Notes from the Square Mile: St John's Chocolate Brownies

Now, dear readers, sometimes our summers do not deliver.  While the weekend gave us the hottest day of the year, sadly this came to an end abruptly today.   This morning started muggy, and by the afternoon we were treated to the inevitable thunderstorm.  Trudging home from further clerical training in the docklands, my shirt drenched with rain, my spirits were at something of a low ebb.

I tried to console myself with some healthy callisthenics, but despite an hour of squat thrusts and lunges I was no closer to raising my mood.  Luckily, on my return from the gymnasium, my dearest suitor, Mr Apple, came to my rescue with a delightful treat in the form of a St John's Chocolate Brownie.

The Earl of Sandwich: An Aunty's Advice

The internet is a marvellous thing, you know, capable of building friendships across oceans and time. It also reveals just how wrong the colonies can get it if they are left on their own for too long.

Earlier today there was a discussion on Twitter (a social networking site that’s an invaluable tool in locating rare eighteenth century erotica and pretty people) about what constitutes a toasted cheese sandwich. Darling readers – I was horrified. People fry their sandwiches! They toast bread and melt cheese onto it! THEY MICROWAVE CHEESE ON PLATES!

Obviously this cannot be allowed to continue. So gather round readers, pay attention rude colonials, I am going to explain how to make the perfect toasted cheese sandwich.

Francification of Covent Garden: Ladurée

Laduree's main entrance, taken by Ms Peas

As my beloved Miss Peas has already mentioned, last weekend we had the fortune to escape the shackles that keep us apart and delve into the depths of London's heart.  While there we both partook of culture and, of course, cuisine with great enthusiasm (albeit will a few ill effects the next day).

Now, Miss Peas has already written up our notes on Viet, an establishment on the edge of Soho.  I would like to take us a little further away, to the former tenements and rookeries of Covent Garden.  As a gentleman, I would not normally be seen amongst the hubbub of the great unwashed (well, unless there's a particularly fine restaurant, or bit of pretty), but for Ladurée I would make an exception.

From the World’s Scrap Book: Acqua Pazza

Ladies, Gentlemen, friends, if there is one thing I have learned in my travels about the continent and the Orient, it is the value of simplicity.

Take, for example, the famed Zen gardens of Kyoto, a Jewel of the East. Here the elegant simplicity of raked gravel disguises an graceful, emergent complexity to please the eye and sooth the soul – of course, the same has been said about my own sense of style, although naturally it simply is not done to blow one’s own horn. And, of course, some mornings (particularly after a lengthy soirée with Miss Peas) I myself look like I could do with a good raking over.

But I digress, for the point of my writings is to describe a dish I have encountered several times upon my travels, Acqua Pazza.

Noms and the City: Pho at Viet, Soho

Despite being damned by the world and separated by society, my nephew, Mr Carrot, and I occasionally manage to elude our guards and meet up to wreak our vengeance on the Capital.  Last weekend was just such a weekend.

Now, my darling Julian sees part of his role as a notable lavenderist about town to educate me on aspects of society I may miss during my life of pious contemplation in the Midlands. (More on this later when we review Molly Houses of London: RVT)

In this instance Julian, citing prudence and taste, encouraged me to into a Vietnamese establishment, Viet (34 Greek Street, Soho), where I tried Pho for the first time.

The Earl of Sandwich: Poached salmon with dill

Gentle readers, welcome to the beginning what I hope will become a regular column here at the Illustrated London Noms.  As some of you may be aware, as well as a notable dandy and lavenderist about town, by day I hold down a job until such time as polite society forgives my indiscretions and my trust fund is reinstated.  Naturally, this leads to a requirement to arrange such nourishment as may sustain me till my release from my clerical desk to the gambling dens and esoteric iniquities that the metropolis has to offer. 

While the weekend often promises a leisurely luncheon (or bruncheon) to be savoured, but sadly more often than not on a working day this becomes nothing more than a sandwich taken at my desk, crumbs strewn over the latest set of accounts.  So how to correct for this sorry state of affairs?  Well, like so many things a little creativity can go a long way; not necessarily with the ingredients themselves, but often just in the combinations.  While many glory in the fillings, it is the accoutrements that really make a sandwich shine.  In this series I shall go through some of my favourite combinations and share them with you, dear reader.

A dispatch from the Shires: The Rose and Crown, Warwick

Darling reader, the thing that struck me most upon my last visit to the metropolis was the appalling standard of deportment I witnessed in its inhabitants. Stood with my beloved nephew Julian, I observed a cloven-hoofed individual shambling towards me. Imagine my horror when I realised it was the light of my life, Mr Green. Straight away I resolved we would cure him of his shamble, and to this end I have enlisted the help of a dancing master.

The path of my life is never smooth though, and it is with sadness that I must report that the dancing master is a fickle fellow, prone to cancelling lessons at the last minute. Thus it was that Mr Green and I found ourselves with an hour to spare last Sunday morning. It was a beautifully sunny day, we had nowhere particular to be, and the first thought that sprang into our heads was Brunch.