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 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.

 15-17 Blandford Street,
Marylebone,
London
W1U 3DG,
020 7935 5624, www.trishnalondon.com

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.

Story

I would argue, dearest reader, that I am not one who follows the crowd. Oppositional defiance disorder is a terrible affliction, believe me. Beads up the nose are the very least of it. So, I do tend to react badly when I am told there is a new restaurant that I “must” try.

Look! A picture... from someone else. We were too busy
enjoying the food to take pictures. Also it felt rude.

Story is an exception to this.

From the first review I read, I adored the concept of it. Good ingredients, presented in unusual ways, all fitting within a larger story that the chefs tell through food. It took me a little while to get a table, but eventually the stars aligned and I was awake and at a computer on the first of the month and I managed to get a table for four.

I hope that you won’t think any the less of me if I tell you I counted sleeps between the booking date and the date of the meal.  I also hope you won’t think less of me if I tell you, in the interests of full disclosure, that I visited Story back in mid-September. An unfortunate truth of my life is that I am never as organised as I want to be. If you could see the sheer range of writing projects I am mid-way through, the processes I am engineering for work, the cooking and baking plans dotted around my house… well. Maybe then you would forgive me for the delay between eating and reviewing.

First off, the thing that has stuck with me most about this meal was the sheer spectacle and theatre of it. From the venue to the crockery, the food to the service, it succeeded in making a real impression. I loved the concept of bringing a book with me, and I loved what the staff were trying to do. I did feel that on the night we visited some of the food was more successful than other courses (darling Julian said that he felt the kitchen was still coming to terms with the autumn menu) but there were moments of dizzying brilliance, and overall the experience didn’t disappoint in the slightest.

My little group of four chose to go for the 10 course menu – an easy decision – and then set about devouring a beautiful range of amuse bouche bathed in candlelight. For me, these little mouthfuls were some of the high points of the meal. The crispy cod skin with tarmasalata that we opened with was one of the most perfect things I have ever eaten and the others (nasturtium flowers with oyster mousse, corn on the cob with corn pudding, radish stuffed with seafood butter, Oreos made of squid ink and smoked eel, rabbit with disks of pickled vegetables) were equally good. Over the space of a quarter of an hour, they let the kitchen showcase the consummate skill and imagination they have on hand, and I would have to say that this has lived on in my memory as one of the most enjoyable series of food I have ever eaten. Everything was so beautiful and perfectly executed, and the plates and crockery they used was so carefully chosen… yes. How often can you say the amuse bouche alone was worth the price of the meal?

I am not going to spoil you for the first course. You probably know the twist already, and if you don’t, then you should just sit back and enjoy it. I kicked myself that we didn’t pretend it was a surprise to us – the poor waitress’s face when she realised we knew was heart-breaking. Again, it was hugely enjoyable, and incredibly well presented – theatre and culinary skill all bound together.

After an opening like that, you might think it would be hard for the kitchen to sustain the quality. You would be partly right – the next three courses were really good, but they lacked the complete perfection that the meal had opened with. The fifth course though? Oh, my.

You might not think a course called heritage potato, turnip, and coal would be outstanding – but this… To describe it as mashed potato seems wrong somehow. It was more a suspension of potato in sweet, silky butter. It lives on in my memory. The only reason I don’t write poetry to its memory is that it might be seen by some as creepy or unhinged. All other potatoes will suffer in comparison, and I may never be able to eat mash again. It was worth it.

Something with beetroot happened after that. I’m not sure. I was mostly in a post-potato haze. I know they showed us the ducks – nestled in pots, surrounded by straw, and letting off a haze of smoke. “They won’t look like this when you see them again,” the chef said, like this was a good thing. He was right – they didn’t. This was not a good thing.

Maybe there are some people in the world who prefer duck breast to the interesting parts of duck. There might even be those who remove the skin from duck before eating it. I wouldn’t know. These are not the sort of people I am friends with. All I know is that if you show Julian and me whole ducks with smoke crisped skin and then try and feed us skinless breasts, well. Disappointment will ensue. We briefly considered raiding the kitchen (think of all the spare legs, my dears! WE WOULD HAVE EATEN LIKE KINGS). We weighed the inevitable social shame against the legs, and (on the basis we may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb) more potatoes. In the end, you’ll be relieved to know, we were distracted by another glass of wine, and the tattooed chef coming to the table, bearing a melting brie infused with English truffles. What can I say? I am a creature of simple tastes. We went for the cheese course (with jam! Oh, such jam) and the pain of the brie entering our veins dulled the mourning for the duck.

There was puddings after that. Three of them. They featured a lot of snow. One of them (the lovage one) had an oddly medicinal taste but I ignored that I favour of the milk skins. They were… nice. Skilfully done, but nothing that won a place in my heart.  Again, in the interest of full disclosure, Julian and I were slightly more interested if we could steal the rest of the wheel of brie without anyone noticing. I maintain we could have, if Julian hadn’t been distracted by the candles that had been left on other people’s tables. Sadly we will never now know.

The meal concluded with coffee, strawberry milkbottles, and tea cakes. We sat there, mostly unable to talk because of the shocking acoustics, basking in the glow of an amazing meal.

The week after we visited, Story won a well-deserved Michelin star. I am so pleased for them, and very grateful that I started Forty for Forty with an experience like this.