Spirited Marriages at Simpson’s

I TWIRLED through Europe’s second ever revolving door into dapper institution, ‘Simpson’s In The Strand’ this afternoon. Established in 1828 on the site of the Fountain Inn - home to literary association, the ‘Kit Kat Club’ - its chequerboard floors, tiles and knight motifs nod to a past when patrons could enjoy coffee, cigars and rapt games of chess in tall, discreet booths for nine-pence a day.

Mirroring the layout of the ‘Grand Divan’ below, I was seated amongst London’s top sommeliers in the Regency Room. With daffodil-coloured walls, chandeliers festooned with crystal leaves and icing-like plaster fringing painted clouds, it previously served as the Ladies’ Drawing Room until genders were mingled in 1984.

Whilst our ‘duty’ was painless, it still required focus: to establish which expressions of cognac from artisan house, ‘Audry’ best complemented Simpson’s autumn dishes.

Described by Time Magazine as ‘the best cognac you have never heard of’, Audry was founded in 1878 by Aristide Boisson, great, great grandfather of current owner, Bernard. Although Bernard has spent most of his life in law, briefly taking over as distiller when his brother died in the ‘60’s, he has still found time to introduce the family spirit to every three Michelin-starred restaurant in France and Switzerland.

Describing himself as ‘a very active pensioner’, Bernard is determined to raise Audry’s profile amongst British connoisseurs – as his latest day trip to London confirmed. So far, Nobu and Simpson’s are his most notable ambassadors.

Amidst a trio of polished, mobile cloches originally intended to glide joints to table to avoid disturbing chess players, we were served two main courses by waiters in white gloves. Honouring early manager, Thomas Davey, who insisted on eschewing French terminology, Simpson’s ‘bill of fare’ (rather than ‘menu’) is written in English and prepped by ‘cooks’ (rather than ‘chefs’).

Legs splayed, deftly roasted quail plumply-perched discreetly-flavoured truffle mash with lustrous, racing green spinach and intoxicating port sauce. From a portfolio of balanced, or ‘well-melted’ XO, which had nuances of tangerine oil; feistier, sharper XO Special Reserve; complex, tobacco and ‘rancio’ (posh, seasoned wood) scented, iron fist in a velvet glove Memorial; lifted Exception and the bracing but moreish single cask, cask strength, Très Ancienne, there ensued heated debate as to the best match with the dish.

Whilst it took time to adjust to savouring savoury food alongside minimum 40 degrees of alcohol, I thought that the supple, sweetest, creamiest, cheapest (£69) XO added texture to the subtly smoky meat, whilst cutting through the aromatic mash and cleansing the heady sauce. Others preferred the XO Special Reserve (£74.75) for its directness and notes of tea leaf and toast.

The second course was even more of a triumph: fleetingly pan-fried venison berthed on a custard-like, silky parsnip mousse tart of exceptionally fine, pepper-pricked pastry (which dissolved in the mouth), braised shallots, tiny but pouting button mushrooms and game glaze. Parsnip being an enemy of most wine for its brisk acidity, all expressions fought through, although the remarkably smooth, amber-coloured Exception (£201.25) worked best, leaving a feint, dried pecan aftertaste long after the final mouthful. To finish, chocolate fondant proved an Etna of molten cocoa and butter, cooled by vanilla ice cream. Dealing with such sticky, decadent richness, at 50p/c, the rare Ancienne subtly cleansed the palate – not bad going for a 40-plus year-old rarity valued at over £300 a bottle.
After lunch, I begged a tour of the most recent addition to Simpson’s, the art deco-styled Knight’s Bar, built in 1999, where I suddenly felt very young under the glare of its regulars, then the basement smoking room, changed little since doors first opened. Amusingly, and practically, this incorporates a now sadly blocked trough flanking the bar – an emergency measure for gents in need of fast relief. Manager, Stephen Busby (formerly of ‘Christopher’s’ at The Thistle, Victoria whose bugbear there were the filthy but un-cleanable, bombproof windows) showed me intriguing memorabilia. This including architects plans for bedrooms which were never built and a menu dating from the second world-war. Respecting rationing, it stipulated that Divan diners could not have ‘any more than three courses in a sitting’. There would also be ‘one meat-free day a week’ amongst ‘five potato-free days’.

Good to see standards upheld.
Avoiding shortcuts like charred chip teabags with colour and sweetness coming from barrels rather than caramel, then slowly matured and harmonised before being bottled in refreshingly traditional bottles, the not inconsiderable prices requested for Audry’s outstanding cognacs didn’t seem outlandish in context.
It had been a provocative lunch. Overall, in contrast to wine, which normally tames the food, Simpson’s gutsy, but leavened menu appeared to have disciplined the drink...

• Audry XO Fine Champagne Cognac (£69)
• Audry XO Special Reserve Fine Champagne Cognac (£74.75)
• Audry Memorial Fine Champagne Cognac (£115)
• Audry Exception Fine Champagne Cognac (£201.25)
• Audry Très Ancienne Grande Champagne Cognac (£310.50) - very limited stock
[Bottles are 70cl; prices are retail]
For more information and to order, visit http://www.bibendum-wine.co.uk/

SIMPSON'S IN THE STRAND: 100 Strand, London. WC2R 0EW

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Wedding Posset

I take a road-trip to Sussex to sample politically-approved venison...

ON the drive to Borde Hill gardens, through tree-branch tunnels, I spied the aftermath of a great many game birds, spread on tarmac. Morbidly, I found the sight mildly appetising. Rather than irrational bloodlust, I interpreted this as impatience to sample the speciality at destination, ‘Jeremy’s’, a family-run restaurant known for its game...
Despite a false start of taking a table at their next-door café, where I wondered for 10-minutes where all the game had gone, once within the more upmarket main act, I felt reassured by a shrine of game cookbooks written by politico, Norman Tebbit. Once described as ‘the living symbol of dead-eyed Tory evil’, Lord Tebbit’s tome includes chef, Jeremy Ashpool’s recipe for loin of herb-crusted venison with smoked bacon, spring onion and sage mash, soused with warm Cumberland sauce.
Regardless of your political persuasion, it does seem that expensively-matured Tories know their game – as the mural of Maggie Thatcher at London’s oldest restaurant, ‘Rules’ would attest. According to the restaurant’s newsletter, Tebbit was even due to garnish the venue with an appearance on ‘game night’, but later bailed on account of the late return to his Norfolk pile. The Independent’s ‘Pandora’ wrote differently, however, accusing Ashpool of shrewd PR - parliamentary staff apparently stated ‘from the off’ that he could never make it.
In the company of regulars reminiscing over the ‘retro night’ earlier that week, we opened with fresh juices, slightly prune-like olives, but immaculate salmon crostini in the cobalt-blue bar. In the cosy dining room, with corn-fed, egg yolk coloured walls and views to the grounds with long, vine walkway but ugly fountain, the dramatic incidence of classical music, seemingly lifted from adverts, upset the equilibrium.

A starter of tender chicken livers – seeming like most acceptable poor man’s foie gras – was berthed on lentils, lacquered with chorizo oil and cleaved by crisped, ruddy Bresaola shards. Warming, and in parts almost melting, this subtly-spiced dish captured autumn perfectly. Eagerly awaited, the roast venison loin and braised fillet from nearby Balcombe Estate lived up to Tebbit’s endorsement. Sweetly sanguine and subtly salted, it was served with boulangere potatoes reflecting a very good stock, thyme juice and amusingly bumpy, beetroot-tinted spiced turnip sauce. From an inquisitive, gutsy wine list, a stand-in sommelier curiously clad in a wedding breakfast waistcoat brought an angular ‘Bierzo joven’ – a mineral, pretty red, with sufficient acidity to cleanse the sauces.
After my friend mischievously begged a cigarette from a kind barman, our shared lime-spiked berry posset served in a Martini triangle came recommended by a waitress who had ordered it for her wedding day.

In a recent interview, Ashpool spoke about customer loyalty being key to surviving two recessions. Knowing customers by name, running regular jazz, winemaker and game nights and offering good value and a loyalty scheme, he should continue to trade as long as he wants. Desirably, Jeremy’s combines the friendliness of a neighbourhood restaurant with the style and precision of something more aspirational.

As we left the manageress almost pressed a wedding brochure into our hands (a licenced marquee adjoins). Whilst richly flavoured and sumptuously textured, the posset was not reason enough to tie the knot...

Jeremy’s is open all year-round; Borde Hill Garden and Parkland are open until 1st November 2009, 10am - 6pm daily
JEREMY'S - Borde Hill Gardens, Balcombe Road, Haywards Heath, W. Sussex. RH16 1XP

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Drinking in Autumn

For opinion on wine merchant, Berry, Bros. & Rudd's Autumn Tasting, please venture HERE.

My Table, Tweeted

Is it possible to engage readers with a restaurant review of 140 characters or fewer?

Here is my attempt for Beauberry House, 1 Gallery Rd., Dulwich. SE21:

'Beauberry House: gen. tidy req'd; odd camel cage odour; St. E '85 =£45; kitchen calibrated (veal fillet & t. tatin on £21/3cs striking)'

Cutting Colourful Cloth in a Drab Economy

Read my latest review of Hotel Missoni: HERE

Roy Brett's 'Cool' Bar

THERE is a breed of restaurant critics best-known for bloating their pages with musings on life, the universe and everything except the food. Whilst I understand the temptation to try to transcend the formula of writing three courses in three acts, noting celebrity diners and nodding at the décor, some chefs deserve a rest from the reviewer’s ego. ‘Ondine’ is a case in point. The offering at this glamorous seafood restaurant, housed in the curved corner of the Missoni building in Edinburgh’s old town, is easily strong enough to form the focus. In fact, if I were lazy, I could simply paste-in the menu, which does for fish what Rowley Leigh’s does for poultry and game, secure that you would read to the end, then dial reservations. But that alone would not convey my sheer enthusiasm for what is arguably Edinburgh’s opening of the year.

Representing the first stand-alone restaurant from Roy Brett, Scotland’s hotel chef of the year, massive care has gone into its construction. Moleskin lines the halls and private room, which has a porthole to the kitchen. Mosaics curl pillars beside the broad semi-circular bar. This is lit by cool LED lamps, meaning counter diners won’t spoil like dishes on a pass.

With grace and wit, a mural inspired by the ‘End of the Line’ documentary suggests a dystopian vision of a pillaged sea. From left to right, it opens cheerfully with scoffers cracking claws, but ends with sparse, murky shadows of fish floating around a wistful mermaid. This is the mythological Ondine, the beautiful nymph who sacrifices her immortality by falling in love with a human. Moved by a performance in Moscow, Brett’s best-friend suggested the restaurant took the ballet’s title, although only the reassurance of Sicilians convinced him. He said, ‘when I mentioned the idea whilst on holiday in Sicily, I received more kisses than ever before, which made-up my mind.’ The tableau also mirrors the influences on Brett’s life, including cooking contemporaries, Mark Hix and Rick Stein as well as Stein’s dog. It asks ‘but where’s Chalky’ of the Jack Russell, who died two years ago.

Fortunately a meal at Ondine need not be garnished with ecological guilt, this being Scotland’s first ‘Marine Stewardship Council’ (MSC) accredited restaurant. This means you are unlikely to find endangered species such as conger eel enriching dishes like noble fish soup – forcing Brett to work inventively.

Served by staff in ‘St. John’-style jackets, my friend and I began with gougères puffs and ‘Innis & Gunn’, a rich, but crisp, butterscotch-scented Edinburgh ale, leisurely matured in ex-Bourbon casks. Beloved by Brett, he plans to build a rack for regulars’ tankards. Acutely fresh Cumbrian rock oysters stirred the appetite and glossed over the memory of our long drive from London.

The initial aroma of my fish soup cauldron stirred with reassuringly spicy rouillé and decorated with brittle Gruyére croutons came from its Julienne oranges, with a multi-layered, sea-scented, paprika-pepped finish. My friend’s terrine fused foie gras and grouse. It was pinkish, moist, with a sturdy whiff of game and a softly yielding texture.Served in its bowl-like shell, fibrous crab minus dead men’s fingers was bound with fresh mayonnaise, spun with diced chives, and offered with thin, crisped, walnut toast. Despite its generous scale, it was compelling enough to ensure we fingered the last fishy goodness free.

Showing an Italian influence, notably tender gnocchetti was laden with clams, bathed in buttery pesto, and, like the crab, sprinkled with dried garlic crumbs. A pannier of tall, blonde frites baked to crispness in dripping looked like matchsticks. Let’s call them ‘match-chips’...

Finally, a glossy treacle tart which a national critic described as being as good as his mother’s was broad and shallow – easily the most fine-tuned, long-lived, seductive example to pass my lips.

With such a supreme offering from Scotland’s cool, deep waters, so often marred by bureaucratic controversy, but gently handled by one of its most respected chefs, Ondine dazzled – another star in this city’s increasingly exciting culinary firmament. Add to that Brett’s elegant mantra of ‘belief, trust and belonging’ (however you choose to interpret it), the enviable location of George IV bridge, and hopefully you have a strong enough recipe to distract otherwise meandering critics from writing about themselves in favour of Roy Brett’s food.

Open lunch and dinner, Tuesday-Saturday and Sunday lunch, 12pm-4pm

ONDINE: 2 George IV Bridge, Edinburgh. EH1 1AD

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Wines enjoyed (via corkage) included:

William Fevre Le Clos Chablis '00 - soft oak, mineral, very confident - almost suave

Château de Beaucastel (white) '07 - tea, mineral, tropical elements, plentiful acidity - big wine, still primary

Park Drinkers

LAST year, I was gifted this handsome-looking 1964 Barolo by the owner of an antiques shop on the Italian riviera. I think his generousity was explained by the fact he had reached the third stage of his T-Shirt, which read, ‘1 Grappa, 2 Grappa, 3 Grappa - Floor’. He advised me to uncork it on the birth of my first child. But I didn't want to start a family in order to savour a glass. Cutting through the cord of a wine puzzle chastity belt which proved too time-consuming to solve, I liberated it in a park...

Was it palatable, or even potable? -In this instance, I’m reminded of a joke told by former director of Christie’s, Michael Broadbent: ‘drinking older wine is a bit like making love to an older lady - possible, but you need a little imagination...’

Glasses clinked to mark the end of a two-year relationship in that (young) lady’s company, the 45 year-old wine had the aroma of sun-struck, cracked red leather and a sticky texture with good acidity. The alcohol felt rather pervasive - almost sufficient to get to the fourth stage of the antiques dealers T...

Ice Man

‘Cocorino’ is a story in two halves – gelateria and focacceria, each with their own doors. Brought to you by L’Anima restaurant’s dynamic chef, Francesco Mazzei, who worked in his family’s Calabrian gelateria and pastry shop aged eight, and Linda Yau, sister of his long-term mentor, Alan, the launch of the sweeter side of this rather cute Marylebone Village venture occurred last Wednesday. Lured by licking, I went along to discuss cool-runnings with Mazzei...

What does ‘Cocorino’ mean?

It’s the name of Linda’s daughter whose first birthday coincided with the opening.

How long did it take to choose the 20 types of ice cream?

Actually we’re still tasting and refining the selection every day. So far, the most popular is pistachio as well as the ‘brioscia’ (ice cream-filled brioche). We’ll always have hazelnut – the first flavour I made at my uncle’s shop.

What is your bravest flavour?

Myrtle at the moment, although I’m also looking at playing with vegetables - even parsley. And we’re going to trial almond and coffee granitas from the weekend.

Where are your favourite ice cream ‘destinations’ abroad?

Apart from my uncle’s shop in Cerchiara di Calabria, I love what they do at ‘Grom’, a chain which opened in Milan amidst the heat wave of ‘03. It has since spread throughout Italy to Paris, New York and even Tokyo. Apart from the excellent products, I admire their Slow Food ethos.

Linda and I spent a week of reconnaissance in Southern Italy. We became particularly excited by the little seaside town of Pizzo, on the west coast. The gelaterias in the square all sell the famous ‘Tartufo di Pizzo’, a chocolate and hazelnut ice cream containing chocolate fudge sauce, bathed in cocoa-powder and sugar.

Do you think luxury ice cream is becoming an ‘evergreen’ item?

More than ever, especially in the UK. It’s incredibly sexy. Everyone has a tub of Häagen-Daaz in the freezer, don’t they? We’ve designed take-away cartons which keep the ice cream frozen for up to an hour.

What does the interior represent?

We’ve tried to recreate an idealised, authentic Italian gelateria – crisp, stylish, but cosy.

Could this concept by rolled-out, or is it determinedly a one-off?

Ask me in six months! We’re just emerging from that ‘crisis feeling’ you get when starting a new business. So we’re putting everything into getting it right.

What has been the reaction thus far?

Absolutely fantastic. I can’t believe how much we’re selling – up to 30 kilos a day and 35 on the weekend.

Where is the ice cream made?

On-site, using full fat milk, although we’re still working on a couple of Soya-based versions.

Is there a particular process which defines its taste?

It’s not an easy job because we don’t use a ‘base’ – so there’s a different recipe for every single flavour, otherwise they would all feel the same in the mouth. The beauty of the different textures is down to how the individual ingredients are crushed, the very different proportions of oil, fat and eggs. It’s alchemy.

When does the day begin at Cocorino?

The pastry chef either starts at 3am, or 6pm. But if they start later then they work all night. As well as ice cream, we offer pastries and cakes, fresh filled breads, pasta and porridge – and that all requires a lot of preparation.

Is it worth it?

Of course! At the end of a long day, any stress is wiped away by a pristine scoop of artisan ice cream which decadently melts in your mouth...

COCORINO: 18 Thayer St, Marylebone, London. W1U 3JY
Another project involving Francesco Mazzei includes the overhaul of the menu at SE1’s Viva Verdi restaurant, where prosciutto is chiselled using an antique slicer.

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Quartz to Crystal

Following his first glass masterclass in Britain, I caught-up with Maximilian Riedel, 11th generation figurehead of the world’s most famous luxury glassware firm. It was founded in 1756 in northern Bohemia.

How should ‘Riedel’ be pronounced?

It rhymes with ‘needle’.

How was your first professional visit to London?

I have fallen in love with the city which it is vibrant and warm with humorous people, a mesmerising history and crucially, a well-established wine culture.

I particularly enjoyed lunch at Tapas Brindisa and dinner at Hakkasan. In both cases it was not just the excellent food, but a bustling atmosphere which made the difference.

My father, Georg often came here to hold tastings – a tradition I shall be continuing.

How important is the UK market to Riedel?

Although my key responsibility is to our largest markets (the USA and North America), Britain is very important, being the third largest market in Europe. Austria/Germany represents our largest ‘home’ market and China and India are the fastest growing, particularly for the sale of Bordeaux glasses.

Über wine critic, Robert Parker Junior described your glasses as: ‘…the finest for both technical and hedonistic purposes…’ How do they help transform our five senses of protection into pleasure?

The driving philosophy behind Riedel is that form follows function and our glasses are designed, in collaboration with leading winemakers, to present a given wine in a way which harmonises the nose and taste, not forgetting the enhancing purity of their aesthetics and their enduring chime when struck.

Almost every major wine estate has, at some time, had a direct input into our work, from Gaja in Europe, to the Mondavi family in the USA and Penfolds in the Australias. And with spirits, Giles Hennessey helped develop our Cognac glass and Ardbeg advised over our whisky glass.

How much of your glassware is still hand-blown?

Most of our decanters and about a fifth of our glasses. It takes several hours to craft a single glass, involving up to 25 people - bubble-makers, gatherers, blowers, masters and carriers. To become a master glass blower, our traditional apprenticeship takes seven years.

Are all of your glasses made in Austria?

Most of the hand-made production still occurs in Austria, where the overall process has changed very little since Roman times. In contrast, our machine-made crystal glasses are produced in Germany, using the latest cutting-edge technology.

How many people do you employ worldwide?

2,000.

Has the market for luxury glassware shattered in the global economic downturn?

We have performed better than average thanks to encouraging consumer sales. These account for almost three quarters of the business in the UK.

Can your glasses prevent heartburn?

Although they can’t cure an acid-flux in the gullet, I believe that the right glass for the right grape can demonstrably balance acidity on the palate.

Do they assist winemakers in remedying faults?

Everything, including faults will be amplified – there is nowhere to hide in a Riedel!

How many types of glasses do you make, and which one are you most proud of?

Out of 500 lines modelled around 35 bowl shapes, my favourite is the stemless ‘Riedel O’ tumbler, which I designed when I was living in a small flat with tight storage. Another important benchmark was the ‘Sommeliers Burgundy Grand Cru’. Designed back in 1958, it was our very first grape variety specific glass.

What’s on the drawing board?

I’m about to launch a glass for ‘Norton’ - the official grape of the State of Missouri. This represents an exciting departure for the company, because it will be our first glass intended for a ‘hybrid’ rather than classic grape variety.

Does the current Champagne flute need overhauling?

Not ours, because the bestselling ‘Cuvée Prestige’ already offers a broader bowl to allow the nose to develop. Even Champagne needs to breathe. However many people now prefer to use an even larger bowl for Pinot Noir rich Champagnes, as provided for by our Pinot Noir glasses.

Do your glasses supersede the need for a decanter?

I strongly believe that every great wine should be decanted – and not just reds but whites. The aeration will lend a softness which mimicks the traditional ageing process. In some cases you are also splitting the wine from the sediment. But I would never advise leaving old wines in a decanter for long because the fruit will fall away. And with whites, use a small decanter so you can control the temperature in an ice bucket or, safely covered from malodorous contamination, in the fridge.

Where is the oddest place you’ve seen Riedel glasses?

Many customers take their glasses on holiday - especially the Riedel O’s. People sip from them on planes, hot air balloons, yachts and even whilst camping. Perhaps most curiously, I know of someone who has a custom-made leather pannier to carry his glasses around with him on his Harley Davidson!

Besides wine and spirits, are there other uses for your glasses?

Being multifunctional, the O’s can improve almost any ambient or cold beverage you can think of. I have noticed an increasing trend to serve food from them too - to savour the aroma of food as you would wine. This seems particularly popular in Michelin-starred restaurants in Japan. Perhaps the most dramatic example was truffled ‘smoke’ which cleared to reveal the ‘dish’ inside.

Will you ever design a glass for an English wine?

Never say never, although many English wines are already covered by existing styles, for example Britain’s ‘national grape’ ‘Bacchus’ sings from our Sauvignon Blanc glass.

Have you ever been asked for an autograph?

Of course! We also have more than 1,000 followers on Facebook and several hundred on Twitter.

And lastly, a confession. Working as a sommelier some years ago, I’m embarrassed to admit that I accidentally knocked over a crate, fracturing 40 of your glasses…

Being in the glass business, we have to accept that, sadly, people do break glasses from time to time (though hopefully not always 40 at a time!)

For more information and to purchase glassware, visit Riedel.co.uk

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Redefining Meals on Wheels

I venture to vegetarian restaurant, ‘Carnevale’ off Whitecross Market for the launch of the inaugural ‘British Street Food Awards’…

STREET food need not be about ‘E-Coli, Mr. Whippy or sausages from a tin’ according to food columnist and broadcaster, Richard Johnson. Through his newly established British Street Food Awards, the 46 year-old presenter of BBC’s ‘Kill It, Cook It, Eat It’ hopes to uncover our most ‘razzle-dazzling, showman mobilers.’

Inspired by the ingenuity of square pizza in Milan which is ‘easier to eat on a Vespa’, bazaar buffets in Mumbai, where ‘restaurants are only for tourists’, and the ‘extraordinary’ Philippines, where chicken feet are nicknamed ‘Adidas’ and rectangular lozenges of pigs blood, ‘Betamax’, Johnson believes that now is the time to celebrate the offering closer to home. ‘We have revolutionised top end gastronomy in the UK – so let’s turn the spotlight on the sort of food everyone should be able to afford.’

Johnson sees our monochrome perception of British street food as a modern phenomenon. ‘In Dickens’ time, larks where eaten as a snack. I’d love to look at their portability.’

Whilst snacking on larks might come across as an abrasive concept for some (although not for me), British street food ‘can still be exciting,’ providing opportunities for fledgling entrepreneurs to cut their teeth.

‘Not everyone has the considerable sum required to start a restaurant, nor the patience to get to grips with the various boring A3 licensing problems. In fact I find the idea of doing up a trailer quite liberating, even sexy...’

Of close to an anticipated ‘10,000 mobile vendors’ working our streets, curbside success stories include the ‘Hurlyburly’, a school bus converted into a dispensary of ‘hippyish, whole earth veggie food’, the classically-trained Chocolatier, Petra Barran who vends Valrhona from ‘Choc Star’, a van bought off E-Bay and made-over by an international graffiti artist, and Tony Stoat’s porridge take-aways in Edinburgh. ‘You would not believe the queues leading-up to these guys.’

So far, Johnson has invested his own money into the awards, with design company ‘Fury’ contributing the quintessentially British logo. ‘I first worked with them when I was launching Sting and Trudie’s organic food range.’

But not everyone is as positive as Johnson. Apparently William Sitwell, Editor of Waitrose Food Illustrated believes street food leads directly to ‘eating on buses’ (other than the Hurlyburly), whilst accountant turned cookery school owner Angela Malik wonders whether this is ‘another initiative speaking to the ‘Waitrose’ class.’ As a regular trader of meals on Acton market, Malik calculates a harsh economic reality for those truly dedicated to good quality ingredients. ‘Keeping prices low is incredibly difficult - fine if passion is what drives you rather than a need to make a living.’

However fellow awards judge, Marco Pierre White, who was also present, looked beyond economics. ‘What makes this beautiful is the jigsaw of opportunities – every pocket is different and we shouldn’t be resentful of people buying saveloys with onions.’

I asked Johnson what food genre he would specialise in if he were ever tempted to give up pen and pixels in favour of a rotisserie on the road. ‘Something very simple - a menu two or three dishes deep. I’m rather good at eggs…’

As well as Johnson and White, the rat-pack of judges includes Anthony Worrall-Thompson and Mark Hix. ‘It feels a bit masculine,’ Johnson admitted, ‘although that will change.’

The project’s website, http://www.britishstreetfood.co.uk/, will open for public nominations on 6th October coinciding with International World Street Food Day. Seven categories will be announced and are likely to include best burger, best ice cream, best European and best world food, with an overall winner ‘and perhaps a people’s choice’ award. Johnson is then committed to personally investigate vendors ‘as soon as they start coming in.’

Shortlisted mobilers will take part in a ‘cook-off’ in September under the shadow of Ludlow’s medieval castle. Whilst the picturesque location represents ‘the home of one of the best annual food festivals,’ there is a more personal connection too. ‘I used one of the butchers on the ‘Sausage Trail’ (residents of Ludlow will know what I’m talking about) to supply the bangers for my wedding breakfast there!’

Despite prizes of ‘kudos’ rather than cash, Johnson hopes that the interest generated by the awards will inspire a new era of mobilers ‘capable of feeding us well, alleviating boredom and therefore rehabilitating our city centres, particularly at night-time...’

Mankind's Survival is at 'Steak'

DURING my documentary-making days, I developed one or two brave ideas with silver-topped, green-shoed, acutely political Executive Producer, Christopher Hird. Perhaps most notably, Hird worked on Rupert Murray’s ‘End of The Line’ film. His latest endeavour, ‘PLANEAT’ poses a provocative challenge to blind mastication. Representing the first feature-length documentary from two young directors, Shelley Lee-Davies and Or Shlomi, it follows a group of scientists, doctors and environmentalists with the aim of asking us to confront evidence that an animal-based diet could be bad for our health and the environment.

Whilst such sentiments may seem worthy, I am told that its tone is refreshing because Davies and Shlomi seek to show the negative aspects of matters meaty as something we can still do something about - ‘without resorting to a diet of lentils and lettuce’. The premiere is at 16h45 this Thursday at London’s Appollo, Lower Regent St. (part of the Raindance Fesitval).

Tickets: (£12.60) http://www.raindance.co.uk/

Tables Talk

FEW of my friends would envy the prize, especially considering the 8am start it warranted. But Lady Luck aside, I had been so motivated by the idea of attending Caterer and Hotelkeeper’s annual Chef Conference at the Jumeirah Tower, Knightsbridge, that I had considered self-financing the £207 outlay. However, by posing a ‘useable’ question to the panel of culinary luminaries, Michael Caines, Shaun Hill, Brian Turner, John Williams, Simon Hulstone and David Cavalier, via the magazine’s Table Talk blog, I got in for free...

In the ‘Question Time’ style setting, mine was discussed: ‘in the light of the big bang of blogs and concierge style review sites, is there still a useful role for professional restaurant critics?’ Brian Turner, President of the Academy of Culinary Arts thought so, believing paid critics offered consistency, whilst Simon Hulstone of The Elephant in Torquay and British representative for the Bocuse d’Or thought the opposite. Only one national critic has reviewed his Michelin-starred restaurant in five years – and he turned up drunk, blew his nose on the tablecloth, and then wrote-up a dessert he never ate.

Michael Caines, executive chef of Gidleigh Park and director of ABode boutique hotels (that’s not a typo) proclaimed the culture of Twitter, Facebook, blogs and Trip Advisor ‘here to stay and something we should harness.’ Turner (taking the role of Dimbleby for the day) concluded, ‘they don’t build great monuments for critics – and if they did, they’d soon be pulled down…’

Chef Karaoke

The panel also discussed the life and death of food hero, Keith Floyd. Speaking about having once witnessed the daring dipsomaniac’s two large Scotch strong start to the day, Shaun Hill admitted he ‘had the greatest respect for anyone who has a good breakfast.’ But could he cook? –Perhaps influenced by Floyd’s intoxicating company, Hill ‘couldn’t remember much beyond the man’s enthusaism...’

Above image: Table Talk

Of the organic movement, the panel were nervous about ‘latching onto warm trends which can quickly become absurd’, quoting instances of ‘organic courgettes being flown in from Zimbabwe’.

Being seated on the front row, the vigorous, almost visual fragrant curls from cooking demonstrations by Angela Hartnett, Elena Arzak, Michael Caines and Martin Burge quickly reached me and tauntingly persisted. Hartnett, who is at the stoves of Murano, Harden’s best newcomer, confirmed her renowned ‘feel’ for food and correct positioning as a single Michelin star chef by cooking a simple walnut pasta and also the more intriguing roasted sweetbreads with pickled peaches, liquorice and fennel.

The fourth generation Elena Arzak, who runs the eponymous three Michelin-starred Basque restaurant ‘in tandem’ with her father, Juan Mari, quietly assembled a walnut cream with ‘mutant’ liquidised, cochineal-tinted cabbage grown in a particularly low pH soil which emphasises colour. This gently lightened when acid (in the form of Coca-Cola or lemon juice) was added. Arzak is ‘fascinated by the effect colour has on our perception of taste’. However, going on the dizzy-making, sped-up film depicting her restaurant, bold colours don't seem to be the priority in its depressingly clinical-looking public areas.

Free from ‘the prison of square plates’ and also, it seems, the discipline / desire to reduce a dish to two or three components, two-starred Caines layered a busy, but deceptively low tableau of lightly poached wild salmon with two types of caviar, salmon jelly, ‘freeze cooked’ cucumber, white honey soy, wasabi, Greek yoghurt vinaigrette, groundnut vinaigrette, ginger tamed by blanching and a tangle of borage ‘which tastes of cucumber’(...) Regardless of the hectic shopping list of pampered ingredients, it looked ravishing.

Looking a little like a more approachable clone of Marcus Wareing, Burge, of Whatley Manor, who, like Caines, is (recently) double-starred, nervously unwrapped numerous cling film pots to build his much celebrated (and already much photographed) mango cannelloni with mint ice cream and pink grapefruit. This came to fruition by use of the exotic-sounding neutral acid, veggie milk and ‘anti humidity salt’. It sounded like alchemy...

Apart from showing frustration with the technical imperfections in a presentation showcasing new dishes from culinary theme park, The Fat Duck restaurant’s tasting menu - the á la carte abolished due to its low (8p/c) subscription - Heston Blumenthal spoke about the norovirus incident. Apparently he was given ‘three hours to respond’ to the report by the Health Protection Agency before it went to the press, leading to ‘criticism from his insurers’ of such an ‘extremely limited’ timeframe.

Of the fact members of staff were seen to return to work whilst still unwell, Blumenthal quoted the Fat Duck’s ‘back to work policy’ of 48 hours whilst noting that, unfortunately, what has now been identified as norovirus takes 72 hours to purge the body. Blumenthal said ‘the report made it sound like my …[47]… chefs were doing mise-en-place then throwing up in the bin.’ Perhaps most curiously, the three-starred chef also admitted that he ‘was told to take Colchester oysters off the menu three-to-four months before February’s closure’, although he ‘wasn’t told why’. Nor did he disclose whom advised this.

Thinking positively, Blumenthal introduced his next venture – the 140-cover restaurant that replaces ‘Foliage’ at the Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park hotel, November. He stated, ‘I don’t know why I’m saying this, but I’m going to say it anyway – I will never, ever open another Fat Duck.’ The as yet nameless restaurant won’t be ‘at the same level,’ but more ‘of a traditional British brasserie where the food will be a bit more refined than the Hind’s Head’ in Bray.

One other point I found interesting was the fact Blumenthal employs an ex-Penguin editor to research forgotten recipes at the British library - one day a week.

Following the conference, delegates were chauffeured by taxi to the restaurant of GQ magazine man of the year, Marcus Wareing, Phil Howard’s The Square and Alain Ducasse at The Dorchester - where I had lunch. Matched to the NV wines of the oldest Champagne house, Gosset (which originally made still wine before bubbles were fashionable) and also iron fist in a velvet glove, Bordeaux blend, ‘Morgenof’ (‘04), a South African estate owned by the house, the un-ambitious menu failed to live up to the demonstrations of the earlier culinary quad.

Little peppery choux puffs were fun, as was a Faberge / bedpan-esque egg containing the amuse bouche, a thick but sprightly spinach, black olive, flower and radish soup. Scotch salmon ‘goujonnettes’ with ‘green emulsion’ were tart and tacky, although cubed al dente vegetables were pristine. To follow, ‘heart of Angus rump’ was tough and ‘crispy Maxim’s potatoes’ startlingly reeked of stale oil. Only soft, sculpted gnocchi were acceptable. Not a dish I would have wanted to fork-out for, only to fork it away.

The dessert, ‘Girl from Ipanema’ with petite madeleine (I would dearly like to know what endeared Mnr. Ducasse to use this moniker) was a sturdy, tropical confection and was the only wine match to work - as with Gosset’s Chardonnay-dominated rosé, it also boasted a pineapple finish.

Ducasse at The Dorchester had turned out to be yet another very posh marquee for rather boring, in this case, upmarket conference-style food. Sharp knives and smart packaging (and the room is far more comfortable than many pictures suggest) proved insufficient camouflage.

Regardless of the two poorly calibrated dishes, it had been a stimulating day. In terms of chef participants, I was particularly impressed by Simon Hulstone, whom, over lunch, revealed a finely-tuned palate and insatiable appetite for exploring the very best cuisine in the world, adding no doubt to his own gastronomic canon, revised at his restaurant on England’s south-west coast. There, divers still in wetsuits bring him cheap but gorgeous scallops (apparently). I will be visiting soon. And I shan’t be wiping my nose on the tablecloth…

Bringing Gastronomy to Gaol

Library Picture

‘I’M TRYING to get hold of mulberries. Have you ever had one?’ asked Executive Chef, Alberto Crisci MBE. ‘I tasted my first ten days ago and have got to get them on the menu!’

Whilst this would seem a straightforward remark in a ‘normal’ restaurant, it became surreal in a space as secure as a safe in the company of burly guards and their prisoner charges.

Opened at the end of May, the 85-cover ‘Clink’ restaurant at category B, High Down prison, is one of the most exclusive in the world. To secure admission you must either prove an interest in rehabilitating prisoners, or rob a bank. As Neapolitan-blooded Crisci puts it, ‘you only get in if I let you.’ And also out – it is certainly not the place to attempt a drunken runner (and despite so many bars, alcohol is banned). Covering different territory to Crisci’s chief responsibility of supplying 3,000 meals at £1.68 per inmate, per day in the main canteen, this ambitious venture is Britain’s first to bring gastronomy to gaol for appraisal by civilians.

With electronic equipment embargoed and sporting an ID necklace, I felt trepidation awaiting my escort. Looking around, my eyes were drawn to the ‘Good News’ board, papered with an orderly arrangement of letters. Via one drawing-pinned Photostat, prisoner Anthony thanked Justice Secretary, Jack Straw for orchestrating a ‘forgiveness course’, which imparted ‘confidence’ and ‘an aura of self-belief for the first time.’

Surname announced, I was led through sturdy steel gate after gate framed in foot and a half thick concrete towards a courtyard fringed with sheer barbed railings and busy with prisoner transporters. Surpassing my expectations, the final anonymous-looking door swung heavily onto a scene that was – pardon the pun – arresting…

What was a clothing exchange store has been transformed into incongruous decadence by ‘Ishoka’, the interior design consultancy run by Derek Taylor of ITV’s ‘60 Minute Makeover’. But its planning and fundraising took more consideration than a lifestyle show.

The idea that prisoners could be rehabilitated through gastronomy was born out of a series of experimental dinners Crisci held in a spruced storeroom four years ago. One guest, Casilda Grigg of The Telegraph, spotted the potential that growing, picking, cooking and serving produce to civilians offered prisoners - a preparation for release day reality. Crisci recalls, ‘as Grigg left, she said ‘you should open a restaurant’ and the thought stuck.’

Library picture

Following an investment of £550,000 raised in part by charitable trusts like Kevin McGrath’s foundation (the former Chairman of QPR football club) and the result is sparkling, air-conditioned, self-sustaining elegance. A computer-controlled lighting system, which spins through a rainbow of colours, illuminates graceful wooden-framed tables, deep leather sofas and tactile chairs. Of the fact these were crafted by prisoners at Frankland, County Durham, Crisci says, ‘you can forgive the occasional wonky one.’ Soft, faux crocodile-skin panels and a mushroom-coloured tapestry embroidered in High Down’s sewing workshop offset the severity of chipped slate walls. The lid of an ultra posh salad bar - one of only two examples in Britain - electronically raises and lowers with an action as swish a Ferrari canopy.

Mezzanine, a plate glass wall etched with prisoners’ poetry lends discretion to the private room. Featuring a blonde table inlaid with ‘Clink’ in marquetry, it has become a popular meeting place with prospective employers like De Vere and Hilton as well as supportive organisations, the Women’s Institute and Rotary International.

I was greeted and seated by velvet voiced, gliding Madrileño Maître’d, Francis. It seemed like satire that this former resident of High Down once in for smuggling willingly returns to work here five days a week – the same story as head chef, Dean. Of Francis, Crisci remembers ‘spotting his style at the storeroom dinners four years ago - and he’s been with me ever since.’

Following checks on health and behaviour, prisoners who apply to The Clink must qualify their intentions over a fortnight in the main prison kitchens where 35 cater for 1,100. Should they succeed, Crisci is swift to underline his policy of zero tolerance. ‘If I say jump, they’ve got to jump on the spot.’

Once seated at a glass-topped table laid with plastic cutlery according to prison rules, I met waiter and ‘listener’, Claude, who is originally from Villejuif, one of Paris’s edgiest suburbs. Serving the second year of a 14-year sentence for drugs offences, Crisci has encouraged him to study NVQs and City & Guild qualifications whilst furthering his interest in patisserie. Considering that very little baking occurs here (yeast could have a role in moonshine) this is a privileged position. Becoming increasingly engrossed in gastronomy by the day - devouring culinary tomes and eagerly completing homework set by Crisci - Claude appears absolutely focussed. He told me, ‘serving my wife a meal in The Clink was my proudest moment.’

As a law-abiding luncher, it was at first odd to accept a staff united by criminal records. But Crisci’s philosophy to ‘break down barriers through interaction’ works. ‘This is our vehicle to challenge preconceptions. After you’ve eaten three courses prepared and served by the prisoners, you’ll realise that they’re not all crazed, two-headed monsters.’

Within the spacious kitchen fitted with a stunningly beautiful, bespoke Molteni stove, composed chefs clad in ‘HMP High Down’ motiffed whites make everything, from stocks to pasta, and ice cream to coulis.

On Claude’s recommendation, I started with a simple but carefully cooked Portobello mushroom filled with garlic and Cheddar (£1.80), followed by succulent, lightly steamed sea bass (£5.95). This came from supplier ‘Ocean’s Catch’, which is run by an ex-policeman and his son. It came with crisp, lightly buttered vegetables which I later learned took two attempts to perfect. Crisci mentioned that they are grown on-site ‘under four giant polytunnels.’ Finally, positively tacky meringue with a medley of lush fruit ice creams looked and tasted moreish enough for neighbouring diners to ask for the same.

Over time, Crisci plans to introduce more complex dishes, the most notable of which is his signature prawn cocktail. ‘It has lemon and lime for acidity, olive oil for texture, chilli for heat and avocado sorbet to balance.’ As the restaurant enters its first autumn, hearty mutton ‘with sharp apple compote’ might also appear. ‘I don’t know why more people don’t eat mutton,’ pondered Crisci, ‘cooked slowly, it becomes tender.’ Considering the airline style plastic cutlery, let’s hope he’s right.

As I adjusted to the peculiar sight of guards grouped around candelabras discussing gastronomic nuances, and the large group of family and friends marking an 80th birthday with a spectacular cake baked by Claude, I almost relaxed. But the continual clatter of keys rose above the sound of the Beach Boys.

At the end of service, I listened to Crisci read feedback forms to an expectant brigade. Whilst mostly positive, comments such as ‘starter cold’ solicited an ominous, ‘we’ll find out what happened there.’

These are early days for Britain’s first prison restaurant, although seeds have already been sewn for hopeful futures. Examples include Miguel, who has picked up enough skills to secure work at an independent gastropub. Inwardly, I wondered if prisoners might find the culinary facilities outside a little dismal compared to the pristine tools available inside.

Crisci’s drive, humanity and reach is transparent. ‘The Clink is not a gimmick,’ he said. ‘We’ve gone from being a prison where employers couldn’t be contacted to them contacting us. Novelli’s already been in to see what we’re doing, and Locatelli’s due to cook with the prisoners soon. One day we want to be nominated for an award based on the food.’

After coffee from a Gaggia machine, I shook hands with Crisci, Francis and Claude and followed the guard back into the courtyard. Having been seduced by Taylor’s lavish interior and Crisci’s enjoyable food, it only now occurred to me that one of them wouldn’t be leaving that evening...

Library Picture

THE CLINK: Her Majesty’s Prison High Down, Sutton, Surrey. SM2 5PJ

Open for breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea.

Only those with a genuine interest in assisting the rehabilitation of prisoners are asked to apply for a reservation.

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Blush Wine

IN today’s Observer, Master of Wine and co-founder of Wine Gang, Tim Atkin (pictured) generously recommended ‘Intoxicating Prose’ as one of seven favoured wine blogs. In addition to this site, he described wineanorak.com, simonwoods.com, spittoon.biz, wine-journal.com, rebeccagibb.com, and wineconversation.com as standing out from ‘dull’ blogs, which are:

‘...proliferating like randy rabbits ...[and]... "written" by people who don’t know much about wine...’

Whilst I endeavour to maintain as wide a gastronomical focus as possible (coming soon - a feature on a prison restaurant), wine was my first love. To that effect, I will be heading out to Tuscany next week to visit producers, Barone Ricasoli, Cecchi, Fonterutoli and Fattoria dei Barbi in the company of broadcaster, Olly Smith, Editor of Harpers magazine, Richard Siddle and Enotria’s Ben Smith.

-Brace yourself, Italia...

Dominic Chapman: Casting His Own Shadow

‘Whilst we’ve caught the odd stranger approaching Michael to slip him a demo CD, or pass on a love letter to Kylie, more people come for our Scotch eggs than the celebrity connection,’ chuckled Dominic Chapman, chef of Sir Michael Parkinson’s ‘Royal Oak’ pub, Paley Street.

Just voted ‘Best-Ever Scotch Egg’ by Olive Magazine and described as ‘a gourmet reinvention of the motorway service station staple’ by critic Terry Durack, just one bite revealed why people make the detour. Served on a slate coaster, the molten, soft-boiled quail’s egg is bound in a moist cocoon of rare breed pork and sage, rolled in a panko crust. ‘We get phone calls from expectant diners checking we made enough. Others want a batch to take-away. We even had requests to courier them across the country – a compliment, but they wouldn’t last the journey.’

Car windows rolled down to capture the final summer air, crisp with cut grass; I had seized an afternoon away from London’s incessancy to meet one of the most celebrated and influential gastropub chefs ever. Voted 2009’s ‘Best Young Chef’ by Tatler, and ‘Best Pub Chef’ by both the Good Food Guide and Craft Guild of Chefs, Chapman has, for the second time in his life, transformed the culinary reputation of a once dilapidated brewery pub. From day-glow pink interior and ‘domestic fridges’ to suede chairs, discreet jazz, chat show stills and an extensive cellar, the recent AA ‘Restaurant of the Year’ now holds its own against the six Michelin stars of competition just down the road in Bray.

I caught up with Chapman after a busy lunchtime service. Coinciding with GCSE results day, well-heeled families were out in force, keen to celebrate or commiserate.

Despite having very high expectations from reading so many favourable reviews, Chapman’s cooking delivered beyond the promise. A thick-cut but tender, lightly smoked Somerset eel salad came with amethyst-like, cubed beetroots berthed on horseradish cream, sprinkled with discreetly uplifting chive pearls set around a nest of bitter dandelions. This was followed by a tender lamb medley rustled from Yorkshire: Swaledale cutlet, sweetbreads and prawn-shaped kidneys with firm, braised peas, moist lettuce and mint and a side order of rectangular ‘Chippers Choice’ chips. Big but brittle and surprisingly leavened, I must side with Michael Winner - they were the product ‘of a genius for sure.’

Causing ‘a massive headache’ for Chapman, the chips cannot be served at the beginning of the new crop, from late June until early July. ‘Regular diners look visibly upset when we tell them they are unavailable. But the water-sugar levels are all over the place.’

Whilst his style is discernibly British, Chapman’s grandmother is Greek and he frequently visits the country for culinary inspiration. A Mediterranean influence shines through an otherwise game rich menu in the form of spiced aubergine, fried courgettes and bracingly fresh taramasalata. Indeed, Chapman’s most striking meal was ‘sitting on a beach in Greece eating grilled fish, sucking every last bit from the bone.’

As well as a love of Greece, a dedication to hospitality runs through Chapman’s blood. Most notably, his great, great grandfather, Henry Pruger took his experience of managing London’s Savoy Hotel to Bratislava, launching the Ritz-Carlton. Changing his surname to Chapman to avoid persecution by Hitler, Pruger’s eldest son ran the glamorous Imperial Hotel, Torquay whilst his brother, Peter established the Castle Hotel, Taunton. His son, Kit Chapman OBE overhauled it into five-starred decadence and continues to run it, although a recent BBC documentary looked at the possibility of Dominic and brother Nick taking over the mantel. Of his father, Chapman recalls the early advocator of English food ‘banging on for years and years and years about reviving staples like Lancashire Hotpot long before celebrity chefs.’ Alumni of The Castle include just those: Phil Vickery and Gary Rhodes, the latter of whom ‘excelled in the brief’.

Chapman’s happiest times were at Heston Blumenthal OBE’s nearby ‘Fat Duck’ restaurant. ‘When I worked there as Chef de Partie from 2000, it was very different to today, with a menu of steak and chips and lemon tart.’ He also worked with founding father of modern British cooking, Rowley Leigh as Sous Chef at ‘Kensington Place’. Chapman describes his plated personality as ‘sitting between Rowley’s simple, gutsy, comforting food and Heston’s meticulous finesse’.

When Blumenthal seized the opportunity to revamp the 16th century, ‘Hind’s Head Hotel’, located within sight of The Fat Duck, Chapman was appointed to launch it. Motivated by ‘a once rich history, when distinguished regulars included the Queen and Prince Philip’, he set to work overhauling what had become a ‘drinker’s pub’ with Blumenthal’s ‘right hand man, Ashley’.

‘They were serving three covers on a Saturday from a filthy kitchen without a fresh ingredient in sight. It all had to go - the year’s worth of frozen desserts including ‘Razz Jazz’ cakes, deep-fried Brie wedges, Mornay jars... And we ripped up the bar carpet, thick with filth to reveal a beautiful parquet floor, which you see today.’ For the first month Chapman served ‘nothing but sandwiches’ whilst ‘testing dishes’. His characteristic patience paid-off. The pub was soon re-positioned as one of the UK’s finest, described by The Independent as ‘the sort of pub you dream about when you close your eyes, and think of England.’ Serving unfussed British fare with care, including shepherds pie and memorable chips, it was to become a blueprint for The Royal Oak - and an inspiration for the many vibrant imitators across the country.

Despite the fact that Blumenthal is yet to visit, Chapman considers him a friend. ‘I even took my wife, Helena on a ‘surprise date’ to his revamped Little Chef. Whilst she wasn’t impressed that I made a stopping point our destination, I loved it - particularly the braised ox cheeks.’

After a wispy pastry tart spun with ripe greengages and balanced by an electric acidity, Chapman showed me his kitchen. With echoes of Blumenthal’s set-up in Bray, we started in the workshop at the back, housed in a surprisingly Tardis-like shed. In the main kitchen, he paused to add water to a cauldron of veal stock several hours into its eight-hour simmering schedule. As I spotted an incongruous carved wooden horse on a shelf, Chapman smiled, explaining it as ‘my lucky mascot taken from The Hind’s Head.’

As with pubs like Marco Pierre White’s ‘Yew Tree Inn’ and Jamie Oliver’s parents’ ‘Cricketers’, I wondered whether Chapman intended to expand The Royal Oak. I was relieved to hear that he ‘absolutely does not - we don’t have a west end mentality here.’

Regardless, there is an element of glamour to Chapman’s work. ‘We did a seafood banquet for Russell Crowe featuring an ice carving of a clam.’ The feast for 60 also included a whole pig on a spit, then gushingly full chocolate éclairs, baked toffee apples, and what The Guardian Guide’s, Humayun Hussain described as a ‘legendary trifle.’

Does Chapman have any advice for wannabe chefs? ‘I tell mine to write everything down. Logging and tweaking is so important. That way I can see exactly what I was up to 15 years ago. You have to respect your past.’

And what of the future? Chapman believes there’s a lot more to achieve at The Royal Oak. He describes owner Nick Parkinson as being ‘like a Producer - we talk every day, and after rubber-stamping my plans, he lets me get on with it. I want to bake sourdough next and invest in a better Salamander grill.’

Whilst not ‘a fame seeker’, Chapman has undoubtedly had a great year critically, finally stepping out of the shadow of illustrious mentor, Heston Blumenthal, and celebrity patron, Michael Parkinson. He does not however cook ‘to please the guides’ keeping his feet firmly on the ground. ‘You’re only as good as your last meal and I’m very happy to continue on this tack, taking a hell of a lot of care. But even though we’re busy, I still take time out to think creatively.’

Also, look out for the literary fruits born of all that meticulous logging. Whilst Dominic’s father is perhaps best known for his revealing tome about the day in the life of an hotelier, ‘The Innkeeper’s Diary’, Chapman acknowledges an inherited yearning to communicate, getting closer every day to penning a major ‘culinography’…

THE ROYAL OAK: Paley Street, Maidenhead. SL6 3JN
FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Printing Palates with Fire & Knives

Renowned food writer, broadcaster and photographer Tim Hayward on the launch of new quarterly, ‘Fire & Knives’ - ‘new writing for food lovers’...

A new print title - are you mad, Tim?
I’m pretty sure I’m sane. Firstly, everyone this is targetted at is a food lover with a bookshelf. Secondly, I used to think that content wanted to be free, but I’m increasingly convinced it was kidding itself and trying to be hip. What content really wants is to be made into a beautiful and seemly object and appreciated by people who love that sort of thing. Thirdly, as a non-profit operation we have two audiences here, readers and contributors. As long as both those groups still love and respect the printed word, that’s the way we’ll go.

How long has this project been in gestation?

A couple of years ago I began to realise that most food writers I knew weren’t getting the stuff they wanted to write commissioned. At the same time most food lovers I knew were complaining that food writing in the mainstream was becoming more and more lifestyle focussed so they couldn’t find the stuff they wanted to read. A year ago I met some people who had backgrounds in small circulation magazines and ‘zines and I realised a magazine might be economically doable if it avoided advertising, stayed print only and non-profit.

The big surprise, and I suppose the final motivating factor for launching, was the recession and the situation in magazine publishing. At least one or two food titles will go to the wall and others will be forced to compromise on quality and drive to broaden their audiences - so the quality void into which we’re launching just gets bigger and bigger.

What has been the response of your peers and loved ones, and if negative, do you really care?

Other writers have been universally positive, chipping in great work for no fee and generally being supportive about the whole thing. Readers and the online community have been nothing but encouraging and helpful. By far the main response has been ‘about bloody time’ or ‘thank God...’ which, in terms of positive initial research response, is to say the least, reassuring.

Do you feel the shift of publications onto the internet represents a loss of texture?

Utterly. I’m sitting here typing this in a leather chair, surrounded by real printy books. I could tell you what that smells like and the deep feeling of calm it imparts... but you already know that.

Don’t get me wrong... I love the geeksphere in all its forms but it’s not how I enjoy taking my recreational reading.

Part of your remit is to showcase new talent. How large a part will this be?

Huge. I’m working with writers at all sorts of levels here... hell we’ve got Elizabeth David, Matt Fort and Tom Parker-Bowles in the first edition... but I’m also working closely with some online writers to help bring them into some of their first ‘dead-tree’ work. I can’t give you a percentage split but I would make one point: if one was looking for the next M.F.K. Fisher putting out her first tentative pieces, it would be no good looking in the pages of Vogue like it was back in the day – she’s going to be a blogger.

What do you think of the way traditional media treats so-called emerging writers?

They are so scared and confused at the moment, at every level of the traditional media, that all bets are off.

Have you had to remortgage to fund this, or is there a benevolent backer behind the scenes?

No backers, I’m afraid. But it doesn’t cost as much as you might think and subscriptions do cover print and production costs.

Do you really think it can sustain a domestic focus?

I really believe our own food culture is rich enough to sustain a magazine. This doesn’t mean it’s all about pie & mash – I’ve just commissioned a piece on a Bengali women’s allotment group - it just means I’m heartily bored of food writing that’s all about one’s agreeable summer place in Umbria and how we simply can’t grow decent fruit and veg here. It’s time we grew up and realised that we’re not, as the British middle class seem to believe, a Mediterranean country, shifted to these latitudes by an unkindly tectonic upheaval. If we persist in judging our food by the availability of ingredients for an authentic bouillabaise and the redness of our peppers, it’s no wonder we’ve had an inferiority complex for so long. I spent two weeks in Provence this year looking for a decent kipper - not a one to be found! By that standard French food is bloody useless.

Is this an antidote to egotistically scribed restaurant reviews?

Restaurant reviews are great. Other places do them really well. I just wanted to detach us entirely from the ‘conspicuous’ part of consumption.

Looking at your front page, is the tone set to be a dash Chapesque?

Not intentionally. We took our design cues from several diverse sources: Wartime Min. of Food pamphlets, fifties food packaging, old Penguin covers, diner graphics, art-deco bottle labels, woodcuts in old cookbooks - stuff we loved. The designers at Present Joys came back with this and we’re thrilled. I love the way that logo would fit just as well on a 1942 pamphlet on jam making, a pack of cheap American bacon in 1963 or a pop-up restaurant in Hoxton. Actually I’m looking at designs for branded aprons today and that logo just looks great on everything. I suppose there’s an element of retro - but then any discussion of food culture has to include a large helping of history so maybe that’s no bad thing.

I always enjoyed The Chap - they were a great example of what specialist interest publishing could do back then - but I wouldn’t like to head down that predominantly male cul-de-sac. That said, what defines modern British food lovers is a developing pride in our culture, the conviction that there's a proper way to do things and the unfashionable belief that those are worthy subjects for intelligent discourse. If that’s Chappy then I’m proud to stick by it.

Who came up with the inspiration for the rather sensationalist title, ‘Fire & Knives’?

Sensationalist? Oh dear. Me, I’m afraid. Cooking in a diner in San Francisco in the eighties, I spent a drunken night with an unsuitable waitress talking about the restaurant we’d open if we ever had the money. She said we should name it after what made us so excited about food... I said ‘the fire and knives’ and it’s stuck in my mind ever since. I might still open it one day.

And finally, what features might we expect in issue one?

Oooh, lots. We have a previously unpublished manuscript from Elizabeth David - a marvellously acerbic review of Fanny Cradock. The lovely thing is that you'll be able to see exactly how she wrote it, long before word processors. The incredible passion in the strikings through and scrubbings out. Tom Parker-Bowles has the most astonishing collection of old cookbooks - one of the best I’ve seen - so he'll be telling us about the importance of the older books in revitalising our food culture. Matt Fort is writing about defining Britishness in cooking. We have social history of the dinner party; a brilliantly surreal short story. We’ve sent a club fashion photographer to do combat shots in a pop-up; an impassioned lament for the endangered Thermos; something on tobacco as a flavouring. It’s packed with loads of that sort of thing. I estimate if you get it in November you’ll still be reading it in the new year. Oh, and a film critic has discovered the most food obsessed movie ever... and it’s none of the ones you're thinking of…

A subscription to ‘Fire & Knives’ may be purchased online: http://www.fireandknives.com/ (£20 per year)
You can follow the publication on Twitter and Facebook

Bars to Bibendum

WHAT an odd day yesterday turned out to be. I had a good lunch at her Majesty’s pleasure in a restaurant behind bars (which ironically turned out not to have one) followed by black tie dinner and dance in Europe’s largest ballroom. For the latter, I was guest of Dan Coward, not only the alleged great nephew of Noel Coward, but marketing man behind uber-indie, Bibendum Wines (see his blog). The occasion: the 26th annual IWC (International Wine Challenge) awards, apparently broadcast to 389million worldwide. Alas, amidst an almost bruising amount of clapping, Bibendum proved to be a bridesmaid when it came to official recognition. But stakes were high. For example, turning the judges heads for the Corporate Social Responsibility category, the Co-op had built an actual school...

Our table included Bibendum’s directors, one of whom took a final month’s salary in wine at another firm and panniers of interesting bottles. My favourite was Calera’s Ryan Vineyard ‘05 from Mount Harlan. Despite his belief that all roads lead to the Rhône, Coward and I loved this limestone grown, Californian Pinot Noir. Made by the tennis loving, Versace obsessed, Josh Jensen, like a limbo dancer, it avoided reaching too much alcoholic heat.

Named IWC Personality of the Year, writer and broadcaster Oz Clarke proved the most riveting speaker, promoting what has become an un-PC message: wine is pleasure. Clarke said, ‘I’m fed up with being told alcohol is not about getting lit-up…in our Big Adventure, the hairy one [James May] and I tried to recruit new consumers.’

For more information, including the results, see: http://www.internationalwinechallenge.com

Champagne for my Sham Friends; Real Pain for my Real Friends

I RECENTLY had breakfast with Walter Speller at Soho culinary playpen, ‘Bob Bob Ricard’. In my opinion, Speller is one of the wine trade’s most passionate story-tellers (see, and subscribe to, his polemical blog, ‘Sucking Grapes’, motto of which is ‘opinions against tunnel vision’).

Financed by at least one Russian oligarch, and structured by the same interior designer as nearby Grand Café, ‘The Wolseley’, Ricard represents an altogether more fussy attempt at facsimile.

Unfortunately, despite an enthusiastic chef poached from the glory days of Sir T’s ‘Pont de la Tour’, it pails...

From a beautiful, Quink-ink kitchen, we endured a rubbery ‘breakfast soufflé’, a study at congealed Eggs Benedict and an unacceptably greasy, bad bhaji-like bubble and squeak – a costly trio that failed to live up to the decadently-inclined décor. Sweetened orange juice was annoyingly cloying and coffee bore parity with dredged fenland riverbed.

Even if the early morning fare had been fine, the empty room was ill-conceived. Sheer, thickly-curtained booths are modelled on old-fashioned railway cars, seating quads or fewer. Unlike the lofty Picadilly venue, forget that curious sport of ‘sleb spotting’, therefore. And perhaps more distressingly, whilst table-top toasters were a cute touch, those much wrtiten about ‘press for Champagne’ buttons solicited zero response before midday. In an opulent venue, I expected decadence to be served around the clock...

BOB BOB RICARD: 1 Upper James St., Soho, London. W1F 9DF

The Time is Sprite

CHEF Roy Brett is so excited by his latest venture that he can hardly sleep. Named ‘Ondine’ after the water sprite who marries a mortal in Sir Frederick Ashton’s ballet, the 80 plus cover seafood bar and restaurant opens soon. Neighbour to the first haute couture hotel from ‘Missoni’, it has striking, wraparound views of Edinburgh’s old town through plate glass.

Amidst the piercing sound of a jigsaw and a frenetic squad of operatives, Brett took me on a preview tour, starting in the kitchen of course. Having been described by fellow chefs as ‘old school’, I was unsurprised to see the final trim added to the impeccably tiled walls - ‘preferable than plastic panels’. More couth than an afterthought portable radio, a thick wire rig is part of the Bose sound system Brett intends to ‘keep my chefs happy’. Considering the hotel has meeting rooms above, a vast extraction hood has been designed to operate as quietly as possible. Despite the fact that its application to Brett’s menu is yet to be defined, he joked that his slow cooking, water bath will be ‘good for my feet.’

A contemporary of Mark Hix, who taught him the beauty of a simple plate, Brett has spent 23 years in the business, most recently as chef director for high profile hotelier, ‘Dakota’. For ‘The Grill’ at Forth Bridge he won Best Seafood Restaurant in Scotland, simultaneously achieving Scotland’s Hotel Chef of the Year. He previously oversaw Rick Stein’s operations in Padstow, Cornwall.

Drawing on ‘the best larder in the world’, offerings will range from humble but impeccable fish and chips to lavish monkfish tail curry for two, lobster Thermidor and what has in other venues become a ‘legendary’ offering, the fruits of the sea platter. Inspired by a recent holiday to Sicily, dishes such as gnochetti, fresh grilled octopus and sea urchin spaghetti will also appear. Fish will be served head-on unless otherwise requested. Suppliers include fourth generation fishmonger, Gary Welsh amongst a network of ‘little stars’ known closely to Brett.

In the dining room, a mural inspired by Rupert Murray’s film, ‘The End of The Line’ will adorn one of the few expanses without windows. Emphasising Brett’s lack of pretence, tables will be left unclothed, with a wide, horseshoe shaped counter inspired by Le Caprice and J. Sheekey ensuring that there are only good views for bar diners.

Brett is extremely upbeat, believing that his philosophy of child friendliness, micro sourcing and sustainability, and all-day versatility offers something different for Scotland’s capital city. ‘Ondine’ also signals his confidence in a country which he loves so much that he even admits to have ‘missed the wind and rain’ when in Cornwall with Stein…

ONDINE: George IV Bridge, Edinburgh (open 7 days/week, mid September)

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Following Fleet

TWO foraging carnivores have modestly gentrified Clerkenwell’s ‘Coach & Horses’ into gastropub territory. However rather than tick box diners expectant of Michelin frippery alongside a beer garden / sprog storage pen, it now draws genuinely hungry foodies craving good value, hearty quality.

With a cellar strung with home-cured frankfurters of intimidating proportions, head chef Henry Herbert practically interprets the business of serving up local food. When I met him after my long lunch, the fourth generation baker was popping out to pillage skips for components to make a smoker. My companion, who waitressed here in leaner moments mentioned that Herbert often heads to Oval to pluck crab apples from his ‘favourite tree’, blackberries from Hampstead Heath, or even Epping Forest mushrooms…

With best friend and baking alumni, Anthony Smith, the 22 year-old has put together an enticingly edible and unfussed menu. Dishes are divided into £4, £6 and £8 brackets with a £10 special and modest drinks offers. We painted the table, tapas-style.

For fans of Brett Graham’s venison version at southwest London’s ‘Harwood Arms’, I recommend a pilgrimage for Herbert’s supremely rich Scotch egg with mustard. The finely spiced, thickly spun, pink sausage meat cocooned a molten core. Close pressed rabbit rillette with cornichons dissolved on entry. Being in bounty, beetroot salad with marinated shallots and fluffy goat curd left an inky trace on the plate, and a sugary-citric finish on the palate. But the star was the whole mackerel, torpedo shaped and overlapping the dish. It came with nutty new potatoes and a scatter of samphire.

In addition to a good range of beers, owners Giles and Colette Webster have crafted an engaging and amusingly annotated wine list, including pretty reds served from the fridge. La Giaretta’s ‘Volpare’, a largely tannin free Valpolicella, dared to have more strawberry, cherry and vegetal flavours than the normal supermarket swill, ‘going with everything, jarring with nothing’.

Daringly ripe Langres, Tomme Crayeuse, Etivaz and Crosier Blue came from esteemed ‘affineur’, Jon Thrupp who is frequently seen at Borough Market.

From bear bating to baking, predictably all breads were excellent, especially the sweetened rye bread, apparently inspired by chef Richard Corrigan’s recipe, although far lighter.

Despite being amongst some of the capital’s most esteemed gastropubs and so nerve-rackingly close to the buried River Fleet that in parts you can hear it, the Coach & Horses holds its own. I plan to return to sample urgently sautéed duck hearts, pistachio and prune terrine with blackthorn jelly and veal shank pie...

COACH & HORSES: 26-28 Ray St., Clerkenwell, London. EC1 3DJ

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Pictured today: a good lunch at The Ledbury followed by miscreant behaviour near Portobello Market.

Taking a shot at The Glorious Twelfth

THE taunting grouse cries of ‘goback, goback, goback ’ preceded a whirring of wings. Clad in smart tweed camouflage, our tightly structured line halted, raised shotguns to our shoulders, took aim and fired. With a whiff of sulphur, the detonations briefly shattered the peace of the valley. As a beaten pillow, clouds of feathers fluttered to the heather floor, scorched for cover and looking like petrified seaweed. Exchanging 18 hours on his feet in the kitchens for a day on the moors, South African Chef, Pete Gottgens almost casually scored three grouse with two shots. Adrenaline pumping, I got one – not bad for a first timer. With his 83 year-old father looking on, third generation gamekeeper, Ally sent in his black retriever, approved the birds, then anointed our foreheads with their still warm blood.

With the aim of shooting, plucking and of course eating red grouse in time for lunch on the first day of the four month season - the ‘Glorious Twelfth’ of August - I had come in a prowling Land Rover to the magnificent Ardtalnaig Estate. Located off the shores of Loch Tay in Perth and Kinross, these beautifully humbling 8,500 acres were transferred into Gottgens’ tenure just one month before. In addition to a network of tenant farmers and a full time ‘forager’, the acquisition not only secures Ally’s future, but also provides a supply of lamb, game, beef and berries to Gottgens’ Eden, the Ardeonaig Hotel.

Along with his English wife, Sara, Pete rejuvenated this once lowly inn into a television-free retreat, bringing a South African influence to Scotland’s natural charms. Springbok hides, inner cow tusks, a personal library and family photos warm a buttermilk décor. Luxurious colonial style thatched cottages (or ‘rondawels’) dot the grounds besides a burn. Pete’s cooking is gutsy but precise, showing off his beloved Plancha grill’s versatility.

Before being lured to the highlands by scenery reminiscent of South Africa, the enviable proximity to tantalising ingredients and a bloodline to his Scottish great grandmother, Gottgens opened four restaurants in London. These included the ‘Springbok Café’, where a fortuitous meeting with Nelson Mandela ensured he went on to cater the President’s state dinners. The evergreen favourite, a molten chocolate miele pudding, bears testament. Another restaurant was the much-admired ‘Fish Hoek’. To raise its deposit, with only ten days notice, he accepted the challenge from which other caterers had fled: to mastermind a South African barbecue (or ‘Braai’) for 35,000 on London’s south bank. Despite not sleeping for 100 hours, the ardent supporter of military service and son of South Africa’s first five star hotelier pulled it off, directing a brigade of 120. Amongst the migraine inducing logistics, 30 machines ran flat out to press ten tonnes of ripe South African oranges.

These days ‘nothing’ would tempt Gottgens back to the big smoke. At the estate’s cosy bothy, so remote and free from distractions including electricity that an author has already bagged it for winter writing, the cream of Pete’s kitchen and front of house laid out a decadently un-bothy like feast on linen. Even modest lettuce became compelling in this setting, flawlessly grown from the hotel’s edible gardens by an extremely sited vineyard of hardy American vines. Young Maris Peer potatoes the size of thumbs had ivory centres. Game pie was moist with brittle pastry and game terrine expertly layered and almost ravishingly succulent. Trout fished from the rippling silver loch beside the hotel was subtly but profoundly smoked. Drizzled with Saxenberg olive oil, a salad of tomato and fennel was uplifting. But our grouses provided the main act.

Bypassing the need to pluck them, Pete removed their breasts, frying them in a pan of pomace oil (hot pressed olive oil) just long enough to seal them before allowing them to rest for 8-10 minutes. The livers were fried with shallots, brandy and fresh thyme until soft. The mixture was then ground by pestle and mortar (there being no electricity for a blender) and painted onto slices of toast. With the meat placed on top, these absorbed the succulent juices. Served with estate vegetables, it proved supremely tender, tasting of light, sweetened liver. Deeply musky Scottish Chanterelles the colour of wood shavings drew out brisk, moorland flavours.

As my teeth easily sunk through such extraordinarily fresh morsels, a fellow journalist from ‘The Scottish Field’ asked me if I had experienced guilt when I shot ‘my’ bird. I hadn’t. Aside from bringing economic benefits to a remote region, I saw the shoot as death in the name of dinner rather than dalliance, whilst respecting the rules laid down by the historic Game Act of 1831. And rather than having it easy, instead of seeing tame specimens beaten to the air, we had actively stalked our prey with no guarantee of ever encountering a bird.

Until his Scottish vineyard matures, Pete only serves bottles from home. From his cellar, which I am told is the largest South African stash in the U.K., a rested, but still tangibly fruit driven eight year-old Shiraz, Pinotage and Merlot in equal proportions (Quoin Rock) bevelled the meat with fine, crisp tannins.

Through words on a page, it is hard to convey what a wonderful lunch it was, especially considering that only a few days before, the bothy had been almost uninhabitable, its floorboards torn up and burnt by careless walkers. Having stalked (and occasionally sunk into) the carefully managed larder where the revered red grouse was reared, protected from ticks, worms and, most devastatingly, golden eagle predators with six-foot wingspans - they must be distracted with pigeon decoys - a gratifying thought entered my mind. In convivial surroundings, we may have tasted the first grouse of the year. I bet its flesh tasted sweeter here than in a dark Mayfair dining room where restaurateurs could charge over a £1000 a bird at dinner that night.

After jubilee strawberries and a wee Scotch snifter, we blasted clays (my aim seemed improved), took tea with blonde scones plastered with intense homemade jams, rescued a sheep struggling to cross a burn, and went on to enjoy a tin drum barbecue.

The inaugural Ardeonaig Festival of Food and Wine takes place 15-18 October. See: www.ardeonaighotel.co.uk

For the very best of Scotland in autumn, visit: www.visitscotland.com/autumn

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

'#lanima'

IN the frame, wine writer Jamie Goode and I make our pitch to voters for the L'Anima Wine Challenge '09.

You can see films from our competitors and cast your vote (for us, please!) HERE. Winners will be announced on Thursday.

Hash (Tags) and Alcohol

AS a ‘friend’ of the city’s most stylish Italian restaurant, ‘L’Anima’ (I interviewed chef Francesco Mazzei for The Guardian) I have agreed to take part in an interactive wine tasting tomorrow afternoon. The premise of sommelier, Gal Zohar: to democratise part of his selection process using a bit of theatre from ‘experts’ who taste and talk through decadent bottles, followed by a public vote.

Zohar explains: ‘There are hundreds of wines that could justify their place on our list, but only so many we can put on at once. It seemed appropriate, therefore, to allow those of you who are interested in these great wines to help me select those that should be given a chance. Through the power of social media - blogging, Twitter, Facebook and beyond, we want to ask you to help us choose three of the wines that deserve a place...’

As some of you may be aware, I have had my share of ups and downs with Twitter. In contrast to his pal, Stephen Fry, I often crave what Hugh Laurie terms more of a ‘hush existence’ over the need to blather on via this medium. Regardless, even if only for me, tomorrow’s event looks fun and despite criticisms of it being ‘nonsense’ and ‘a PR guff’, quite innocently (and intelligently) devised.

So, if you can be motivated, follow the port-nosed, gout-edged, tannin lipped panel on Twitter from 3pm tomorrow - Gal Zohar (@zoharwine), Dan Coward (@bibendumwine), Jamie Goode (@jamiegoode), Anthony Rose (@antrose33), Denise Medrano (@thewinesleuth) and of course me (@douglas_blyde). And the umbrella 'hash' tag, which can never be as exciting as the term sounds, is: #lanima.

For more information including the liquid line-up: L’Anima’s blog.

On-Site Parking

BYPASSING a stalled lift, the mirror of which was scrawled with ‘Heaven’, I took a deep breath of ammonia infused air and crept up a ramp through dark, hellish gates.

On one of the wettest evenings outside a rainforest, I had come to ‘Bold Tendencies’, the third summer showcase from the local but far-reaching, ‘Hannah Barry’ gallery. Through sculptures, lighting and curious sounds, the otherwise derelict top tiers of a Peckham car park have been transformed into polished decay and dreamy decadence.

Architecture graduates, Lettice Drake and Paloma Gormley (daughter of Anthony Gormley OBE) took two months to build the star of the show. For the first time in the short history of this annual exhibition, the result is an amusingly titled pop-up restaurant, ‘Frank’s Café and Campari Bar’. Sturdy but tactile, its timber counter and communal tables are tinted in the cochineal tones of the famous bitters by a tarpaulin awning. Stretching over and under the tenth floor deck, securing straps were put to the test by a downpour so torrential that London’s landmarks melted into the mist. Armed with hope and broom-handles, dedicated staff prodded away the most threatening bulges pooling above us.

Orchestrating the show are two south Londoners in their early twenties. Lending it his name, Frank Boxer (who is actually lanky) trained as bar manager at arguably the city’s most famous gastropub, the ‘Anchor & Hope’. He is joined by Mike Davies, a former grapefruit cell plucker at the ‘Fat Duck’ restaurant, although from what I sampled at these dizzy heights, he appeared more inspired by his time spent working under architect turned chef, Fergus Henderson at ‘St. JOHN Bread & Wine’.

I like the idea that Boxer and Davies are reaping rewards from a drink devised by another precocious entrepreneur. Born in Lombardy in 1828, Gaspare Campari was already lauded as a master mixologist by age 14. In a sense, owing to the rapid popularity of his bitter aperitif - a blend of 60 herbs, spices, fruit peel and bark - Campari unified Italy before Giuseppe Garibaldi.

Describing our mission as ‘figuring out how much Campari is too much Campari’, my architect friend, who is placing the loos at the Olympic village, washed away the memory of her working day with Campari, Prosecco and a slice of orange. Adding more sweetness than the traditional soda splash, the wine’s delicate bubbles amplified the liqueur’s near medicinal aromas.

From a menu printed as a receipt then pinned to a board, luscious crabmeat overspilled lightly charred toast. Because of a ban on gas, from a more exciting breezeblock and steel drum trough belting heat from the coals, diced ox heart was surprisingly tender and crisply spun into a well-textured salad. Simply served, sardines which might have cut down food miles by swimming here in this weather, had char-brittle skin and plump, moist flesh. With homemade crumbly date and pecan cake and roughly churned but spectacular strawberry ice cream, Frank prescribed the classic Negroni. Alas, this sticky concoction of gin, sweet vermouth and bitters proved that cake and Campari are not the best bedfellows.

After a visit to a potentially embarrassing open plan loo with a view, it was time to give up our space for a burgeoning party of Frenchmen. Beginning a waterlogged decent, with ample bitters surging my bloodstream, I nearly tripped over the wires supporting a piece entitled the ‘State of Restoration’. A sign, I suppose that I had found out how much Campari was too much Campari. Despite, or perhaps because of, the melodramatic weather, taking refuge under the bright red canopy amidst cosy smoke, it had been an enchanting evening. If you find the surreal fantastic and the bitter beautiful, be sure to pop up to this pop up before it resorts to a tramps’ hotel, end of September.

Frank’s accepts cash only.

FRANK'S: 10th floor, Peckham multi-storey, Rye Lane, Peckham. SE15 4ST

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

A Shucking Tradition

THERE exist almost untouchable restaurants. ‘Institutions’ protected by the armour of tradition and gilt-edge of hearsay. From stuffy old piles with threadbare edges to dinky dens run by unpredictable proprietors. I predict that the critic controversial enough to pour vitriol over such endearingly eccentric eateries would encounter a barrage of public hatred similar to a commissioning editor keen to cull ‘The Archers’.

But there is not, thank God, a need to deploy an arsenal of abusive adjectives towards what might qualify as one of the world’s most discovered ‘hidden gems’, ‘Wheelers of Whitstable’. And be that just as well, because the Wheelers name has already suffered enough tribulations…

Dating from 1856, this small, sugary pink stack on the ‘pearl of Kent’s’ chocolate box High Street represents the original and sole survivor of what was once a seven-strong chain - its Chairman, in fact, was born upstairs. Alas in the mid (19)90’s this noble cluster of fishy eateries found itself volleyed between Forte and Granada in a classic game of takeover tennis. At one point someone even raised the idea of renaming them ‘Pish’ – a humiliation which was thankfully cast out. As others were fractured, the final version outside Whitstable – Wheelers of St. James – landed in the hands of renaissance man, Marco Pierre White, whose most likely well-intentioned plan to roll out several more proved rather short-lived.

To secure a sitting at 1pm, 3pm or 5pm at the Formica counter, or past a curtain, the demob-demure dining room, you must be dogged. I tried for months, finally capturing a cancellation with hours to spare.With my name firmly scored from the shambolic looking diary, my friend and I took seats on shamrock lino beneath a slippery looking, gloss painted ceiling. The ill-lit space felt full despite there being just ten more diners. The décor includes a clock, inexplicably frozen at a quarter to one and, perching the mantelpiece, an illuminated ornament of a ship’s wheel turned aquarium. Above the door to the kitchen which was plastered with books, a handwritten sign advised (I presumed without irony) that ‘you don’t have to be mad to work here, but…’ (I’ll let you fill in the blanks).As it’s bring your own, with no charge for corkage, we borrowed a corkscrew from what turned out to be a regular of five times. Ordering from the plastic sheathed, ‘lighter menu’ (in both price and protein) we started with protected origin, Whitstable rocks, famous since Roman times, served from half-shells which looked almost as ancient. Benefitting from the sheer drop in tide and warmish waters, served naked and also in Guinness batter the soft, plump, specimens proved a wonderful fix to an oyster addict like me. From £4.25 for six, they’re keenly priced for a restaurant, although I spotted stalls outside shucking them for as little as 40p each. That means for £400, you could work your way through 1,000 over a long weekend. What a wonderful challenge, but ladies: beware!A glass bowl of eels primped in aspic melted away to their bony cores. Crisp goujons of flounder, a rather bland fish known for its appearance in Grimm’s fairy tales and its preference for ‘sandy and muddy bottoms’ were good enough here to warrant two portions. Looking like dyed and lacquered trofie pasta, salty samphire strands were tangy, pert and moreish.A platter of the usual cast of crustaceans – cockles, whelks, crab and prawns – was a little let down by limp, crudely over smoked mussels. And being shelled already, much of the handy pleasure had been removed. For now, the award for the most sexy fruits de mer platter is still retained by ‘Fish Works’ in my mind.As the bells of the phone began to ring, bringing the promise of umpteen more reservation requests, we ended on a sugar high which provoked sugar shakes – an obscenely decadent, cherry and cream layered sundae with spun sugar spikes.Presided over by an unlikely mine host whose firm but I suppose fair attitude reminded me of the forceful character from ‘Brief Encounter’s’ refreshment room, we had enjoyed our cheapish, earthy couple of hours. It was a hot day, which affected my appetite. When I return some wintry day, breath condensing, I will be sure to sample what look like confidently cooked mains, including the vastly decadent lobster Thermidor.During a waterfront stroll, looking towards imposing but eerie, currently derelict sea forts, my friend, who is foreign, asked me why, in the absence of a proper beach, the English persist at ‘sitting at mud’. I tried to counter with tales of this maritime nation’s great nautical tradition, although I won little ground. Nearby a local man, whose father was an oysterman, attempted to wean his two and a half year-old daughter onto oysters. Despite spitting her first attempt to shore, with the sort of smile that only a father can form, he proudly confirmed that she ‘sort of liked it...’

Wheelers accepts cash only.

WHEELERS: 8 High Street, Whitstable, Kent. CT5 1BQ. T. 01227 273311

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Cultured Milk: ‘Frae’

Rather than silver spoons, two Glaswegian entrepreneurs were seemingly born with biodegradable starch ones in their mouths...

ISLINGTON’S bazaar lined Camden Passage boasts a new foodie attraction: a parlour purveying swirls and smoothies blended from frozen yoghurt. Meaning ‘from’ in Glaswegian, ‘Frae’ was founded by two university friends born and raised in Scotland’s largest city. The 27 year-olds drew inspiration from watching Americans queue come sun, sleet or snow to sample ‘chilly bliss’ at ‘Pinkberry’, a Californian chain of yoghurt dispensaries. From west coast to east, that tasty American dream amassed almost 90 outlets in fewer than four years. Armed with a fighting fund gleaned from tedious city work, the duo adapted the concept, bringing back the promise of fat free decadence to Blighty.

Behind the Victorian frontage of this former wallpaper shop, the result is a small but sparkling cabin of whitewashed brick walls sandwiched between a floor and ceiling of basic blonde ply. Boldly coloured Dan Flavin strips stylishly echo the hues of the Scotch thistle. Seating is the colour of elephant skin and bar stools are moulded dayglo. Music is modish ‘60’s rock.
Yoghurt from a secret farm is kept fluffy, cool and crystal free in an impressive engine. Imported from Rockport, Massachusetts, where most residents apparently have generations of allegiance to the factory, ‘Daisy’ cost considerably more than the average British wage. But seeing as yoghurt can be ‘very temperamental to freeze’, she was a worthwhile investment, and, as initially botched efforts of my own revealed, eventually easy to use.

Combined with a choice of 18 additions, including spicy Goji berries, daily fresh fruits from Covent Garden’s ‘Dave the fruit guy’, and wildly hedonistic chocolate from neighbours, Paul A. Young, the probiotic, calcium-rich base comes in two forms: surprisingly but palatably tangy pure (verging on citrus), or more textured, green tea leaf. Not that I count, nor even understand them, the actually ample, smallest serving starts at 70 calories.

Caught up in Martyn and Donald’s enthusiasm, I ingested a lot of the white stuff on my visit. Blended from plain yoghurt, my Scottish strawberry and Oreo cookie smoothie was malty but uplifting. Out of a tub made from sustainable Scottish forest, I dug my biodegradable starch spoon into a fine, sandy textured, invigorating green tea base flecked with dark chocolate cubes. Unlike the tea, it didn’t evoke the tannic effect of a brewed ashtray. To follow, a Brazilian and Honduran espresso was an iron fist in a velvet glove. Such excellent coffee may in time be used to mimic the effect of an affogato.

Despite having opened barely eight weeks ago, celebrity fans are emerging, including comedian (and cook), Hardeep Singh Kohli.

Even amidst the first school holidays for the firm, children don’t seem to be the main market. Indeed, male singletons, take note: during the hour I visited, I glimpsed only beautiful young women, no doubt as much to do with the charming Scots as the paradoxically pure but pleasurable product. These included a teacher who knocks at the back door daily, demanding a frozen fix before they officially open, and an artist who titled a forthcoming addition to the menu - the ‘frae’ppuccino. In addition, staying open until midnight, Martyn and Donald have elegantly lured tipsy people from their kebab/pizza routine, which is benevolent because their wholesome frozen yoghurt makes an allegedly superb hangover cure…

Open daily for eat-in/take-away: 11am-Midnight

FRAE: 27 Camden Passage, Islington, London. N1 8EA

FOR: Foodepedia

À la Carte Doorbell Dining

HERE is a little food pornography showing how domestic restaurateur extraordinaire, Arno Rupert Maasdorp, spent his 'day off' yesterday - preparing a cornucopia of colourful dishes. He generously invited me along to an open house. Look closely at the strawberry salad.

...succulent slithers of beef on the bone with densely reduced five spice sauce, Portugese pork three (or was it four) ways with apricot jam; bacon and dates...

...a special brand of ultra ripe tomatoes with strawberries, nastertium leaves and balsamic syrup; meringue for banana 'Maasdorp' with creme fraiche, yoghurt and pulverised amaretti...

For a full review of 'The Saltoun Supper Club' from a civilian perspective, click HERE.

Edible Ethics

THE title of this restaurant worried me. Not only does it have ‘Carry On’ connotations, it also sounds like the title of a hellish, low budget, box-ticking sitcom.

Located in somewhat claustrophobic arches between Brighton’s ruined piers, one a listed wreck and the other a luminous palace of tat, this shabby-chic, fish-inclined restaurant won The Observer’s title of best seaside eatery a few years back. Contributing to the city’s annual surge of eight million tourists, I headed due south to ‘Due South’ interested to see whether the accolade still holds true today.

My friend and I arrived early enough to bag the best table in the house, which was topped by a thistle. Only bookable by couples who married in the restaurant (how one hopes they tied the knot for better reasons than that) it follows a large open window. A limp wire runs parallel, confirmed as a health and safety measure to prevent drunken kamikazes to the terrace below.

In my experience, from Brighton’s Lanes to the hard, noisy beach, diners must choose from three types of eatery: old oil tarnished fish and chips, worthily organic, ethically informed restaurants, or celebrity spin-offs, like Dermot O’Leary’s ‘Fishy Fishy’, which opened last month. With a menu spouting such gobblage as: ‘80% of our ingredients are supplied by independent businesses within a 35mile radius’, you can guess to which category Due South subscribes. Rather unlovely, filtered Brighton tap water comes in a blue flower-power bottle called ‘Life’; salad is biodynamic. Apparently, ‘the team remains convinced that food is special precisely because it isn’t available 365 days a year.’ Laudable, but heavy-handed, I wondered whether the team might also have a company song (complete with actions).

Joking aside, armed as ever with an all-encompassing appetite, I hoped that dining on ethics would mean nourishment, not punishment.

Chilled lobster and tomato consommé with snaky noodles and seedlings was fishy-fresh and woodsy. From well within the sourcing radius, a glass of pink came from students at Plumpton, currently England’s only winemaking college. Lip-smacking, with hints of slightly sour berries, it proved a good effort (A-) although my preference remains their cutely titled, ‘Dean’s Blush’ fizz.

Noting that this is a seaside, rather than exclusively seafood restaurant, from a named farm I chose lamb’s loin, gently pan roasted so still pink and moist, and cut into discs. These were edged with luscious fatty corners and served with perfectly braised lamb’s shoulder, briskly fresh peas and pea purée, and a breaded arrowhead of deep fried pork belly (standing-in for the advertised tongue). A side order of evenly double-cooked chips, scattered with what one might presume is local sea salt proved crisp and cosy.

But pudding was far and away the most elegant course. A gold painted strawberry berthed on a squiggle of white chocolate and vanilla nudged a delicate, but discernible elderflower sorbet and gin scented jelly.

Overall - thank goodness - Due South proved that from a confident kitchen, do-goody, foody ethics need not taste wimpy. But from good taste to bad, there is another incentive for diners to visit. Such an overtly green establishment allows diners who might normally motor to supermarkets, bury plastic bags, and fly with abandon, to momentarily salve their carbon dense consciences…

DUE SOUTH: 139 Kings Road Arches, Brighton Beach. BN1 2FN
FOR: Foodepedia

From Roulette to Rillette

FROM working at Washington’s ‘Watergate’ to opening Las Vegas’ ‘Playboy Bunny’, Jacques Van Staden now has a new ambition. The Food and Beverage Vice President of ‘Celebrity Cruises’, a luxury fleet of ten leviathans, with three more on the way, intends his most upmarket restaurant on ‘Celebrity Equinox’ to be the first at sea to win a Michelin star. In advance of its naming, I made haste to Southampton to appraise the newest and most environmentally friendly cruise ship.

The American firm’s un credit-crunch spend of £700m is remarkably visible. At 1,033ft it stretches 150ft further than the Titanic and weighs-in at nearly double, although President, Dan Hanrahan was keen to point out that his captain is ‘much smarter about icebergs.’ Built over 19 months by a German yard dating to 1795, it took a further 19 fraught hours to edge out sea via the narrow River Ems, using tugs as antennae. The shimmering pleasure palace encompasses ten restaurants, a casino, theatre, clubs, pools and spas. Serving 2,850 passengers are 1,253 crew from 56 nationalities. To ensure smooth delivery of 12,000 meals a day from an almanac of 3,786 recipes, half of the brigade focuses on food. Overseeing all of this across every ship in the fleet, I was unsurprised to learn of Staden’s military background. Whilst an absence of markets and limited storage aboard must make it nigh on impossible to match quality terra firma, I harboured great expectations. ‘Murano’ is the pinnacle restaurant, confirmed by the butter. One of several subliminal messages, it is shaped as a pyramid, rising to make the point. Another concerns the silver condiments, so small as to seem unnecessary, although the perpetual lap of an outsize peppermill upsets such poise. However, instead of grinding me down, I forgave such eager service as symptomatic of a restaurant in its first days of business. As with Angela Hartnett’s Michelin starred restaurant in Mayfair, this moveable ‘Murano’ takes its name from the Venetian island famed for its glass. However, rather than Italian, the cuisine is haute French and instead of kitschy, brittle glass, the Adam Tihany designed neo-Edwardian décor is more moody panels, view blurring voiles, joltingly colourful Goddesses and sick camouflaging carpets. There is, I suppose enough glass blown on deck demonstrations near the real, lush lawn. When I waddled there after lunch, fast feeling at home, sipping Gin and Tonic on this Gin Palace, I discovered our national croquet team putting the world to rights. Declining the conviviality of the Chef’s table, a well-known critic booked in for a massage. Regardless, our ‘stylishly greedy’ group of journalists and competition winners embarked on a dozen of Staden’s favourite dishes with gusto. As punchy Maine lobster bisque was decanted from teapots, Staden explained how he buys them in container lots of 28,000. Such deathly decadence made me splutter.

A slightly jaded spinach spun stack bore musky rillette and ‘sunny side up’ hen’s egg. This was topped-out with a generous and successful chiselling of port preserved truffle. In an accurate observation which also gave insight into his quest for refinement, Staden thought a quail’s egg might work better.

A goat’s cheese and Parmesan soufflé pricked with basil pesto was remotely Roux-like but architecturally neater. Cooked foie gras from a black necked Canada goose (which I never before knew you could eat) tasted indistinguishable from the standard bird. It came with a tomato jam scented pancake of more rillette and sweet, roast ginger sauce. Whilst fine on its own, the latter rather sweetly over-gilded the lily, although a dab of kumquat marmalade scented Sauternes elegantly scythed through.

To counter the fact that meat must be frozen, Equinox was built with five-day ‘thawing rooms’, which convincingly revive food like the five-spice, crusted New Zealand venison loin. Ruddy, gamey and buttery, this was licked by a powerful, half-sweet sauce of crimson Lingonberry. I since learnt that Americans have such a fervour for this bitter, meat friendly, antioxidant berry, that stores like IKEA sell actual buckets of it in bucketloads. A heatwave ripened Brunello offset the slight bitterness. It came from winemaking elite, Marchese Piero Antinori – ‘a friend’ of Celebrity Cruises.

Alas, despite being shrouded in an attractive but masochistically complex potato net, Loup de Mer (i.e. sea bass) was not waving but drowning in grease.

A selection of reasonably – but not perfectly - maintained French cheeses were rinsed by single estate port made from the best of the crop of an unclassified year (Graham’s ‘96 Malvedos), although a slushy Roquefort ice cream later repeated. From six shot glasses set in a hollow tube, possibly blown by those by the lawn, ‘Les VI Etoiles du Murano’ proved the star dessert. My favourites were white chocolate and raspberry mousse (which tasted of Battenberg) and mint ice cream with, despite its frivolity, caramelised popcorn.

It had been an interesting meal, crisply presented and despite the gargantuan peppermill, professionally served. My first taste of cruise food (and possibly last for a few decades – I’m hardly their demographic) also revealed new ingredients - Canada goose, lingonberry and New Zealand venison. But I still left the chef’s table in a vague frame of mind. Perhaps, as Staden had mentioned, British customers really are the most difficult to please? Or perhaps my apathy was again a result of that tiresome tyre guide - cooking to their authorised shopping list in pursuit of an elusive listing. And to that effect, perhaps Staden will see his dream come true. Slaying 28,000 lobsters does, after all, make one hell of a statement.Equinox currently makes her maiden voyage to Norway’s Fjords, followed by a ‘Best of Europe’ itinerary: France, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Gibraltar then Rome. At the end of the summer, she crosses the Atlantic to homeport, Fort Lauderdale.

MURANO, Celebrity Equinox

FOR: Foodepedia

An Arran Adventure

TV PRESENTER turned ‘Godhead’, David Icke predicted that by Christmas 1991, great earthquakes would obliterate Cuba, Greece and the Isle of Arran. Despite evidence of volcanic activity some 60 million years ago, I am glad to report that my recent visit to what has been branded ‘Scotland in Miniature’ proved his prognosis ‘marginally faulty’.

I had fled the decadence and grit of capital life from City airport’s Americano-scented terminal. Compared to the barely disguised frenetic energy of well-fattened business bods hovering get richer boss porn in the bookshop, Arran provided a peaceful antidote. Located within the Firth of Clyde, between Ayrshire and Kintyre, the island of glens, golf and no grey squirrels is just 19 miles by 10. In summer, the population of 5,000, which is spread over 15 villages, swells to 20,000 – not that you’d ever feel in a crowd unless you attempted a purchase at the island’s busy toiletry firm, ‘Arran Aromatics’. Go there to inhale the sweet smell of success.

The varied landscape makes it a geographers paradise, attested to by web site, ‘Arran Fieldtrip’ which makes the catchy claim: ‘excellent composite intrusions display a suite of cogenetic, igneous rocks…’ Exactly. Sports fanatics can swing their clubs over seven golf courses (avoiding roe deer lawnmowers), or sea kayak, cycle and mountain trek. The most interesting of these protrusions vaguely mimics the image of a warrior sleeping on his back, whilst the highest, Goat Fell, meaning ‘Mountain of Wind’, rises to nearly 3,000ft. The latter was the scene of a gruesome murder in 1889 when, the story goes, a Scotsman and an Englishman went up a hill and only one came down alive...

Historians can explore pristine royal and artfully ruined castles, like Lochranza, which looks like a giant has bitten off its ramparts. Amongst the rowan trees and rhododendrons, there are Iron Age forts, Cairns and mysterious standing stones which David Icke might interpret as a cosmic ‘power-point’. Robert the Bruce allegedly waited out the dour winter of 1306 in the ‘King’s Caves’ after a devastating first year as King. Apparently he was so inspired by an inept spider’s indefatigable efforts to maintain a web against the slippery cave wall that he summoned resolve to continue his campaign against the English. No doubt he would turn in his cairn if he knew that 60p/c of Arran’s present day population is formed of those whom he secured independence from.

But aside from fells and forts, what is there for journalists?

‘20 years ago there were 42 pubs – now there are just 13’ advised taxi driver, George to our lively and curious press pack, gathered from all-over the U.K. including an Englishman, Irish(woman) and a Scotsman... Sensing disappointment, he added, ‘that’s including the ones in your hotel!’

We wound along the 13mile ‘string road’ from main town, Brodick where (sounding like an anti-seasickness pill) the ‘Calmac’ ferry had docked, towards Blackwater’s Best Western Kinloch Hotel. Palm trees grow here thanks to the same gulfstream that enabled exotic flora to flower in that great British horror, ‘The Wicker Man’. Rather than ‘Corn rigs and barley’ and ‘The Landlord’s Daughter’, noting breathtaking views towards the Mull of Kintyre, my inner stylus settled on Wings’ greatest hit, set to loop for the entirety of the three-night stay.

The following day, as others got wet and blistered sea-kayaking, I accompanied a young lady with a suspiciously timely fear of seaweed on a 2½ mile slalom of a walk through sweet smelling pines. We wove past Neolithic burial chambers towards one of the island’s most beautiful sights, the Glenashdale Falls. It was hardly Iguassu, but graceful nonetheless. Our guide, Martha, daughter of famous food writer Nichola Fletcher (‘Charlemagne’s Tablecloth: A Piquant History of Feasting’) revealed a nose for finding delicious, minty sorrel, which look like clover, and damp-loving, purple bilberries. At the gurgling basin at the top, I sipped the cool, dark peaty water, a vital ingredient for the drinks raised on the island.

Breaking a gap of 160 years, the stills of Arran’s only legal distillery were fired-up in June 1995. It would take another three years and a day for the barrel aged spirit to be technically recognised as Scotch. I was particularly impressed with their rich, cask strength (55%) ‘Sassicaia’ Wine Cask release – finished in barrels from Italy’s sexiest Super Tuscan wine.

Apparently, when the Queen came for the opening day, a pair of golden eagles, which nest nearby, did a fly past. Our kilted guide explained this as a thank you to builders forced to halt construction whilst chicks were hatched. When I asked where they were on our visit, he wryly offered to ‘get their remote control out’.Naturally filtered through granite, pure, plentiful water is drawn from Loch na Davie. Curiously, the most striking characteristic of its taste, peat, is considered undesirable, never making it into the finished product.

The owner of Arran’s brewery prefers the water exactly as it is. Whilst this young brewery was founded the same year as me (1980), beer has actually been made on the island for more than 4,000 years. I liked their nutty ‘Red Squirrel’, a special brew which raises funds to build ‘rope bridges’ for the rouge rodents. Rather wickedly, I wondered what effect a front-page photo-shopped image of a grey squirrel doing battle with a red would have on the local rag’s letters page.

Gastronomically speaking, whilst Arran rhymes with barren, the island has surmounted food as fuel and is a larder of game from the Glorious Twelfth, waxy Arran Chief potatoes, shaggy looking but hardy highland cows (or ‘coos’ as George put it), black and white face sheep living in harmony and fathoms of fish.

Good restaurants I encountered included the ‘Brodick Bar’ and ‘Wine Port’, owned by the same area man impresario who review sites describe as ‘exceptionally rude’ (although I found all staff disappointingly mild). From a blackboard menu, well-executed dishes rather exotically fused Mediterranean, Japanese and British genres with pretty touches like edible nasturtiums, although a décor seemingly constructed from squares became a tad tiresome.

The best and worst food moments occurred at what was the island’s busiest farm, since gentrified into a cute shopping site. To describe a couple of shivering operatives adding 13 flavours to imported Cheddar as a ‘Cheese Experience’ was perhaps an overstatement. But the medley of cooked seafood at ‘Creelers’, opposite, more than made up for it. This small fish restaurant with enthusiastic amateur paintings and murals is bolted onto a smokehouse. It gets its name from the creel cages used to catch what you crack.

From the Arran Chocolate Factory nearby (actually, nothing is ever far), I ate a large proportion of my weight in ‘tablet’, best defined as being like toffee, but not as chewy, and like fudge, but more grainy. A guide to the popular treat praised it as ‘a wee bit of heaven in an otherwise dreich country.’ Apart from Champagne and ginger truffles and the obligatory whisky centred ones, I found it amusing to see names born out of exasperation, e.g. ‘the raspberry one’.

After a rather sleepless night owing to George’s sombre tale of a headless ghost followed by a midnight walk, it was time to return. On the 50minute ferry journey back to one horse town Ardrossan on the mainland (it makes up to a dozen crossings a day), we passed the tiny Holy Island, currently owned and occupied by Lama, Yeshe Rinpoche. It took him almost a decade to raise the £350,000 needed to buy it (reduced from £1m) after receiving ‘instructions’ during ‘dream yoga’ to re-establish it as ‘a place of harmony’. Visitors are requested to follow ‘five golden rules’: refrain from killing, stealing, lying, intoxicants and sexual activity that causes harm. In other words, advertising executives aren’t welcome.

Noticing a fellow passenger from our group shell one from silver foil, which looked like lame, I was chided for not having ever tried a Tunnock's Chocolate Mallow quoit, made south of Glasgow. But as I put the biscuit-based, marshmallow-stuffed, chocolate-covered morsel into my mouth, I sensed a kilter in the ferry. ‘You’ve eaten so much you’re tilting the boat’ said a cool voice nearby.

Whilst convenient, flying back from Glasgow didn’t allow a gradual transition from island time back to London time. Watching the luggage carousel unfurl its cargo, initially evocative of a sushi belt, I did begin to miss Arran. It is true that we had been spoilt with splendid weather – that weekend almost all of the rest of the U.K. had received the pity of God’s tears. Regardless, even if there had been rain, I would still have appreciated the fresh, green beauty of an island remarkably unscarred by people, despite the fact that they have inhabited it for more than 10,000 years. Mr. Icke, I’m glad you were wrong.

FOR: Foodepedia

Fair Mayfair

WHEN spread, the pinkish orbs of Semplice’s menu resemble a g-stringed bottom. A curious detail to have slipped the attention of the posterior (oops, interior) designer responsible for rehabilitating London’s first ‘Spaghetti House’ into Michelin stardom. But beyond that interpretation, the dining room is a chic space in the seam of an upmarket boutique. A softly lit blend of piano grade ebony, tactile gold swirls, supple leather seating and thick, latté-coloured tablecloths.

After antipasti of milky buffalo mozzarella on ruby-red beef tomato, just a pizza Frisbee away at their new-ish ‘Trattoria’ (Semplice itself doesn’t have a bar), my friend, Matteo Inama and his winemaking father, Stefano (the unofficial ‘Kings of Soave’) settled in for the sort of stress-free lunch that explains why Italians lead such long lives. We talked about blood of the soil bottles, dwarves, and the legendary Italian eateries to have dotted London throughout its timeline.

Whilst others veered à la carte, with Tatler’s award of ‘best set lunch in London’ in mind, I was keen to exchange £22 to investigate. It included home baked bread, a glass of wine (although Inama’s greengage scented Classico would be in the Riedels today) and espresso ground from still moist beans. These come from artisan, Gianni Frasi, Italy’s most respected ‘torrefacteur’ (coffee roaster). Frasi chooses his outlets, then ‘tunes’ the machines, forcing a culture of freshness by only supplying a strict quantity at once. Incidentally, when encountering a batch considered just below par, he ordered it off the menu until the next delivery. If I had been there, the reject beans would have quickly entered my morning routine…

As the name suggests, Semplice is about (meticulous) simplicity. A generous starter of fat pappardelle was glossily spun with racing green baby spinach and earthy, springy chicken livers. Such an unequivocally peasant Italian effort ironically came from head chef Marco Torri’s Japanese sous chef. Despite their lobster plates, it warranted envious looks from my à la carte friends.

My main of grilled tuna was fleetingly seared, keeping a suggestion of the sanguine, licked by bright, tart olive oil and Sarawak pepper. It flaked to the touch, but still retained bite. To finish, whilst it could never grace the cover of Vogue on account of its casual presentation, my fruit tart with coconut ‘cream’ and mango ice cream was a charmingly soppy meeting of cool, sweet goo. Overall, considering the glamorous décor, clean ingredients and near telepathically anticipative service by Maître’d/co-owner, Giovanni Baldino (ex Locatelli), it was hard to find fault with Tatler’s title. It was, quite Semplice, a strikingly satisfactory lunch. But did such wholesome home-cooking really deliver enough to justify Michelin’s star?

I thought back to the recent Italian chef’s congress, ‘Identita London’, held at Vinopolis. There a new wave of chefs demonstrated a cuisine of evolution using principally Italian ingredients. Why, I wondered, do we so rarely (if ever) see a presentation-crisping overhaul in our Italian restaurants? Rather than advocate an elBulli approach likely to be badly copied, having lunched with a winemaker, it seems appropriate to use the vinous analogy of Super Tuscan wines, where an Italian classic is given a little ‘French polishing’. A sensitive spin where the original version is still recognisable. It seems that Britain’s Italians are experts at expat cooking, replicating, time and time again, Bella Italia’s greatest (rustic) hits. Whilst I enjoy this style of food, I wondered if the team behind Semplice were to launch another eatery, might it be more trailblazing? After Semplice Ristorante and Semplice Trattoria, why not embrace the opportunity with Semplice Futuro…

RISTORANTE SEMPLICE: 9-10 Blenheim St., London. W1S 1LJ
FOR: Foodepedia

The Wines of Inama

Afterwards, we tasted a cross-section of Stefano’s wines, although I needed plenty of water to cleanse Frasi’s incredibly long-lived coffee. The latest release of his Soave Classico (‘08), which often ranks as one of the Veneto’s best renditions was far beyond cash-cow supermarket swill delivering an emerald-flecked, almond scented soft and full textured palate of marzipan and minerals. His ‘07 Vigneti di Foscarino brought back memory of dessert with its lush nose of pineapple and a suave palate of coconut. Elegantly bevelled by oak it also had a greater acidic backbone. I’ve never been a fan of the Vulcaia Sauvignon, finding the ‘07 as austere as ever, but his Carmenère based ‘Piu’, made from the long-lost grape of Bordeaux, mistaken for many years as another variety, Cabernet Franc, echoed Frasi’s grounds. Aromas of coffee, controlled spice, violets and lipstick, with chewy, meaty tannins and a final freshness…

For more, see Jamie Goode’s web site.

Water Terroirists...

...beyond the question, ‘still or sparkling’

APART FROM being the basis for all known life, I have long harboured an interest in the nuances of H2O, visiting Buxton and Vittel’s bottling plants and Bath’s Roman Spa. I was thirsty, therefore, to drink-in the argument of recent ‘Best Sommelier in the World’, Andreas Larsson. The sharp-suited Swede was claiming that sipped in succession with wine, the minerals, texture and acidity of bottled waters could influence its feel and enjoyment. As the attraction celebrated its tenth anniversary, I went along to his ‘San Pellegrino’/‘Acqua Panna’ sponsored masterclass at London’s liquid theme park, ‘Vinopolis’.

Despite criticisms by The Times’ restaurant critic, A.A. Gill, who described it as ‘a great patriotic lie…seductive for fascists and the Soil Association’, with bars taking its name, and a growing interest in sourcing, it has become useful and fashionable to describe mineral water in terms of ‘terroir’ – flavour in geography.

Facing three glasses of water and four of wine, we began by nosing San Pellegrino, drawn from Bergamo limestone. Filled one third full, the stylish glass was thin and stemless, to allow a little warmth to transfer from hand to liquid. Larsson said that this not only helps ‘make scents’ but ‘cold fluids aren’t good for us’ anyway. With the upmost sincerity, he asked the room of journalists, PRs and sommeliers, ‘what comes to mind?’ The aromas seemed so anonymous that I closed my eyes in concentration. When no one answered, he almost blew the word into the air, ‘Purity!’

Thankfully, things became easier on the palate. I noticed bite and acidity at the sides of my tongue, and plenty of sensations from the periodic table. Chalk, calcium, a hint of granite? Romantically, I briefly glimpsed Cartizze Prosecco. And there was a plume of bubbles – the ‘perlage’ – tiny bullets with creamy centres. This being a relatively ‘full-bodied’ style, Larsson advised that it sips best with, and scythes through, beef, risotto and creamy pasta.

Up next, I drew air through sister brand, Panna, an uncarbonated water percolated through the sandstone and clay of the Apennines above Florence. With less acidity, Larsson found its finish shorter, although to me it was much longer: the bubbles of Pellegrino seemed to curtail its own finish. Despite a less expressive minerality, Larsson said this gentler style works in harmony with cuisines where you might drink a nervy Chablis – real carpaccio, oysters on the half shell and white meats like veal. It is a water ideal for ‘maintaining elegant flavours on the palate’.

The final example ‘was not for truffles’, containing humble SE1 Tap. Despite the unfair ploy of serving it lukewarm from a chunky glass, it was clean, bright and firm but the least mineral.

It was by now time to investigate how these waters worked with very different wines. Despite Larsson’s instructions that we must appreciate ‘the style rather than producer’, all four were excellent.

Wine 1: Monte Rosa Franciacorta Prima Cuvée N.V. (85% Chardonnay, P. Bianco; 15% P. Nero; two years on lees). A rich nose of truffle, brioche, with a palate of lime, celery salt and plentiful, pinprick, soft bubbles. Larsson favoured the Panna for its softer acidity and lower mineral content - which didn’t interrupt the wine’s bubbles. Whilst I am no expert in this field (noting that bubble specialists do exist) I found Pellegrino provided the most complimentary exchange. Put simply, when drank in succession, the bubbles flattered one another. With tap, an unlovely hardness prevailed, working against the creamy bubbles.

Wine 2: Martellozzo Terre Magre, Friuli ‘08 (Pinot Grigio). A fresh, pear and sherbet scented wine with a pervasive, mineral, oily palate. The San Pellegrino quite obviously restricted aromatic nuances. Larsson preferred the Panna, but it seemed too vague and ‘damp’ for me. Balancing somewhere in between the mineral waters, I thought the tap worked best. Interestingly, few, if any of the other tasters bothered to attempt London water with these wines. Prejudice, perhaps?

Wine 3: Sacravite D’Angelo, Basilicata ‘06 (Aglianico). Aromas of dark cherry, and black pepper continued onto an approachable palate with a lick of sweetness and soft tannins. Again, Pellegrino’s bubbles appeared cutting, dissolving tannin and sweetness regrettably fast. Larsson echoed this, ‘full-bodied sparkling waters can become intrusive to a wine taster.’ The Panna cleansed more patiently. But the biggest surprise came on tap, which became distastefully surgical alongside, chemicals being emphasised. The wine being unoaked, I would have liked to have seen a barrel-matured bottle alongside.

Wine 4: Château La Rame St. Croix du Mont ‘05 (Sémillon, Sauvignon Blanc). An enticing perfume of honey and candy-floss interlaced with a little botrytis. The sweet, nectar-like palate was underpinned by an architectural, strict acidity. Taking a sip of the San Pellegrino after the wine revealed two issues: it was like taking blotter paper to ink and pitching acid against acid. ‘Hardly the match for Château d’Yquem,’ said Larsson. Being the weakest in body, Aqua Panna maintained the sweetness of the wine, whilst the tap took the longest time to dry out its sweetness. Personally, I would avoid cutting its charms with water.

It had been an interesting experiment, which could no doubt be related to other drinks, like beer, for example, through a wider range of waters.

In questions afterwards, Larsson launched an intelligent attempt to counter the campaign by London’s Mayor and the Evening Standard to automatically provide tap water in restaurants on ethical grounds. According to the Mayor’s figures, bottled water can create up to ‘300 times the CO2 emissions per litre in the case of some imported brands’. Larsson responded, ‘it depends how and where we transport it from’, adding that consumers are ‘happy to import other bottled goods, like wine and beer from all over the globe’. He stressed that ‘mineral water is a different product’, often ‘beneficial for digestion.’

Larsson is anti the intrusion of the ‘ice and slice’ in mineral water because they ‘destroy the structure’. He joked, ‘I take my J.D. on ice - not my water.

When I asked him where he had tasted good tap water, I was unsurprised to hear a bias in his answer, ‘my home town of Stockholm – it is incredibly pure.’Incidentally whilst Larsson got into water, or rather ‘tasting bottled water’ late, he has become such a fanatic that if ordering fine wine in a restaurant, for fear of contamination by ‘off odours’, he would refuse to drink tap if ‘that’s all there was.’ Plenty of my friends would agree, albeit for a different reason - they believe that there is already enough water in wine…

FOR: Fiona Beckett's ‘Matching Food & Wine’

On Eat Street

LINEN curtains pursed against neighbours prying eyes, food stylist, photographer and painter, Arno Maasdorp fought a battle against an oyster the size of a slipper. His increasingly famous, debonair moustache shielded any exasperation. Once severed from its ancient looking shell, he fleetingly steamed the specimen, crafting an instinctively complimentary sauce alongside: crème fraiche, shallot and white wine, thinned by the oyster’s brine. Its barely tangible, yielding texture almost rivalled Michel Roux’s warm, buttery foie gras…

‘The Saltoun Supper Club’ takes place each week at Arno’s home in Brixton, converted into a prop for pleasure dining. The décor bears testament to an artists eye – a nude of a tall, girlie figure by Tracey Emin clings, arms by sides, to the hall wall; on the stairs, a moneybox by Gilbert & George invites financial fuel with the words, ‘pay up and f*** off’.

From a small but tidy open plan kitchen, separated by a hedge of herbs, tables set for 15 were dressed with playful trinkets. Between a tangerine-coloured gnome candle, mint plant and paper fan, a little shrine to the (ecclesiastical) Madonna also served as a sea saltcellar. Nearby, a tin pail filled with ice was a thoughtful gesture for BYO diners.

A long curled courgette tongue lapping cubes of barrel raised Feta was a refreshing start to a balmy evening. This was followed by a port box lid ‘plate’ of close-pressed terrine - fibrous chunky duck and crunchy pistachio with thin toast from ‘Wild Caper’, Brixton’s brilliant bakery annexed to prized pizzeria, ‘Franco Manca’.

During the pause between courses, Arno encouraged us to take a wander, which I had been itching to do from the first moment. In the eaves, his study was fascinating, brimming with a lifetime of books, a painting of on open envelope flooded by cascading tears and rippling with emotion, and a prostrate cowhide. Another room was so filled with artistic finds that one could barely enter it. In the immaculate loo, radio four spoke soothing bedtime stories via a retro looking radio.

A tenderly cooked fillet of well-seasoned sea bass, flesh still moist, curled a cool salad of new potatoes and uneven sized peas, fresh from their pods. To follow, a redux of Eton Mess: soppily ripe, silken mango, crusty, salted caramel and decadently gooey meringue. Rather lovely – the ideal dessert? But it was not yet the end. A still life of homemade petit fours including hand-pressed wafer leaves, strawberries dipped in white chocolate, and moist little brownies was dramatically displayed on a glossy, black square. Rousing coffee and just clipped, perky mint tea followed.

Our stash of wine by now evaporated, Arno generously opened a very respectable find of his own - an ‘88 Château Pape Clement, worth about three places in the supper club (‘minimum donation’ is £25p.p.). With the words, “I’m sure it’s dead”, the couth, cigar, hymnbook and distantly blackcurrant scented Bordeaux turned out to be a vital delight. As did an impromptu cheeseboard with fresh fennel.

In my limited experience, supper clubs – more popularly known as underground restaurants – are inevitably surprising. At Ms. Marmite Lover’s north London version (currently closed to give its owner a break) the surprise was the physically arresting spectacle of prolonged belly dancing by one of the guests. There were fewer shenanigans at The Saltoun because the food commanded all the attention. With a professional’s consideration, Arno and his couth assistant had cooked-up a supremely stylish carte. A very elegant evolution in a rather odd genre…

SALTOUN SUPPER CLUB: Reservations for September open end of July.
FOR: Foodepedia

HERE is what Jonathan thought

Levi Roots

Following a memorable musical pitch, Levi Roots, 50, won BBC’s ‘Dragon’s Den’ with his potent ‘Reggae Reggae’ sauce. In exchange for a 40% stake in his business, he secured the support of millionaire ‘Dragons’, Peter Jones and Richard Farleigh – not to mention £50,000. Roots’ life has been fascinating: from crossing continents and time in Pentonville prison to being at the forefront of the Rastafarian music scene for over three decades. He has seven children and three grandchildren and lives in the same flat in Brixton as he did before fame and fortune.

HOW DID DRAGON'S DEN HAPPEN?

I was singing about my Reggae Reggae sauce at the World Food Market, Excel when a researcher approached me and invited me on the programme. I don’t watch TV, so I thought she was joking. When I told my kids, they said, “dad, don’t to do it, we love you the way you are.” If it went wrong, it meant embarrassment for all. There’s no Eddie “the Eagle” syndrome in Brixton - I’d have to come back with the goods…

WHERE WERE YOU BORN?

Clarendon, Jamaica. I’m the youngest of six. I was practically raised by my grandmother, Miriam because my parents moved to Britain to start a new life. She taught me Jamaica’s bounty of plants, herbs and spices and the pleasures of cooking them, sharing the recipe for her jerk chicken sauce, handed through generations. That became Reggae Reggae. Because they were so poor, my parents could only bring a child a year to Brixton. But there was an advantage. As my family got smaller there was more space in the bed! When I was 12, I was the last to board an iron bird away from an idyllic life. I got my first taste of foreign food aboard that flight – baked beans! Shocking! I was used to fresh food. One day I’m going to make a better version - ‘Reggae Reggae Beans’.

DESCRIBE THE EARLY DAYS OF REGGAE REGGAE...

After months in the flat, tweaking the recipe, I put it in a bottle, gave it a name and sung about it at the Notting Hill Carnival. That was 1991 - it took another 16 years of rejection from banks and businesses who told me it was “too black” for my time to come. But people always loved my sauce - it outsold the records in Brixton’s best music stores.

HOW DID YOU CUT THROUGH THE FAILURES ON DRAGON'S DEN?

Anyone silly enough to go onto a show like that with a guitar and sing deserves to win. When I assured Peter Jones it would sell millions of gallons, he laughed. But when Sainsbury’s trialled it, it became their fastest selling product. So Peter keeps on laughing, but for different reasons!

SOYER, ESCOFFIER, NOW ROOTS... ARE YOU THE LATEST IN A LINE OF GREATS PRODUCING BOTTLED SAUCES?
Even though you might have spent hours cooking, I see my sauce as the crown to the dish! Reggae Reggae has sold over seven million bottles. And we’ve launched seven others as well as chicken grills.

ASIDE FROM YOUR GRANDMOTHER, WHOM DO YOU ADMIRE?

Everyone needs a mentor and Peter Jones is mine. He taught me so much about business. Whilst I bought back Richard Farleigh’s shares, I want Peter to be a part of the business forever. Also, Nelson Mandela, who I sang ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President’ to when he came to Brixton with Prince Charles in 1992. And Bob Marley who lived in Hammersmith after being shot in Jamaica. We played football together in Battersea Park. Through knowing him, and growing-up with his music, I learnt to appreciate my African Caribbean identity. That’s why I changed my name to Levi Roots.

HOW WAS THE FILMING FOR YOUR FORTHCOMING T.V. SERIES?

I kept surprising myself with just how good I am! For one of the episodes, we went to Scotland’s Mull of Kintyre in search of my clan. They turned out to have a gruesome history. I was born ‘Keith Graham’, a name representing a legacy of slavery. It’s still printed on my passport, although I’m changing that. Having such a British name made school tough. You’ll see in the programme that I was measured for a kilt but chickened-out from trying it when someone explained what you (don't) wear underneath...

CARE TO SHARE SOME OF YOUR WEIRDEST FAN MAIL?

I keep a folder of the strangest e-mails. A lot of them say Reggae Reggae improves sexual stamina. I haven’t found that - it’s just too, too hot for certain places! There was a lady who six weeks overdue gave birth immediately after satisfying a craving for my sauce. We could put ‘may induce labour’ on the bottle.

HOW DOES REGGAE REGGAE FEEL IN THE MOUTH?

That's a good question. It dances, reminding you that it’s a grown-up sauce with a kick of heat, right at the back. Despite being made with Scotch Bonnet peppers - one of the hottest in the world - I never wanted to make a very hot sauce and honestly, it behaves. I chose that pepper because it gives flavour as well as heat.

YOUR SLOGAN IS 'PUT SOME MUSIC IN YOUR FOOD', BUT WHAT WOULD YOUR DESERT ISLAND LUXURY BE? - SAUCE FOR FISH, OR MUSIC FOR YOUR SOUL?

Life’s not just about feeding your belly. I’ve performed with some of the greatest musicians and was even nominated for ‘Best Reggae Singer’ at MOBO. I’m planning more roots music, remixes, re-releases and fresher lyrics and rhythm.

DO YOU MISS CLARENDON?

Maybe Keith Graham misses its peacefulness, but Levi Roots gets his vibe from cities. I need to feel alive, and my clan are right here in London.

WHAT'S YOUR GUILTIEST FOOD?

I love ‘Kinder Bueno’ bars with my tea. If I see one, I can’t resist it. I used to feel the same way about Twix for about 20 years.

WHERE ARE THE BEST PLACES TO EAT AFRICAN CARIBBEAN FOOD IN THE CAPITAL?

‘Caribbean Scene’ (17 Western Gateway, Royal Victoria Dock), and my ‘Rasta-urant’, ‘Papine Jerk Centre’, Battersea (8 Lavender Rd).

ARE YOU A CELEBRITY?

I like the sound of that. I always felt I should be rich and famous and it was amusing to pose next to the life-sized cut-outs that ‘Subway’ made of me when the were using my sauce. But the real satisfaction came when Prime Minister, Gordon Brown invited me to No. 10 as a black man who achieved financial success through enterprise, rather than kicking a ball.

HAS FAME CHANGED YOU?

I still live in Brixton and try to give something back. I do a lot of school visits, sometimes as many as 15 a week. I want to spread the word that if a black Brixtonian Rastafarian can make it with a ridiculous sauce, then so can they. I’ve been successful because I’ve put myself in my product - people can see if you’re not passionate. As well as schools in South London, I’ve been invited to Eton and Cambridge, where Rastamen don’t normally get ‘big-ups’. And I’m building something lasting to help kids learn about food and business – the ‘Levi Roots foundation’. Starting with five kids from inner cities, I’m funding them through the Royal College of Agriculture.

WHAT WOULD YOUR EPITAPH BE?

‘Dragon Slayer’. Whilst I slayed five to get my sauce into Sainsbury’s, we all face dragons everyday, even our kids have them. Slay them!

AND YOUR MOTTO?
Take the chance when it’s served.

WHAT OF THE FUTURE?

As well as my best-selling ‘Reggae-Reggae Cookbook’ (Harper Collins), I’ve just finished ‘Caribbean Food Made Easy’ (Mitchell Beazley) in time for the BBC series. And I plan more writing. I’ve teamed up with Bird’s Eye to create Reggae Reggae Chicken Chargrills, bringing a taste of the Caribbean food to tea times. Who knows, you may well see the first black Captain Bird’s Eye!

‘Caribbean Food Made Easy’ airs on BBC this August.

FOR: Foodepedia