waiter, besides being patient and friendly, was
a minx, we had pre-ordered the Tarte Tatin for the table. That man knew how to
sell, but since the table next to us missed out by dint of being too slow, I
cannot find it in my heart to blame him. Especially not given how buttery and
wonderful it was, or how obligingly the minx packed up the leftover portion for
my sister.
The most pleasant surprise of the evening, however, was the
bill. Dinner for three, including a cocktail, beers, a very nice bottle of
wine, and service came to £158. Given that I’ve paid more per head in some
inferior chain pubs, this really drives home how brilliantly arbutus performs –
not just on the food and service, but on value for money.
Arbutus,
63-64 Frith Street,
London,
W1D 3JW, 020 7734 4545,
www.arbutusrestaurant.co.uk
Trishna
Indian food in England is something of a thing. The first dedicated curry house
(as opposed to the coffee shops that merely served curry) opened in London in
1809, and there are now over 10,000 Indian restaurants serving us £3.2 billion
pounds of food a year. Indeed, two thirds of meals eaten out are said to be
curry, and many pundits describe Chicken Tikka Massala as our national dish.
Things have come a long way since The Forme of Cury was written in the 1390s, and even if it is a dark story, of fashion and imperialism, you can’t deny
that Indian food is an important part of English identity.
That said, how often do you think of curry as being a part of
fine dining? Not often, I would hazard a guess, and you would not be alone. But
nonetheless there are several Michelin starred Indian restaurants and it seemed
about time that I got my act together and visited one.
Thus when darling Julian suggested we visited Trishna for my
birthday this year, I jumped at the chance.
All the signs were promising. Based in Marylebone (close to
L’Autre Pied, the venue for last year’s birthday meal, and didn’t that cause déjà vu) it is a lovely
environment. We arrived slightly early and went for a wander around the Wallace
Collection before lunch.
Purely coincidentally, it was Diwali, so we chose the Diwali
Feast Menu (with wine for Julian and myself), and sipped at Bloody Indians
while we pondered if the pretty yet forgetful waiter we’d been assigned would
last through the meal.
Our fears seemed groundless at first. Okay, they brought
three lots of wine instead of two with the first course, but the fried
flakiness and savoury warmth of the chana bhatura drove that from our minds. It
was, we were told, a special Diwali treat, and it was lovely; savoury and
slightly decadent, as are all the best things in life.
The next course – hariyali bream – was, without doubt, the
best thing I have ever eaten. Nestled in a vivid green blanket of marinade the
fish managed to be at once slightly charred in all the best ways and meltingly,
moistly perfect. The wine (a New
Zealand Sauvignon Blanc) was intense and fruity and wonderful, and the course
was one of the most pleasurable I have ever eaten.
This was followed by tandoori grouse – a bird which I have a
deep fondness for and which was shown to full advantage. The spices
complemented the earthy ripeness of the game, and it wasn’t overcooked in the
least, leaving it soft and yielding. Unfortunately, it was at this stage that
the waiting staff lost interest in us. It may have been for any number of
reasons – it was busy, it was a holiday day, there was a shift change –
whatever. We sat for around 25 minutes, the remnants of the grouse in front of
us and our glasses empty until the table next to us had a dish delivered and
our lamb chops were rushed out to our still plated table.
The lamb, sadly, wasn’t worth the wait. Plonked down with no
ceremony or comment by the waiter, it was lukewarm and slightly flabby. They’d
removed the fat leaving bland meat, with no trace of char to enliven the
marinade that coated it. I could see what they were going for, and if they had
executed it as well as they did the bream it would have been suburb. Sadly it
was a missed opportunity, although the mustard mooli was fantastic (and
something I will try to recreate at home) and the 2009 Chateau du Cedre went
amazingly with the lamb.
We had chosen different main courses in order to try
everything. I had plumped for the malwani jhinga curry, with Julian and Mr Peas
(the non-drinking designated driver) making the better choice of the South
Indian coast lamb curry. Unfortunately this caused confusion with the wine,
despite the waiters making careful notes at the start of the meal, though they
fixed the problem with good grace. I have to admit that the side dishes of hyderabadi
dal, spinach corn, and nan were the best part of this course. On paper the
coconut prawn curry should have been my ideal, but although my prawns were
cooked perfectly the sauce was
over-salted and had a strange aftertaste, while the lamb was tough and
uninteresting despite being in a beautifully flavoured sauce.
By now we had been there for a good three hours and my
thoughts were turning fondly to relaxoslacks and dozing off somewhere warm (it
had been a late night the night before. IT WAS NOTHING TO DO WITH MY AGE) and
the wait until dessert felt far too long, although this is probably highly
subjective.
Desert itself was shahi tukra (a bread based pudding that
was a symphony of syrup and custard) for Mr Peas and me, and cardamom kheer for
Julian. This time I had chosen correctly – my feelings about cold rice pudding
are many and varied and none of them are altogether positive. Julian enjoyed
it, however, and I should remember that it takes all sorts to make up the
world. It wasn’t as sweet as he’d been warned, he reported and the mix of nuts
and the sweet white juicy sultanas was good for me. He found the bread pudding
a bit too sweet for his taste, but I love him so I will let this pass.
We declined coffee, to the consternation of the waiting
staff, and struggled somewhat to get the bill, which was a tad confusing. If
you want a table to leave, bringing them the bill and the card machine promptly
is probably a better way to achieve it than ignoring them completely – but it
was a Sunday afternoon so maybe none of us was reasoning clearly by that stage.
A note deserves to be said about the wine – it was all
perfectly chosen, and Mr Peas commented that he’d never understood until then
how wine could complement food that way. He’d always suspected it was a load of
poppycock sprayed round by those who had a pretentious desire to lord it over
him. The wine choices with this meal proved him wrong, and moreover were
amazingly prudent – especially for the range of wines we tried.
So, conclusions. Would I go there again? Yes. In a second. I
hope the issue with service was more to do with the fact that we were on a late
lunch service starting at 1:30 and they were starting the afternoon service in
the other half the restaurant than with any bigger problem, and the set lunch
with beer would prove a very prudent solution to Sunday lunch.
Thursday, 2 January 2014
Dinner
Heston Blumenthal: just the name conjures up so much. His
boundless enthusiasm. His fondness for the theatrical. The bloody waiting list
for the Fat Duck.
But whatever you think, you have to admit that he is an icon
for English food at the moment, so when a foodie friend visited from the
antipodes, well, there was only one place we could go really.
Ideally we would have gone to the Fat Duck, but again: waiting
lists. Also cost. Also not fitting in with travel itineraries. This left us
with Dinner, the restaurant at the Mandarin Oriental hotel in Knightsbridge,
where Heston recreates dishes from the archives of British cookery history.
Meet fruit. A dish that evokes all my feelings |
I was apprehensive – I’ve wanted to go for a while, and
there’s always a concern when you finally get to tick something off a wish
list. What if it doesn’t live up to expectations? What if the waiting staff
realise I am not a proper person? WHAT IF IT ALL GOES WRONG?
Spoiler: it didn’t go wrong, the waiting staff were lovely,
and it more than lived up to expectation.
I must confess, right from the start, that I think I chose
more successfully than my dining companion. But since I am a being of infinite
compassion I accepted swapping courses halfway through. This was something of a
struggle, and no one knows what sacrifice or love means until they have had to
pass the half remaining M
eat Fruit (c 1500) to a friend.Powdered duck |
Oh, my loves. The Meat Fruit. If I ever go back, there is a horribly
high probability that I will have three courses that are Meat Fruit. I asked
the waitress if I could and she said yes – that, indeed, other people did that already. I wish I had known
that before I ordered. It was so silky, and rich without being cloying, and so perfect. Seriously, I may not kill to
have one right now, but I would happily grievously wound people if it let me
end up with one. Unfortunately they won’t let you take them away (something to
do with health and safety) and that might be a good thing. I am nearly forty.
Frankly the longer I can put off gout, the better.
My dining companion (let’s call her Ms Platypus) ordered
Salmagundy (c 1720), which was lovely. Chicken oysters are my favourite part of
the bird, and I have feelings about
bone marrow. As wonderful as it was though, it suffered in comparison with the
Meat Fruit, and future dining companions should take note – if I eat there
again I am not sharing.
I had ordered the powdered duck breast (c 1670) as a main
course. Powdered, in this case meant brined and it was meltingly soft and
perfect. Ms Platypus had the spiced pigeon (c 1780), which again was great,
even if it lacked the meaty perfection of the duck.
Tipsy cake |
Darling Julian, who didn’t attend the meal, had forewarned
me to order the tipsy cake (c 1810). I followed his advice and was so VERY GLAD
that I had. Fresh from the oven, it was like sweet, caramelised sponge clouds
that melted in my mouth to leave a sticky, cakey residue. In comparison, the
grilled pineapple was firm and slightly sour, and it worked SO WELL. Ms
Platypus ordered the quaking pudding (c 1660), a meek little thing, that
quivered on the plate like an intimidated lover. It was pleasant enough, but I
would choose the tipsy cake every single time.
Meek, quivering, set up for the camera by the waiter |
Technically, the meal was absolutely superb, and the service
was brilliant – attentive yet casual, and the waitress who served us was chatty
and supportive of my feelings about the Meat Fruit. Overall, there wasn’t the
same sense of theatre as there had been at Story – but it was a hotel
restaurant and that wasn’t what they were going for.
I’d definitely go back, if only so that Mr Peas could try
it, and next time I am definitely having two courses of Meat Fruit, followed by
the tipsy cake. Even at this stage, I suspect that forty for forty will result
in either gout or death. Let the record show that I regret nothing.
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