Destination Londres

LAST year, in conjunction with specialist tours firm ‘Urban Gentry’, I marshalled a culinary itinerary of the capital for Belgian journalist, Eric Verdonck. Hectic but flavoursome, here follows a link to his article.

>>Destination Londres: Nouveau paradis des gourmets<<

Bacchus Beside the Riverbanks

‘IT’S great to see the difference in your faces compared to a year ago,’ said Jeanette Brewer to an audience of fans, press and the odd bailed-out Yuppie banker. ‘Either you’ve just got used to having a difficult time, or you’ve finally climbed out of it...’

Escaping Friday night chaos outside, I had come to the London Bridge sequel of Farringdon’s South African restaurant, ‘Vivat Bacchus’. In the bottle-lined basement adjoining one of two cheese rooms and cellar, the witty, feisty mind behind Springfield Wine Estate was confidently exhibiting her range. ‘My father used to say, if you make tea with a good heart, it tastes better, so I never have to worry about talking-up my wines.’

Compared to our capital, Brewer’s town of Robertson, slumbering in the ‘valley of wine and roses’ must seem like paradise. ‘It’s beautiful and rustic with just one traffic light,’ she said. ‘We only use it on Sundays, so residents of the retirement home can cross to church. And that’s the only time there are accidents!’

Given a generous glass of Life From Stone ‘09 (or more specifically, life from quartz) and instructed to ‘please smell, smell, smell’, Brewer explained the style. Honouring her heritage as a ninth generation Huguenot émigré from the Loire, Springfield was one of the region’s first producers to sew Sauvignon Blanc – Sancerre’s white grape.

Uncorked exactly a year on from harvest, it was vibrant: flinty, steely and even slightly salty, its acidity cutting dexterously through a duo of raw rock oysters. In contrast to the one rather tediously smeared with shallot and red wine vinegar, the chilli, lime and garlic spiked bivalve was pleasantly provocative, retaining its taste whilst evoking a Margarita.

In another twist, fresh mackerel tart was successfully enlivened by mint, rhubarb stalks and another mild hit of chilli. Whilst Springfield’s benchmark un-oaked Wild Yeast Chardonnay ‘06 proved a cumbersome match, it was intriguing on its own. Aromas of fresh pineapple jostled candied pineapple on the palate, then cottage cheese and soured cream in the broad finish. Brewer followed with an anecdote, ‘When Noah made wine, he didn’t need a packet of artificial yeast.’ Fermented for a very un-commercial 70 days and curdling with nuances, Brewer explained, ‘there are around 300 families of yeast in our vineyards, and each leave their footprints of flavour.’ A relative newcomer to South Africa, apparently winemaker smugglers brought Chardonnay cuttings in suitcases during apartheid.

Being one of London’s few restaurants to offer South Africa’s emblem, the springbok (a fast antelope with a particular gait) I relished the chance to try roast haunch. The deep crimson coloured, musky meat was lean, served simply with crushed celeriac and béarnaise potatoes. It worked with the unfiltered, unfined Luddite of a blend, Work of Time ’02 - ‘a polite way of saying about f****** time,’ admitted Brewer of the 11-year journey to perfect a Bordeaux blend.

After only a nibble of cheese because I was still full from lunch, I sipped the dregs of another naturally crafted red, Whole Berry Cabernet Sauvignon ‘07 with a boozy cherry clafoutis. Made from uncrushed grape clusters, the uplifting result was high class Ribena.

South Africa’s 30 year-old ‘John Platter’ guide describes Springfield’s wines as risky and daring whilst consistently rewarding them with high scores.

I was surprised to learn that Harry Faddy, Vivat Bacchus’ 27 year-old chef (an alumni of Knightsbridge’s legendary ‘Racine’, albeit not under Henry Harris) had no direct experience of the Western Cape. However his menu had, in large part, thoughtfully provided a supportive role to Springfield’s bold, enduring wines and endearing ethos.

South Africa and Wine

The first harvest occurred 2nd February, 1659 – recorded in the diary of Cape Town’s founder, Jan van Riebeeck. A Dutch surgeon, Riebeeck believed grapes and wine could see off the scourge of scurvy in sailors on the spice route. But his successor, Simon van der Stel, had more hedonistic motivations, founding the legendary Constantia estate, a version of which is still championed by chefs like Michel Roux jnr. who matches the sticky elixir with tarte Tatin.

During the French Revolution, British Forces occupied the Cape, exporting its wines to acclaim across the empire. Vineyards expanded into the early 19th century in anticipation of prospectors of gold and diamonds, ultimately resulting in a surplus. To release the glut, the government encouraged co-operatives to take charge, most notably ‘KWV’ in 1918, controlling planting, production and marketing.

During apartheid, the wine industry was isolated, with little reason for innovation or quality control. The most widely planted grape, Chenin Blanc (‘Steen’) was selected more for its ability to make dry and sweet whites and also brandy than flavour and finesse (although it is capable of both).

Since apartheid ended in 1994, producers like Springfield have thrived with a gamut of previously scarce varieties. South Africa is now the ninth largest producer in the world, encompassing a growing number of Fair Trade wineries, female winemakers and wineries owned by the majority citizen, the black South African.

Compared to Australia and California, which began making marketable wines almost a century and a half on from South Africa’s plantings, the Cape’s heritage feels rather more old world than new.

Vivat Bacchus 4 Hays Lane, London Bridge / Springfield Estate / Find these wines on Wine-Searcher.com / Also published Foodepedia

Artist’s Eye on Rough Sleepers

LATELY, I fell into (and fast out of) the habit of accepting arbitrary invitations. Ghastly and good, two recent RSVPs concerned elevated venues - in opinion and altitude...

On Burns’ night, I scraped the sky at Centrepoint’s Paramount Club. Excepting the astonishing view, my abiding memory is of thick queues of boozy-floozies pressing towards the copper bar. Their goal (and in desperation, I admit mine), to down the sponsor’s gratis cocktails. Made from a base of ‘Monkey Shoulder’, I considered the mixologists effective camouflage of the vanillin, peaty, lively blend an affront to the Scotch. Outdoing the drink, its website has more spirit than the spirit, being infuriatingly populated by pixellated primates. The best part of the evening? -Pressing ‘G’ in the lift soon after an unconvincing ode to an absentee orb of sheeps pluck.

Taking refuge from rain later that week, I was almost struck by the outwardly sprung door of another lift. Ascending in the see-through cubicle to floor four of The Ivy’s club, where obnoxiously affluent celebrities ‘cling together’ like the creeper, I soon became sedated by the beaker of squashy, icy punch pressed into my palm. Alas, for the first hour of my visit, I genuinely had no idea why I was there. But unlike Paramount, it turned out to be an engaging evening.

The occasion: results day for an art competition launched by Artrepublic, online/offline stockists of exclusive prints. From 250 entrants, four finalists were competing for exposure via charity, ‘Streetsmart’. The organisation seeks to convert the additional £1 levied on participating restaurants bills in November/December into fodder for tummies of the hungry homeless. Since it was launched in 1998, it has come close to raising £4m. Stirling work, but with short ambitions? -There are, after all, 12 months in a year.

Ensuing a gutsy film about the artists, sadly obscured from my vision by the big hair experiments of a lanky audience, then the stern silence of anticipation, the judge’s decision was read. The winner: Grant Dejonge’s emotive figure of a sleeping child on a park bench, amongst an ominous thicket. The self-taught Dejonge, who lives with his wife and two children in Plumpton, Sussex, accepted the award with an emphatic ‘f****** thank you’. His work will now be replicated large on building canvases in Covent Garden and Brighton, visible to those suffering as its subject matter. Of those others short-listed, the stark, ghostly figure of a ‘Sleeper’ on brick by artist, ‘Stik’ was sensuously powerful.

Coincidentally, there is a relationship between rough sleepers way below the tall tower on Tottenham Court Road, with its VIP only members club. In January 1974 (36 years ago), homeless campaigners successfully occupied the building, keen to highlight how its vacant floors could ease the capital’s housing crisis. It must have seemed hard for all but the most heartless to refute their plea. In pursuit of a single tenant, its reclusive millionaire developer, Harry Hyams infamously deliberately kept the 32-storey building utterly untenanted for years. And even today, at least one floor remains free...

See the finalists / Streetsmart / Also published Foodepedia

Flavours from Frost and Fire

PICTURED: winemaker, Andrew Hardy’s first vintage of Petaluma Clare Valley Riesling, 1983.

In the wake of ‘huge bush fires’ in a year also ‘nailed by frost’, this survivor comes from the Hanlin Hill vineyard and in this instance, parcels further afield - to compensate for extreme conditions. Shimmering deep gold, it had the initial aroma of old gloss paint lid, then fresh cream and toasted meringue. On the delicate, moderately alcoholic palate, it tasted of white toast spread with lime marmalade with a long, angular, mineral finish. Perfect, no doubt, with a roast lobe of foie gras. Tasted in Hardy’s company at Bibendum’s offices, he ‘wished it had been better preserved under-screwcap’ (as all current releases) rather than cork.

Sparkling Tales from the Boudoir

IT’S NOT every day one dines in David Moore’s bedroom, albeit now converted into the private dining room at ‘Pied-à-Terre’, Charlotte Street. The décor, best described as subdued theatrical, is based around a glossy glass table – apparently delivered by a gauche builder who filled inevitable cracks with a handy tube of epoxy. This is echoed by an identical ceiling plate (minus the fractures) from which a beaded light awning dangles, warmly drenching diners like balls on pool table baize. By contrast, a hellish, hectic, bloodly Howard Hodgkin’s scene sharply contrasts a tall, gilt-edged dolls house, now doubling as a glass store.

I had been lured to the former boudoir of the respected restaurateur and judge of TV’s ‘The Restaurant’ with the promise of fizz. And I was not alone. A cast of culinary icons, including chefs, Pierre Koffman, Thierry Tomasin and Rowley Leigh; front of house notables, Silvano Giraldin and Enzo Cassini, and Champagne authority, Michael Edwards had gathered to hear the venerable Madame Vranken of Champagne house, Pommery gently guide us through a truffle-themed menu.

But gazing down at the silver sauce spoon, I felt trepidation. I wondered whether chef Shane Osborn’s style, which I had only glimpsed during a special menu with Brett Graham at Selfridge’s Gallery, would approximate the damp, fussed, overly ambitious food of his protégé, Marcus Eaves (head chef at Moore’s more recent ‘L’Autre Pied’, Marylebone). Of Eaves, I perhaps cruelly once remarked, ‘I really got a sense of his personality spunkily blasting through onto the puréed, emulsioned, foamed and moussed plates - great fare for denture-adventurers...’

Brut Revival

And despite noble origins - Madame Pommery must be Champagne’s best-known widow after the veuve Clicquot, carving 18kms of cellars, inventing the brut style and mastering export - I had reservations about the quality of the wine today. Since the Pommery family ceased running the house three decades before, the brand, unloved was banded around multiple owners, most recently from luxury behemoth, ‘Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessey’ (note, handbags go first), to Vranken in 2002 – albeit only after they stripped its vineyards away. After ethereal pastry canapés served in the deep carpeted upstairs bar with invigorating, sherbet-scented, grapefruit zesty Brut Apanage, we sat down to distractingly good scallops. Sealed to crisp perfection, but almost impossibly tenderly centred, the saline morsels wittily nudged chicken oysters, or ‘sot-l’y-laisse’ (‘only a fool would leave it’). They were so gently extricated and carefully cooked that at least one guest suspected them of being the scallops missing roes. On the palate, these reacted well with brisk, momentarily braised baby gem lettuce, shiny under cosy lemon balm essence. Alas the promised hit of black truffle, which must have been crushed over the ‘oysters’, was remote.

Regardless, unlike Eaves’ preference for space food, I was so delighted to find texture – to hear my teeth bite – that I admitted my previous negative experience to Moore. Possibly because the capably fearsome television judge now felt meek under the potential judgement of so many of his peers, and possibly because he was seduced by the gently tinted Apanage rosé, modelled by cellar-master, Thierry Gasco on a formula from 1928, he didn’t scald me. Instead he revealed a paternal tenderness towards his charges. ‘They’re so young at L’Autre Pied, handling the pressure of a £1m turnover and critical expectation – just kids really compared to us at Pied-à-Terre.’ Moore then recalled recently sending a more spirited chef to a Harley Street counsellor.

176 Shades of Pink?

The world may never know how many shades of pink there are, although this barely ripe, raspberry flavoured wine looked too light to sell according to the burly Tomasin (of Paddington’s ‘Angelus’). He feared diners would think it an oxidised white on sight rather than a delicate pink. Disregarding Pantone, I thought it lithe, dry and delicious and absolutely refreshing between mouthfuls.

The next dish: paper white, meltingly leafing poached halibut, moist beneath a thin but deeply satisfying truffle crust. It was adorned with pert green beans, Pommery mustard and a ragout of ‘crosnes’, which whirring pixellated internet brain Google tells me are mild tubers. Eyes on my dish, Moore looked forlorn. ‘I’ve never eaten that – if I go near halibut or seabass, I’ve got 15-minutes before I become very ill indeed.’

Bringing a tinge of slightly tart briar fruit, and being the weightiest wine so far, Wintertime Blanc de Noirs, a white made from red grape juice not shown the skins (part of the four seasons collection launched in the ‘90’s) meant the best, most even-powered match so far. The most profound marriage however, was gamey, poached and roasted guinea fowl breast with buttery truffled leeks, oyster mushrooms, crisp confit garlic parcels (on par with maze Grill’s) and lustrous foie gras sauce. Named after Madame Pommery’s daughter, the slick, toasted hazelnut scented 11-year-old Cuvée Louise acted on the palate as a plate, i.e. always present and supportive under the food’s flavours and textures.

Fame

During the cheese course of carefully kept Comté vieux and Brillat-Savarin, I asked Moore how he coped with television stardom. He said: ‘I remember watching the first series of ‘The Restaurant’ and thinking “I could do that.”’ Having risen, as a young man, to the role of head waiter at ‘Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons’ (then unheard of as a Brit), he was already known and trusted by patron, Raymond Blanc. ‘So that is what I did.’ But does fame have drawbacks? ‘I seem to change the dynamic if going into a meeting of professionals, like, sommeliers, and can be seen as an outsider by my peers. There was also the time an old lady recognised me as I sank my teeth into a McDonald’s burger. She expressed horror, but I just smiled coyly and whispered, “Ssshh!”’ A confidently minimalistic tile of plain chocolate tarte had the spring of velour. Made only with Chardonnay, Falltime Extra Dry (which is actually rather sweet) added a honeysuckle edge to the bitter cocoa.
Over the four-hour lunch, conversation topics had rolled into amusing territory, with many nods and tuts reserved for a Pakistani mango farmer turned culture minister. Now deceased, the hedonist apparently plagued haute cuisine restaurants with his laissez-faire approach to reservations. Moore said, ‘at le Manoir, he used to phone to announce he was taking junction 8A (our turning) and expected a table. When told we were full, he insisted on speaking to the sommelier, blithely enquiring, “so how many bottles of Pétrus ‘45 do you have?”’

Revolving Restaurant

Osborn holidaying under the sun, his sous chef had cooked a standout lunch. As we stepped onto a dusky Charlotte Street, fatter and more bubbly than before, Koffman gestured to the BT Tower, whose revolving restaurant is expected to open soon. ‘They asked me to do it’, he said, ‘although honestly, it won’t need a name.’ In my albeit limited experience of fizz-only menus, the craving for a full-blooded red simply exacerbates with each flute. However, despite being jilted in recent history, eight years on from Vranken’s acquisition, what was arguably Champagne’s most progressive estate seems fighting fit...

PIED Á TERRE 34 Charlotte St., London / CHAMPAGNE POMMERY / Find wines at WINE SEARCHER / Also published FOODEPEDIA

Aikens Diet: Self-Portrait in Dough?

TO MARK my 30th, I was generously treated by friends and family to three meals in Michelin-starred restaurants, the first two of which were announced in the recent awards. I didn’t deliberately approach these critically, although that hat can be hard to remove. Some brief thoughts below.

Bingham Hotel, Richmond

At £23 for three courses including a rice pudding in chocolate canister, the set lunch offers reasonable value. However, chef Shay Cooper relies on recycling the same ingredients across too many dishes, particularly cubed, caramelised figs and Sugar Puff like grains, in one instance so overly-scented with Saffron as to smell surgical. He also seems wasteful in his pursuit of aesthetic plates, for example divorcing potentially tasty legs from albeit tenderly cooked partridge breasts. The expensively decorated, stiff, soulless dining room features ominous paintings of unhappy animals (possibly reflecting diners’ temperaments) and an exhibit case containing too few, starkly presented cheeses.

Royal Oak, Paley Street, nr. Maidenhead

The standout. A pleasure to taste again the hearty yet precise cooking of Dominic Chapman, including feathery halibut with crisp samphire strands and perfectly cooked veg. Apparently one customer crosses the country to sustain himself on a pint and six Scotch eggs (up 25p to £3 each since Michelin’s award). I understand his motivation – although I’d always add chips, which, like the eggs, are yet to be bettered. I tried retro pudding, baked Alasksa for the first time, its thin membrane of meringue pierced by a candle and accompanied with a deeply-voiced birthday chorus. On a Sunday, the atmosphere felt cosy: a blend of local ale drinkers, some out of towners and proprietor, Parkie.

>>Read Chapman’s interview<<

Tom Aikens, Chelsea

‘Kitchen or the posh one?’ asked the black cab driver yesterday night. ‘The overpriced one,’ I replied. He nodded, no doubt supposing I was a new season Yuppee seeking to splash cash the day the recession officially ended.

Since Aikens turned down an interview request last year on the grounds that we would touch on his ‘past’, I lacked motivation to try his exotically priced, chilly-looking, house sound-tracked restaurant. But my wine-trade friends had chosen the venue on account of its offer of zero corkage in January (no doubt adding strain to its sole sommelier). Curious to see whether the man branded a genius by critics genuinely had talent, I went along. Judging by his quad of appetisers, served on a rough-hewn cork tile, then oddly phallic bread rolls, he does, although the rest of the meal proved often over-cooked, lacking precision, under-seasoned, coated in dry old truffle discs, and utterly devoid of creative warmth. There was also an annoying, unnerving preponderance of tangly, earthy leaves.

In addition to a bill featuring never ordered Champagne, eventually removed by a clearly disbelieving mâitre’d, glacial service was dealt by malfunctioning humanoid automata. In a stroke of comic timing, vegetables arrived as at least one of our group replaced cutlery in the 12 o'clock position.

But back to that interview. Last week, a respected figure on the capital’s culinary scene commented that Aikens could do worse than seek the advice of a professional comedian. Why? Because he could then be armed with a witty retort or three to deflect journalists who dare broach the inconvenient issue of those 160 allegedly unpaid suppliers. Silence, it was argued, might otherwise imply an admission of guilt. Aikens' rigid-seeming staff should benefit too from some laughter therapy...

In Good Taste

THERE are so many tempting tastings in January that sommeliers like Trinity’s Rupert Taylor take up to a week off to seek revivifying bottles.

I recently stained my teeth blood pudding black at two showcases: ‘Richards Walford’ of Stamford (held at Southwark’s ‘Baltic’ restaurant – a former coachworks) and London’s ‘Bibendum’, which sprawled the Charles Saatchi gallery. Both featured a fine roll-call of guests, including the venerable former Mȃitre’d of ‘Le Gavroche’, Silvano Giraldin.

Busy administering a flight of lately increasingly fleshy, decreasingly ash-scented, Château Léoville Poyferré (’96-’07), director, Mark Walford admitted to ‘occasionally forgetting to put prices up.’ Regardless, he believes the worst of the recession is over, even if it means selling more for less. ‘Compared to last June when sales were down 15%, losses have now sprung to half that.’

Biodynamically-farmed, unfiltered, and oak-aged for over two-years, Domaine la Garance’s ’01 ‘Les Armières V.d.Pays Rouge de l’Herault (Carignan, Syrah) was as fiercely individual as its maker, Pierre Quinonero. Almost brash and always savoury, it felt like sun-dried, wind-blasted herbs were sewn all the way through. The long-lived palate suggested smoky bacon and ancient, pulverised rocks. The £15 RRP seemed utterly sound. Quinonero answered my provocative question, ‘what do you think of French President Nicolas Sarkozy?’ with, ‘That man’s fostered a culture where more French hate wine than like it...’

Drawn by the name of their pub on their badges, I got talking to Alan and Liz Hewitt of The Bustard, Lincolnshire. It takes its name from the pudgy-necked, whiskered bird looking somewhere between a turkey and grouse. Apparently the male reaches 20kgs, making it one of the heaviest specimens to fly. Considered so tasty that it was rendered extinct in Britain in 1832, Russian chicks are now being reintroduced. My shotgun at the ready...

Despite running into every immaculate bright white inch of the Saatchi gallery, Bibendum’s tasting felt bewilderingly crowded (these photos are fickle). So artistic is this uber-indie’s marketing that it was sometimes hard to see where the company’s colourful props ended and regular artefacts began. The highlight, as last year, was the Champagne room. Just released, Pol Roger’s ’00 had a levity not seen in the ’99. Respected Champagne connoisseur Michael Edwards mentioned this might be down to the fact that the ’99 vintage yielded such low acidity – levels of which were last seen in ’59. It is not, however ‘a wine for keeping but drinking’. Ditto.

Rankin's Island Garden

ESTABLISHED in 1878, and relaunched with current Editor, Richard Siddle in 2007, Harpers Wine & Spirit magazine is one of the most respected journals covering the wine trade.

Here is a link to my latest piece (first published 11th December 2009) which profiles chef, Shaun Rankin and sommelier, Nicolas Pettier - the ‘dream team’ of Bohemia restaurant at The Club, Jersey.

> Page One <> Page Two <

A year’s subscription to the fortnightly costs £161.20.

Swine Fever

INVITATIONS no longer tumble through the post – they ping through the ether. I recently received an irresistible one: to see a saw tugged through a dry-hung swine. Playing butcher, chef, Adam Byatt would talk us through rump and rack as he separated, scraped and minced (or should I say, used a mincer), whilst perma-tanned Jean Trimbach (12th generation ambassador of the leading Alsace wine producer) would supply agile refreshments. The venue: ‘Trinity’, Clapham Common, named, according to staff, because dishes originally featured three components, although its location within a triangular parade seems a more fitting explanation.

Byatt spent much of his youth ‘cooking egg-white only omelettes’ for Dame Barbara Cartland when she kept table at Claridge’s. How that venue must miss their star. An apprentice turned member of the Academy of Culinary Arts, he describes his early exposure to cooking warmly. ‘Instead of recounting the usual sob stories of chefs like Giorgio - rolling macaroni on one knee - I learnt about food from my mother, a cook to directors’ dining rooms.’

A sleek-fronted, but cosy venue softly lit by three-sided lampshades, it pivots somewhere between ideal local brasserie and, on the appraisal of Byatt’s mentor, Philip Howard, something meriting a Michelin-star. As with nearby ‘Chez Bruce’ it has fast become an unofficial embassy for the capital’s wine trade since it opened end of 2006. In addition to hearty fodder (menus make a virtue of hock, marrow and even faggots) its sommelier, Rupert Taylor shows inquisitiveness through his 250-bin selection, and is open to corkage (£20).

Overlooking and overlooked by the kitchen, a glug of hacks gathered at the chef’s table. Ben Smith of importer, Enotria, sits beside Trimbach. If Smith’s name might seem familiar, it could be because he played bass for pop band, ‘Curiosity Killed the Cat’.*

Beginning the autopsy on the bright pink half-loin of Gloucester Old Spot, Byatt proclaims, ‘Britain produces the world’s best pigs - and this is the quintessential breed.’ Stroking its skin with his German blade’s tip, he asserts, ‘I can tell you about the last 10-minutes of a beast’s life. If its skin is ruffled and bruised, and the flesh stiffened by lactic acid, it shows it suffered. But this one is tender.’ As lights are raised to make easier work for photographers, Trimbach nods excitedly, ‘the cochon becomes nobler in light!’ A relatively small swine, Byatt confirms that he prefers working with slim specimens ‘under 50kgs, and 9-12 months old depending on breed.’ Drawing a comparison with viticulture, Trimbach agrees, ‘it’s true, we don’t like grapes that become bloated and therefore flavourless...’

Liver removed with a plop and cuts categorised, Byatt proceeds to loop heat-resistant string around neck fillet at a furious pace. Extolling the virtues of buying in an animal, he advises, ‘a side is much cheaper than pre-portioned parcels. This one cost £45 [wholesale] and should yield enough for 25 people.’ Above fiscal value, butchery confers craft, ‘which I am damned to lose.’ When asked from where the popularity of ready-meats came, Byatt loses no time in attributing this to ‘[Sir Terence] Conran, who bought in prepped meat as a time-saving measure when feeding 1000s.’ In addition to sharing his passion with a kitchen brigade which, in a symmetrical gesture, includes an apprentice from the Academy of Culinary Arts, Byatt voluntarily (and perhaps worryingly) teaches knife skills to ‘naughty’ 14-year-olds at adopted school, ‘The Academy’.

Carcass away to kitchen, we begin the feast with fluffy, poignantly roe-stained Taramosalata scoops smeared over sweet, charred, crisped flatbread. This is followed by the first piggy hit, prefaced as coming 'from one we did earlier'. Thick-cut devils on horseback are stuffed with moist Agen prunes (the historical provenance of which outdates Trimbach’s 1626 foundations by four centuries). Served in a wide-brimmed, fragile glass tea cup which I am tempted to bite through, white onion and thyme velouté is spun with black truffle flecks and offered with a singular, greaseless onion ring. Reticently currant-leaf scented, Trimbach’s estate and grower-grown ‘07 is a dry, stony Riesling which alas proves a hopeless collaborator, curtailing the cappuccino’s cosseting creaminess.

Served on a slate which thoughtfully for staff features handles (Byatt claims he spent two-years building his front of house team), the next dish is introduced with, ‘this is as pretty as it gets at Trinity’. Looking unnervingly like a pair of little fingers, overly potent sole goujons fall over a uniform eel slither, laid-out like a zip, but hauntingly flavoursome. But the best part is the pristine, tightly-woven leek terrine. By contrast, an inexplicably steamed rock oyster painted in an odd membrane is unnecessary embellishment. Made only in good years, Trimbach’s gold-labelled ‘02 Pinot Gris Reserve-Personelle is still fresh after seven years with a glossy mouth-feel. But lacking the body of age (minimum recommended cellaring is 10-years) it seems submissive against every part of the dish.

The next porcine plate (or trunk): pig’s trotter bisected by a long wisp of cracking crunchy crackling, adorned with a golden quail’s egg and framed by a rim of frustratingly wine-repelling sauce gribiche. This is rendered unflatteringly on a cross-section of tree. In answer to my slightly tipsy enquiry, does Byatt take inspiration from the obligatorily ‘legendary’ Koffman, he answers bluntly that he does not, preferring to de-bone his trotter post braising rather than prior. Pinot Noir Reserve (‘07) is simultaneously lean and sugary, again made meek by acidity, this time of the vinaigrette-like green sauce.

The final savoury course, which I was most eagerly awaiting, fails absolutely. Despite being decadently glazed in maple syrup, pork belly has suffered, as would I, from being trapped in a water bath for 16-hours at 68c. It is as supple and appetising as rigamortis. Making matters worse, it squats black olive mash which, as tabletop mumblings confirm, evokes a pat from a cow prescribed a laxative-only diet. Saffron vinaigrette, and mushy celery ‘hearts’ (warmed celery is charmless) makes a farce of wine matching. But two are offered – choice rieslings named after ancestor, Cuvée Frédéric Emile, from ‘97 and ‘04. Delightful enough, but the ‘01 spontaneously wizzarded by Taylor (on his list for £100/half bottle) is what really proves the riesling to be cheerful about. Justly commemorating Trimbach's 375th anniversary, this striking syrup unravels with a sustained energy and a beam of acidity. I want to take a taste to heaven, but realise that a version of heaven is already spinning around my glass.

We finish with a crisp quince tarte Tatin (this version of the allegedly accidental dish seems very much in vogue) cleansed with elegantly fading nobly-rotten gewurztraminer from ‘89 - the year that heralded the Soviet Union’s collapse, the Australian PM cried on TV after admitting adultery and Japan’s Fantasty Novel Award was established. Floral, even flamboyant, with a hint of anise on the long-lived, iron-stained palate, the richness of drink and dish finally makes equal fighters.

Marble-sized Poire William-imbued truffles come from Bucks chocolatier, Damian Allsop and are apparently made with a water-based ganache. Regardless, they set like cocoa cannonballs in my tummy.

As we eventually leave, I think I spy Richard Corrigan under the dusky lights - but he actually turns out to be a larger than life she. Byatt kindly gifts us kits in Kilner jars to recreate his signature trotter recipe (albeit on a plate not a plank).

I reflect. Both chef and winemaker showed unremitting passion. Divorcing the ungainly mash, unrequited water bath, and mean Pinot Noir, I spied repeated finesse. But what a shame that there has been such tortured dialogue between dish and glass.

*Disclaimer: any rumours about a Curiosity Kill the Cat comeback gig are sadly fallacious...

Trinity’s next pig master class occurs 2nd March

For details of Enotria’s wine portfolio: http://www.enotria.co.uk/
For Trimbach's story: http://www.maison-trimbach.com/

TRINITY: 4 The Polygon, London. SW4 0JG
FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Haiti Fundraising Banquet

VIA the hedonistic conduit of a celebrity chef-studded foodie extravaganza, the venerable and deeply caring Sabrina Ghayour is seeking to raise funds for victims of Haiti's earthquake - what the UN has already termed 'the worst disaster in living memory.'

Please see: Foodepedia for tickets.

Also sought are deft chef collaborators (to strengthen a stellar team of craftsmen), plus purveyors of the finest foods and beverages...

The aim: to convert pleasure painlessly into charity.

>>sabrina@foodepedia.co.uk<<

Virtual Venison, Computerised Coffee and Pixellated Pâté

I MEET Marcus Carter, founder of the ‘first virtual farmers market’ besides a real one. His vision, excitedly explained in sight of Borough Market, is to amass some of Britain’s best-regarded food artisans, many of whom are his friends, under one colourful cyber-canopy.

Using computer game technology, ‘visitors’ navigate stalls on scorched grass within a kind of cattle-fringed paddock. By clicking on a producer, their profile, products and prices are revealed, as well as a short film. These range from an eloquent, but bland potato harvest sequence (Chase Distillery) to the amusingly stilted compilation of outtakes by Carter’s mother, Margaret. During fits of laughter, she describes the pâté from family firm, ‘Patchwork’ as ‘free from lips and arseholes...’

Carter devised the project 14-months ago whilst hand-selling cartons of pâté at King’s Road farmers market at ‘Partridge’s’ – another independent food firm. ‘As a member of the family, I often sold twice as much as a civilian employee because customers wanted me to recall our history - how mum started almost three decades before with nothing more than £9 of housekeeping. Being unable to clone myself, I believe we (and other producers) can convey such stories just as enthusiastically through the virtual market. After all, how often do you actually meet the maker at a real market?’

Although only open since 1st January, orders are coming in, ‘predominantly due to word of mouth rather than print.’ Indeed, Carter believes that too much of the food fraternity are still obsessed with paper publications. ‘Being on the front page of Times Business offered finite coverage and about 300 hits, whilst a mention in a blog brings closer to 700.’

Carter uses one as a springboard - the anonymously-written, ‘Lost in The Larder’. On it, the author forebodes that the initiative will spell ‘another nail in the coffin’ for the high street, hastening ‘the death of the grocer’. ‘Look’, he says, ‘if we don’t offer an alternative to online shoppers, supermarkets will continue to dominate the internet as well as the high street.’ He then draws my attention to market research by ‘Mintel’, conducted in September. Surely enough, it predicts that online grocery shopping, currently worth £4.4bn will grow to £7bn within five years.

‘I recently attended a meeting with one of Tesco’s five regional buyers, hearing their plans to actively seek £1bn of independent food business per year unravel.’ With a look of defiance, Carter explains ‘it’s something that could mess everything up. If you turn over £300,000 as an indie producer, you can earn yourself a reasonable living. But trying to put what transpires as a small amount of business through a major supermarket, most likely at a questionable margin, and it’s like managing a grain of salt through a factory. What I’m trying to do is offer an organic alternative and capture a share for those that deserve it.’

Carter’s interest in the food industry began at 15 when he left school in north Wales to farm an 98,000-acre ranch in New South Wales. ‘I went there a boy and eight-years later, came back a man. We had 5,500 breeding cows and 140 horses. At weekends, I used to ride rodeos!’

Returning to the UK, he studied agriculture which led to the role of ‘breeding prime bulls’ – a bestial version of Match.com, I joke. ‘I really enjoyed picking the right bull for the right cow, working closely with dairy farmers, who are lovely people.’ Another eight-years on, Carter’s mother decided to expand the family business. ‘I left livestock just as foot and mouth struck, becoming Sales Director for Patchwork. It was a great opportunity to travel whilst spreading the pâté across Europe, America and Asia.’

There are currently 45 producers trading in the virtual market, with a target of 80 by the end of the year. Dispatched from a warehouse close to Canary Wharf, the minimum order is £35 (£11.75 delivery). Whilst this may seem costly, Carter believes it realistically reflects costs. ‘Consider that you’re avoiding driving to the market and paying parking, that our boxes are highly-insulating and strong enough to survive being chucked five-feet in the air by a courier night-shifter, and that you can fill that box with the produce of many suppliers, and it becomes far more tolerable.’

In the near future, Carter envisages each stallholder will supplement their presence with a dedicated Facebook page, posting recipes and regularly answering customers’ queries. In tandem with ‘the bloke with all the technology’, Roger Saunt, of ‘Digital Presence Solutions’, Carter believes that as time moves on and people ‘upgrade to fibre optic cables or equivalent,’ the possibilities ‘will be endless...’

Visit the market at: http://www.vfmuk.com/

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Auguring a Year-Long Feast

ONCE past a rope cordon that initially refused to fall, I escaped hostile weather and outright commerce for the launch of ‘Malaysia Kitchen’. Funded by the Malaysian government, the year-long campaign seeks to increase reservations by a third across London’s 41 eateries (of the UK’s 60) whilst igniting interest in tourism in the ecologically ‘megadiverse’ country.

A sizable group of home-grown celebrity chefs, and diplomats, press and émigré restaurateurs from Malaysia gathered at Westfield’s three-month old ‘Jom Makam’ restaurant (‘Let’s Go Eat’), the £750k sequel to the Pall Mall outlet. The choice of a shopping centre for such pomp and blast wasn’t odd according to my companion, who was raised in Malaysia. Offering air-conditioned refuge to sultry weather, malls are much-loved, with Kuala Lumpur’s ‘Berjaya, Times Square’ allegedly the most sprawling at 7.5 million square-feet.

Eschewing Muslim dictat (60p/c of the population practices Islam), flutes of Bisol Prosecco pepped with raspberries were offered alongside non-alcoholic ‘Air Bandung’ cocktails. The colour of Pepto-Bismol, this thick, soapy blend of rose syrup, condensed milk and draft sparkling water evoked the odour of smouldering drawer-liners.

Formally introducing the event, Malaysian Trade Commissioner to the UK, Raja Badrulnizam Raja Kamalzaman Yassin said, ‘ours is a multi-ethnic, multi-cultural society, but we have been a late starter in using food as an ambassador. We hope in the not too distant future it will find wider acceptance in the UK.’

Staged on tier-two of the three-storey venue, Malaysia’s Deputy Prime Minister, Tan Sri Muhyiddin Yassin (a post once occupied by Dato’ Seri Anwar Ibrahim, jailed for corruption and sodomy) then posed for photographs. Chef subjects included Gordon Ramsay (bathed anyway in flash bulbs from entrance to exit) and disciples Angela Hartnet, Jason Atherton and Stuart Gillies, as well as Henry Harris, Claude Bosi, Shane Osborn, Anthony Demetre, Giancarlo Caldesi, Richard Corrigan and Atul Kochhar (whose restaurant, Benares reopens 18th January). Comedian, presenter and enthusiast cook, Hardeep Singh Kohli was also present. Perhaps explaining such turnout, Kamalzaman Yassin told The Malaysian Insider the previous day that he intended to organise ‘three or four visits this year to bring five or six celebrity chefs at a time to Malaysia to enable them to hone their cooking skills in preparing Malaysian dishes’.

Cheekily, I couldn’t help but imagine how odd it would seem to find Britain’s ex Deputy PM, bulemic John Prescott, lauding our food staples in southeast Asia.

After slightly wan looking, anonymous tasting, cool breaded prawn brochettes and filo swabs, a more Technicolor buffet was carried over our heads. The national dish of close-pressed beef rendang was uplifting and fragrantly spiced with galangal, ginger, kaffir lime and long red chillies, whilst flatbread (roti canai) was a little damp - ‘not crispy with a fluffy centre like it should be’ according to my friend. Finally, ‘Europcar’ green banded ‘kuih lapis’ coconut cakes had the rather more-ish texture of marzipan.

In the distance, a giant pyramid of just baked fortune crackers steamed in the utterly open plan kitchen.

For a list of London’s Malaysian restaurant, including both instances of Jom Makan, visit: www.malaysiakitchen.co.uk where you can sign-up for updates. Malaysia Kitchen will also be sponsoring Taste London in June as well as re-creating a ‘night hawker’s market’ in central London...
FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Putting Words to the F-Word

I CLAWED my way along a dark, slippery Camden alley towards fluorescent rays blinking through frosted glass doors. Disorientated by a board marked ‘Market Kitchen’, I squinted at my map, hastily printed from the internet with no black ink, then gave up and asked a bulky member of staff, was Gordon Ramsay swearing within? Vexed by my interruption to his buffet manoeuvres (the spread evoked the underworld feast in Pan’s Labyrinth) he gave a cursory nod, and plunged tongs into roast beef slithers.

I’d received the call five hours before, whilst sipping a silken cappuccino in a cosy booth at Monmouth Coffee. In a tone of faux enthusiasm, not unlike a psychiatric nurse coaching a geriatric simpleton, the rep from über TV company, Optomen, advised me to ‘get into a tux and be part of the final!’ He had, it transpired, got my details from a well-meaning friend, already on set. I agreed, only to receive the recall, ‘sorry, Douglas, diner numbers have harmonised - although things might change!’ More used to placing TVs on standby, I had inadvertently become a standby for TV. As the day wore on, rep recorded voicemails promising possibility. Eventually, a spare seat transpired. Presumably plied by atrocious, anonymously-packaged booze, were diners dropping? Sensing my exasperation, he craftily poured hope to my inner dipsomaniac. ‘Get yourself down here! You’ll be sitting at the VIP table - unlimited Champagne!’ That turned out to be the biggest lie of 2009.

I was whisked up a fire escape onto the hot, operating theatre bright set. En-route to the VIP table, which it transpired was so-called ‘because Gordon can’t come here’, I clocked at least a dozen familiar faces - food writers, editors and the minds behind the Real Food Festival. There was, and would never be, Champagne, Cava, nor even a dribble of effervescent Perry. Garrotted by bow ties, fellow diners looked forlorn, having passed five hours already with no more sustenance than an overly critiqued starter. Squatting in front of me and inscribed with teethmarks, the ginger-spiked chicken’s leg remants had apparently tasted ‘rather good.’

Before I had the chance to inspect Gordon’s new chin, I was scooped by the rep, made to sign pre-TX confidentiality and release forms (in case I opened my mouth for anything other than consumption) and deposited nearer the tediously evolving action. Brought in to give symmetry to a table which had mysteriously lost its fourth guest (hushed rumours suggested she’d been ‘taken ill’ - hardly inspiring confidence) I took in my companions. To the left, looking like a healthier, more gracefully maturing version of Giles Coren, was Mark Baumann, chef of Baumann’s Brasserie, Essex. To my right, the genuinely-named Holly Aurelius Haddock - youngest member of the Circle of Food Writers and Editor of Flavour Magazine. She would later challenge me to an arm wrestle (and I would back down).

The aim of the game: to rate a selection of dishes from two ‘local’ restaurants, however defined. We would pay a modest contribution to charity for what we enjoyed and damn the rest. Considering Ramsay had the casting vote, it was a largely irrelevant duty, designed only to give the glammed-up magazine show some tension. Rather than compare, we received only one restaurant’s dish at a time, leading to plate envy.

The cook-off pitched Jay Scrimshaw’s thatched Fenland pub 'The Pheasant' at Keystone, apparently popular ‘with shooters’, against Birmingham’s ‘first’ modern Indian, ‘Lasan’ (Aktar Islam). Finalists were simmered from 18 publically-nominated venues delivering dinner for fewer than £25/head across nine categories (British, French, Italian, Indian, Chinese, Spanish, Thai, Americas and Rest of the World).

Reared (as all meat in the programme) by journalist, Janet Street Porter, Islam’s Massala Dexter beef displayed a lightness of touch. Tenderly cooked papaya, ginger and mustard marinated, pink-centered rump nudged discreetly curried pumpkin lounging a green cardamom rich sauce. Although I must agree with Baumann that the slew had the aesthetic appeal of puréed ‘baby poo’, it was a satisfying feed.

Entirely more ambitious, Scrimshaw rather literally put his ‘heart and soul’ onto the plate, masochistically preparing beef three ways: blubbery rib, slowly-desiccated shoulder blade and perhaps controversially for many, latex-like heart. Despite Ramsay’s summation, emphasised with the tick of a banging fist, that it was a great ‘chef’s dish’, the cool medley was further jolted by pickled cabbage - so unpleasurable that our table wouldn't pay.

Neighbouring guests, including Come Dine With Me’s Sabrina Ghayour, were cleared to the basement to make way for a brief recording of Porter’s appraisal of her livestock. Clad in a sort of leopard spotted leotard – mutton dressed as mutton - the televised show suggested she dined in our midst for the whole debacle. Providing some punctuation, and almost interrupting the shoot, a paralytic Portuguese chap was simultanesously dragged away by two black-shirted heavies. His parting gesture to Ramsay? -A request for fellatio.

Onto dessert and the promise of escape, Scrimshaw’s sprawling Tarte Tatin – ‘a take on the apple pie’ looked imposing, but turned out to be a bumpkin of a dish. Oily, with sodden pastry, watery apples and a persistent iodine-smelly, burnt butterscotch aftertaste, it made me wince. The clumsy nipple of surgically-scented vanilla ice cream was only a partial savour.

After being made to clap for an off-site celebrity (whose VT was never shoe-horned in), it was time to reveal the overall scores, to a drum(stick) roll. With 61/100, The Pheasant was bridesmaid versus the victorious Lasan, with 70. It was the right verdict, and despite an infatuation with Scrimshaw’s crowded main, Ramsay sided with the audience.

With that, us weary folk were herded into a spare studio to give subs for slops. It was close to midnight and raining.

Click HERE for Aktar Islam's Massala Beef with Curried Pumpkin.

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Tea Total

Amidst The Lanesborough Hotel’s service bells and cake carousels, I meet self-titled ‘Tea Sommelier’, Karl Kessab. The glamorous conservatory currently holds the UK Tea Council’s ‘Award of Excellence’, and regularly achieves London’s ‘Top Afternoon Tea’.

Where did afternoon tea originate?

Feeling peckish between lunch and dinner, Anna Maria Russell, 7th Duchess of Bedford, asked her butler for small cakes and delicate sandwiches to accompany her tea. On inviting friends to share the ceremony, it soon became fashionable. Fast forward 200-years, and we’ve refined Russell’s ritual. I’ve made the pilgrimage to Woburn Abbey, where it all began.

Is it strange that a non-Brit has become famous for rejuvenating a British tradition?

It’s ironic, but flattering. Whilst I grew-up in Algiers, where tea is an inherent part of the culture, I actually refined my interest in the UK, working and attending workshops with the Tea Council, who are based in Fulham. I’m indebted to the British who are the best brokers bringing in the finest teas. It all happens here!

What do the UK Tea Council look for when assessing London’s Top Afternoon Tea?

They judge 16 categories covering opulent surroundings, consummate knowledge, a comprehensive tea carte with great core teas, and fastidious tea etiquette. As you might imagine, there is rigorous competition between London’s top hotels.

Can you spot an inspector?

To an extent, especially when they ask specific questions, although it is harder to spot incognito ‘couples’ who book on a busy Saturday. They try to get you one way or another over two-to-three visits. The winner is formally presented with a vase by artist, Adam Aronson in March. We’ve running out of room on our display.

Do you see yourself as a tea doctor?

I can truly guide people, helping them match up to four teas a sitting with their meal, as well as informing them about the history of a style. Tea and food pairing is becoming increasingly in vogue. I marry Earl Grey with chocolate and white with seafood. Black, inevitably, works with a hearty breakfast. Working closely with Tal Hausen, our pastry chef, we’re imaginatively reinventing menus and delicately infusing tea cakes with tea leaves.

Are modern sippers more savvy?

They’re more inquisitive about tea’s complexities as well as its health benefits, which is perhaps why green tea seems to be selling so well. I’ve enjoyed forging relationships with guests who approach me as an expert, bringing samples of Rooibos from South Africa, or telling me about holidays spent amongst Darjeeling’s tea gardens. The latter were surprised when I explained that to satisfy demand, up to 90p/c of Darjeeling plants grow in Nepal rather than West Bengal.

Are your teas available elsewhere?

Judging by the daily e-mails, a lot of people want to buy my blends, which have become brands. But my list is unique – I’ll attend auctions and buy whole shipments in my quest to refine it, so our teas are only available from The Lanesborough.

How is your signature afternoon blend devised?

I’ve built the base with delicate, fragrant Darjeeling from the ‘Doumurdullong’ tea garden. This is mashed with Chinese ‘Keemum’ and fired over rose petals, which achieves balance. Being a versatile blend, guests may add milk or enjoy it black. Due to its cleansing acidity, it never sits on the palate.

Do you prefer putting milk in first?

Afterwards - or not at all - as more guests than ever are willing to try.

Has anyone read your tea leaves?

I’m not superstitious, although I can tell the ‘terroir’ in which the tea was grown by peering at the dregs.

Are you interested in applying tea tasting techniques to other things?

I’ve taken part in water tastings, successfully distinguishing sources. As a result, ‘Braun’ tried to persuade me to put my name to their kettle.

Do different teas require different temperatures?

Absolutely, which we achieve through a range of kettles and Russian Samovar’s. For example, black is best between 87-90 degrees, whilst our handpicked white from Doomurdullung, of which only 2kg was produced this year, blossoms at 83-85. We also have iced teas and outstanding aged options.

Are you surprised by the interest you generate?

It’s amazing! A Google search yields pages of results. Following a feature for a German magazine, I noted a lot of German guests asking me, ‘was that you in the picture?’ I grabbed a niche, capitalising on Britain’s unexploited bounty, communicating the sheer range available. Being good at what I do also helps!

Do you ever see your speciality as trivial in a chaotic world?

I never take politics to tea. My aim is simply to make sure people enjoy what they drink.

How much do you drink?

Less than a cup a day, believe it or not. I tend not to sit around sipping tea all-day, but constantly taste.

How do you cleanse your palate?

By drinking up to four gallons of filtered water a day, and plenty of mint tea. I also keep fit, running in the afternoons, and playing polo on days off.

How long is your day?

Between 12-14 hours. At The Lanesborough, we’re perceived as setting the standard, so I often continue research and blending at home in Surbiton.

How many teas are on your list?

56, although I am able to craft something else to suit a guest’s mood. ‘Sit tight,’ I’ll say, then play, shuffling some leaves and apply the magic touch. Whilst I never disclose a formula, I keep meticulous notes to keep track of trends.

Where is the best afternoon tea outside England?

Despite a relatively small collection, the afternoon tea at La Gallerie, Hotel ‘Georges V’, Paris is fabulous, with fresh cakes and pristine etiquette such as changing the cup after the third pour and exchanging the leaves. Conversely, I’ve suffered establishments where they’ve insisted that Lapsang-Souchong was Darjeeling.

What tea trends do you see internationally?

I have strong links with Los Angeles and have visited some amazing tea shops there. One shopkeeper mentioned that his main buyers ‘are of course British,’ followed by Russians and Arabs, ‘who will buy tea if it’s £150/kilo.’ The Americans, meanwhile, purchase predominantly for health reasons rather than flavour.

You were the first, but where would we find other tea sommeliers?

New York.

What are the oddest tea-related questions you’ve heard?

‘Will tea make me look younger, reduce cholestoral, or enhance my libido?’ I advise those asking to observe China, a tea culture who live long, healthy lives.

How might climate change affect your passion?

Fortunately, tea is one of the more resistant plants, particularly black tea. The biggest threat is fire.

Will we ever sew tea in the UK?

We already do in Devon and Cornwall, although I don’t generally rate it.

What are your thoughts on ‘Starbucks’ et al?

Coffee has become a must-have in big cities. It’s seen as the networking drink, although I’ve seen an increase in people doing business over ‘power teas’. Whilst I like coffee, it’s worth noting that tea outsells it by three cups to one worldwide. What was once seen as a drink for the elderly is increasingly of interest to a new generation. If demand wasn’t there, why would Starbucks offer their own tea collection? In my opinion, tea’s becoming the new coffee...

What’s brewing?

I’d love to own a nice tea place of my own one day, most likely in the UK, where I could continue to work closely with rare teas.

Afternoon tea costs from £35 and commences 4pm, 4.30pm and 5pm daily
Gluten and dairy-free options are available with 12-hours notice
THE LANESBOROUGH - Hyde Park Corner, London. SW1X 7TA
FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Re-Generating Tuscany

‘I WANTED the ceiling to be vaulted, but my sister, Agnese – the architect – insisted it should be level,’ said Felippo Mazzei of Fonterutoli, whose ancestor recorded the name ‘Chianti’ over 600-years ago. Lined in quartz-specked concrete and propped by a grid of needle-like pillars, the stark, ultra-modern, gravity-fed vault resembled a Mayfair car-park. Only here barrels from Limousin replaced limousines from Germany. Agnese, who has also sculpted wineries for Brancaia, Antinori and the barrel room for Sassacaia ‘interpreted the project structurally and economically, never wanting a ‘Disney’ cellar.’

Possibly without intending to, Mazzei had captured Tuscany’s zeitgeist. Emanating from Florence, home of the Renaissance, and roughly triangular from the northern point of the Tyrrhenian Sea to the central Apennines, it is arguably the world’s most romantically-sculpted wine region. However, whilst winemaking dates to the Etruscans, today’s producers appear prepared to thoughtfully modernise.

In the solid company of Ben Smith of specialist importers, ‘Enotria’, ‘Harpers Wine and Spirit’ Editor, Richard Siddle and broadcaster Olly Smith, I had come to drink-in the wines of luminaries – Mazzei, Cecchi, Poliziano and Fattoria dei Barbi. I wondered how a land which survived 14 consecutive days of wartime bombing had, more recently, surmounted the enduring caricature of the wicker fiascho corset...
We met Felippo on the eve of the Sangiovese harvest – the thin-skinned, late-ripening grape which is the basis for Chianti, Brunello di Montalcino and Vino Nobile di Montepulciano. An economist by training, Felippo took time on his birthday to show us around. Set within the heart of Chianti Classico, this is the family’s flagship winery, although like many forward-thinking producers, there are also holdings on the balmy Maremma coast, named after the brown ‘Maremmano’ horses once bred for the military. There, growing on particularly acidic soils, the bitter chocolate-tasting Morellino di Scansano is increasingly in vogue.
It was calming to take refuge from the last summer rays 15-metres underground. Breaking a modern partition, Agnese carved ‘windows’ onto sheer rock. Glistening with the weekend’s rainfall - 22mm of an annual 600mm - these provide natural climate control. Whilst the deluge quenched the grapes, it also meant delays to harvest, which is ‘a kind of roulette’ according to Felippo. He quoted ‘95 as almost perilously drawn-out, which turned-out to be ‘the vintage of the decade.’
Amidst a gentle hum upstairs, 120 separately-vinified fermenters catalogued five different terroirs. These parcels of land are naturally-farmed, although not according to ‘the cult’ of biodynamism. Whilst climate change ‘is hard to quantify’, Felippo assures, ‘we’re all more careful with our farming now. We’ve learnt how clay absorbs pesticides, which will still be there 25-years on. We have our name on the bottle and our grapes in the wine – we won’t take risks with pesticides.’
A tasting over dinner of still sizzling strips of beef tagliata at Felippo’s Osteria, festooned with hunting trophies, revealed in crystal the clear differences the new winery has made. Following the inaugural ‘06 vintage, Fonterutoli’s wines appeared leavened, crisper – direct. Bearing a reproduction of the writ recording Chianti’s naming by ‘Ser Lapo’, the ‘06 Chianti Classico (90p/c Sangiovese/Merlot) had an alluring perfume of violets and liquorice, leaving almost potassium permanganate traces on the glass. In contrast, the ‘05 was dense and broody, with a bitter-jag of acidity.
Aside from nuance of vintage, the architecture of the wine mirrored that of the winery, which allows gentler handling of the ‘easily bruised’ Sangiovese followed by the softening influence of a gentle stream of air through the wine known as ‘micro-oxygenation’.

However the move to a more accessible style can have side effects. According to the improbably glamorous enologist, Miria Cecchi of the nearby eponymous winery, the less acidic Sangiovese of the ‘90’s encouraged rogue dipsomaniac yeast, ‘brettanomyces’ to thrive. Cecchi’s solution lay within the parquet floor. ‘We got rid of the affected barrels and here they are.’ Glinting tartaric crystals bore testament.

Asbo for Crowing Cockerel?

After a night in Fonterutoli’s converted hunting lodge broken by the crow of a cockerel - a noisy nod to the Gallo Nero symbol of the forward-thinking protectionist Chianti Classico Consortium of 1924, we found ourselves overlooking a ploughed field. Cecchi’s estate manager, Giuseppe Mezzedemi announced this ‘sea of mud’, so-called because of the water-table below, as the ‘the ninth vineyard’.

Further uphill, in the shade of 1,001 olive trees representing the year Cecchi’s Villa Cerna mansion was built, we tasted two bunches of grapes, laid-out on a table. Although both Sangiovese, one ‘clone’ had small, tightly clustered, bitter berries whilst the others were larger, sparse and richer. The superior strain was isolated in 2003 by research scientists gifted one hectare of land – part of a 15-year project endorsed by the ministry of agriculture. Considering viticulture started here in 1083, one could argue that this represents more progress in six years than almost 1,000.

The show continued in the winery. After a tour of a cellar adorned by da Vinci-inspired engraved steel panels, we sat on paper-white, Mies van der Rowe chairs where we were bathed in mission statements and jargon. I yearned for the wines to live-up to the spiel.

Unfortunately Miria’s wines were inaccessible – too slim, with mean profiles. To my astonishment, this even included the top ‘Coevo’, a Super-Tuscan (made to a recipe including Italian-sewn, French varieties) ‘made with no rules’ and ‘different every year’. At opposite ends of a glass-topped table, brothers Cesare and Andrea clearly hoped this could elevate their image as a supplier of simple supermarket wines. Sadly, neither its immense (and immensely ugly) bespoke vial, nor accompanying film redeemed it.

After lunch of slow-cooked, contemporary canapés, we ventured south-west to a producer with just two generations of winemaking pedigree. Looking like a more outdoorsy ‘Kojak’, Federico Carletti, who trained as an agricultural engineer, runs Poliziano alongside duties as president of the Consorzio of Vino Nobile di Montepulciano and regular hunting escapades. He recalls, ‘when my father, Dino founded the estate in 1961, there was only a barn with a white Chianina – the cow famous for steak Florentine.’

Designer Footwear, Ancient Soils

As we stood amongst ripe Prugnolo Gentile, a strain of Sangiovese particular to Montepulciano (as opposed to Montepulciano d’Abruzzo), believed to date from 700AD, I became mesmerised by Federico’s translator’s Gucci loafers, which had disturbed an ants’ nest. Qualifying his passion for producing long-lived wines which often blend French varieties, Federico described his vinous epiphany. ‘As younger men, enologist Maurizio Castelli and I visited Grand Cru St. Émilion producer, Château Figeac in ‘83. Blind-tasting, we mistook a ‘70 as just five months-old. That evening changed the way I made wine – now they’re built to last.’ On French varieties, he spoke forthrightly. ‘There is a trend for journalists to look for ‘true’ wines and Super-Tuscans have become true wines, although some journalists don’t understand that.’

Over a quarter of a century on at 50, Federico says he will never change his philosophy – ‘my blends have become brands.’ However, he is clearly interested in experimentation, most recently planting Niellucio, a relative of Sangiovese thriving on Corsica, in the Maremma. Unfortunately, ‘whilst the leaves and grapes looked perfect, the wine is bitter.’

In the newer part of the winery, added to, rather than replacing the original, to ‘show 45-years of life’, Federico handed us tank samples of vivid, animal, seven-day old Syrah. Grown in Cortona, the setting for film, ‘Under the Tuscan Sun’, Federico hinted that Rhône winemaker and former Decanter ‘Man of the Year’, Marcel Guigal was an influence. ‘My wines are big wines, from big hands.’

Because he is jaded by Michelin-starred temples to gastronomy, we ate the sensuous local dish of black truffle-crusted steak within the walls of Montepulciano – a tribute, perhaps to the Chianina of Azienda Poliziano’s origins. Outside our window, one of the town’s most exciting festivals occurs on the last Sunday of August - the barrel-rolling race to the top of the town. ‘I’m too old to do that now, although I heard that the best time ever was nine minutes’, said Federico. Arguably the most dedicated of gastronomes, Brillat-Savarin once wrote: ‘the truffle makes women more tender and men more amiable’ – but no more athletic. After the extravagant supper, I doubted my ability to make it up the hill, even without a barrel to push.

Classicism

Westwards to Montalcino, things become more slick. An archery tournament replaces barrel-rolling. Standing in Fattoria dei Barbi’s curiously domesticated cellars, featuring silk flowers, an old pool table and family pictures, export manager, Raffaella Guidi Federzoni lamented the recent new-wave of prospectors. ‘Some of the people who came from the mid-‘90’s have a ‘here was jungle’ mentality.’ Whilst I understood such sentiments, I couldn’t help but think back to Federico, who might also be considered a modern intrusion in Montepulciano.

Meaning ‘small dove’, the ‘Colombino’ family who own Barbi have experienced a lengthy wine-making timeline, interrupted only by 14th century banker, Giovanni, canonised for giving-up his fortune during a ‘mid-life crisis’. Rafaella mentioned, ‘it took two generations to build land back up!’

Barbi has strong ties with iconic producer, Biondi-Santi, which takes the name of Clemente Santi, a local farmer who isolated the prized Grosso clone in the 18th century. Today, ‘Boba’ Santi is the cousin of Francesca Colombino. Of bringing the past into the present, Raffaella said, ‘until the ‘60’s, Brunello was a wine known only to an elite and mostly sold in demijohns. Barbi worked with Biondi to bottle it and sell directly to clients.’ Inquisitiveness is clearly in the genes of the Colombino family. Apart from conducting two decades of research into vineyard density, Stefano Cinelli Colombino is respected for his recent work in creating an ‘electronic nose’ for wine analysis.

Over lunch of estate reared cured pig and wild boar charcuterie from livestock ‘allowed to rest over the weekend before slaughter’, Raffaella proved the only producer to speak severely on climate change. ‘Stefano’s birthday falls on 26th October, which used to signal the harvest. Now it occurs a full month before.’ Regardless of coming from a heat-wave, the ‘03 Riserva appeared to have resisted heat’s ravages, thankfully. Whilst barely in puberty, the young, contoured, iron fist in a velvet glove gave me goose-bumps.

Message in the Tannic Dregs?

Over three days roaming this intriguing, independent-minded region (which is not, incidentally, a Berlusconi stronghold) I had drunk-in the philosophies of four very different producers. Seeing the harvest and tasting the juice from open top fermenters with contents like summer pudding and a giddy audience of fruit flies had been undeniably romantic. However producers still need to work to sell their wines. Unlike what might be considered ‘cash-cow’ first growth Bordeaux estates, even the cream of Tuscan wine is not yet a favourite of markets like Asia. Thoughtful modernisation whilst living with the best of the past is, it seems the key to clean, bright and complex wines. And aside from climate change there is another concern, as Federico Carletti expressed. ‘Today’s younger generation are more interested in I-Pods than anything Bacchus can produce.’
Modernity, it seems, might have a drawback...

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Conceived as my entry for Young Wine Writer of the Year Award (Circle of Wine Writers) - achieved 'runner-up' status

Oat Cuisine to Haute Cuisine

[First published: Delicious]

‘I LIVE in fear of the day a chav chef deep fries another headline-grabbing monstrosity,’ hissed Graeme Pallister, co-owner of 63 Tay Street in Perth, Scotland’s first city to be crowned a ‘Cittaslow’ by Slow Food. ‘That Mars bar killed us. We’ve got great scenery, history and people, but we’re still not pushing the food hard enough. There are too many chain restaurants soaking our cities, feeding our tourists sugary, salty highs playlisted from central depots.’It seems that the youthful but sceptical Masterchef of Great Britain is not alone in his concerns over Scotland’s food image. Despite having arguably one of the best larders for game, fish and berries, an increasing tally of Michelin-starred restaurants and an over-subscription of applicants for hospitality jobs, with around a quarter of adults considered obese, Scotland also has one of the poorest diet-related health records in the developed world. Fascinated by this culinary conundrum, and spurred on by the government’s new Food and Drink Policy, addressing ‘quality, health and wellbeing, environmental sustainability and the need for access and affordability’, I travelled north of the border to gauge the opinions of the country’s leading chefs.

‘The best and worst aspects of the Scottish diet are a result of the climate,’ explained Martin Wishart of the eponymous Michelin-starred Leith restaurant. ‘Living through long dark nights and cold, cold winters, people crave comfort food.’ However, it is ‘precisely this climate which provides variety across all seasons,’ including ‘resilient animals, supreme fish and shellfish from cold, deep waters, ceps, girolles, and four seasons of Vivaldi potatoes, going from ivory white to lemon-yellow.’
Rather than the environment, Paul Kitchling of Edinburgh’s most high profile opening of the year, the £4.5m boutique hotel and restaurant 21212, blames an ingrained ‘fight first, feast later’ mentality. Unlike traditionally family-orientated Europeans, the Scottish (and English) were historically more concerned with ‘fuelling the empire rather than savouring flavours.’
However, South African expat, Pete Gottgens of Perthshire’s Ardeonaig Hotel and restaurant considers a traditionally detached interest in diet to be ‘the fault of a beautiful landscape.’ As with his home country ‘food can become an afterthought against such a distractingly dramatic landscape.’

But hotel chef of the year Roy Brett of Edinburgh’s Ondine, a brand new seafood restaurant and bar featuring an ‘End of The Line’ mural, is adamant that whilst Scotland ‘hasn’t had the culinary cultural points of Europe, we are catching up quickly.’ Coming from a farming background, Tom Lewis of the family-run Monachyle Mhor Hotel and restaurant, Lochearnhead notices the shift, but cautions, ‘change takes up to three generations. Take Chorleywood bread – easy to deride, but it’s all about what’s right at the time.’ Lewis aims to deliver ‘perceived value, which we must learn to accept can be expensive.’ Having spent a lot of time consulting in Europe over the past year, Lewis was ‘struck by the bounty of Scottish fish on their markets – not cheap, but then again, there, it’s not expected to be.’ Tom Kitchin, who is Scotland’s youngest chef-proprietor to earn a Michelin star, notes, ‘when I learnt my craft with the French masters, I was often using Scottish produce as a matter of course.’ Rather than paying attention to ‘celebrity chefs and their stories of bullying,’ Graeme Pallister believes in nurturing producers and foragers. ‘They are Gods, working 24 hours a day. I believe that the biggest learning curve for both chef and consumer is to speak to them directly.’

Shirley Spear, a renowned food commentator and owner of Skye’s Three Chimneys hotel and restaurant – 'the French Laundry of Scotland’ according to the New York Times – is one of many restaurateurs proud to feature a roll call of food talent on her menu. ‘Our success is 100% a two-way street. Over 25 years, we’ve built up our suppliers, from being scared of not being able to sell what they grew, coping with storms blowing down polytunnels, getting sun when they wanted rain and rain when they wanted sun, to the ups and downs of foot and mouth and MSC/FSA legislation. But ultimately it’s worked. The public are beginning to recognise Scotland as one of the richest sources of top ingredients anywhere.’

Spear believes chefs are now ‘hell-bent on extolling fresh produce.’ Those include non-Scots, Kitchling, Lewis and Gottgens, who set up north of the border specifically to get closer to the produce. Indeed Gottgens recently secured 8,500 acres of Perthshire estate to husband ‘old ironside pigs, game, hardy cows and black-faced sheep.’ A contrast to London, where he ‘was moving so much produce south’ that it ‘felt like wagging the dog by the tail.’ The result is a ‘significant reduction in the time from harvest to slaughter to consumption.’ Roy Brett feels the same. ‘When I looked after Rick Stein’s restaurants, it was nostalgic but strange to see Scottish fish in Padstow.’

I wondered in what form Scotland’s undoubted bounty of ingredients are spun into modernity. Spear sees dishes ‘getting lighter with subtler saucing and smaller portions. Unlike ‘the days of the Bernie Inn, people don’t feel the need to go out to get completely bloated anymore.’

At the Michelin-starred Kitchin in Leith, Tom Kitchin endeavours ‘to reinvent traditional Scottish dishes in an extreme way.’ A successful example is his ‘very clean, wee amuse-bouche of cock-a-leekie made with jellied cubes of slow-cooked chicken consommé with rice and prunes.’ As Pallister puts it, ‘a dish is like a wheel – you can keep the basic shape whilst changing the spokes,’ although ‘now is the time to push offal to the side.’

Paul Kitchling considers there are now enough restaurants ‘to provide food for your mood.’ He authors what might be considered the least Scottish cuisine. ‘From my electric, mellow-yellow kitchen, we warm, caress and slowly cook. The results are intelligent, multi-layered, precise, even arty-farty. And with £4.5m in this, I hope my efforts work. I know I collapse in bed a King and wake up as meek as a mouse.’

But Spear is cynical about such an experimental approach, quoting fellow Scot, Gordon Ramsay’s failed restaurant, Amaryllis in Glasgow, the city of his birth. ‘He was trying to impose something that wasn’t Scotland, showing no empathy with the locality. A “regard me and flock” attitude doesn’t work up here.’

Despite the Three Chimney’s remote location, Spear’s head chef, Michael Smith, believes he benefits from a wider perspective. ‘Unlike London, where chefs look inwards, we can take all the good things of the mainland and leave behind the crap.’

So what of the future? All the chefs I spoke to agreed that the best way to ensure consistently full restaurants and further mushrooming of Michelin rated establishments is through cultivating talent. Indeed, Roy Brett believes that there has never before been such an exciting time for people to enter the trade. ‘When I put out a job ad for Ondine, over 400 applicants responded in 36 hours. Many were graduates fascinated by our philosophy of responsible sourcing. On occasions it felt like I was being interviewed!’ However, Pallister is unconvinced that all interest is good. ‘With higher unemployment, catering shouldn’t be seen as a way out of a tight spot – we need to maintain ethics.’

Wishart not only sits on the government’s food policy board, but wholeheartedly supports initiatives such as Prince Charles’ proposed food academies - ‘a very large subject, but potentially distracting too.’ To avoid ‘contributing to the national dish of diabetes’ and move on from what he describes as his ‘ping-pong microwave generation,’ Pallister has raised finance for a teaching kitchen in his former primary school. ‘My message is that home economics needn’t focus on traffic-light sandwiches.’

As with Pallister, who is ‘disgusted’ by the notion of the liberties taken with kids' menus in restaurants – ‘often pure Brakes Brothers served alongside decent adult meals’ – Roy Brett believes that ‘inclusive, family dining’ provides the most appealing education: ‘let’s call it ‘fish and kids’. I love to see little blazers hanging from the chairs.’

Via his own bakery, butchery and farm, Lewis delights in ‘picking garlic with school children and making potato soup and hot fluffy sausage rolls.’ Gottgens advocates an inclusive approach, inviting ‘every guest to see my open and honest kitchen. Providing there is space, they can dine in it too. We’ve had 90 year-olds getting involved, offering to do the washing-up! Let’s break down the barriers.’

Thinking even wider, all chefs crave a reinstatement of traditional markets. With the vitality of one famous for masterminding the largest barbecue or ‘brae’ in London, Gottgens launched the inaugural food festival in Ardeonaig in October 2009. ‘But I don’t see why people without a garden can’t cultivate window boxes full of produce to share with each other.’

Overall, the mood seems buoyant. Spear believes those involved in Scotland’s food ‘are doing everything for the right reasons and ultimately minimising the carbon footprint although sometimes Scots don’t realise what they’ve got on doorstep.’ She adds, ‘there is more palatable food available than ever before, from seafood shacks to small bistros and excellent hotel dining rooms. But we’re still lacking the good cooking at the mid-price range which England delivers through the gastro-pub scene.’ Ultimately, there has been ‘more change in the Scottish palate in the past 10 years than 200,’ according to Lewis. Despite being initially ‘scared to look at the history of Scottish cooking’ and cherishing the Larousse Gastronomique ‘which all chefs should have,’ Pallister has become ‘Scottish-proud’ of his country’s culinary roots and is very hopeful for the future. ‘London,’ he says, ‘has dominated the food scene for far too long...’

For more information: Visit Scotland

Hebridean 'Love Boat'

‘You can do twins in there’ said Chief Purser, Dave Inge. Despite the fact that the ‘Hebridean Princess’ had been termed ‘a love boat’ by speaker, Martin Bell OBE on account of the frequent marriages between passengers and passengers, crew and crew, and possibly passengers and crew, Inge was not speaking with innuendo. In fact the stateroom’s king-size double splits on request.

Coinciding with the launch of the world’s largest passenger ship, ‘Oasis of the Seas’, I boarded one of the most bijou for afternoon tea. Because of force 10 gales, Hebridean Princess had taken an extra two days to motor from Oban to Canary Wharf. Unlike Oasis’ seven themed ‘neighbourhoods’, the ‘unashamedly elitist’ Princess offers ‘a very British country house party atmosphere’, according to Royal Hebridean’s Chairman, Lord Sterling.

Whilst 37 crew look after a maximum 49 passengers (Oasis carries 5,400), the 72-metre vessel (as opposed to Oasis’ 360) started life humbly. Launched in 1964 as ‘MV Columba’, she ferried passengers and cars between Scotland’s remote islands until conversion into a luxury cruiser in 1988. Life must be gentler now, as she meanders Scotland’s volcanic landscape and Norway’s Fjords at a stately 11 knots, pausing to float passengers closer to wildlife in inflatable Zodiacs. Still sentimental for Britannia, the most notable charge has been the Queen who chartered the vessel for her 80th birthday at a reported £125,000.

I went for crust-less finger sandwiches, baby scones and Duval-Leroy fizz against the electric glow of an inglenook fire. Next to me, Director of the Real Food Festival, Philip Lowery had just an inch clearance from the 6’4” ceiling.

Introducing the on-board programme of talks, Editor of BBC History Magazine, Greg Neale said: ‘passengers are fascinated by where they’re going - they’ve paid to be here and can be a tough bunch for a lecturer.’ Also present, man in the white suit Martin Bell talked about his recent exposé on MP’s claims, ‘A Very British Revolution’ (aka ‘Swindler’s List’). ‘A ship is one of the best places to write a book’, he said. ‘I produced 21,000-words in a fortnight.’

Unlike large cruise ships which thaw much of their offering from frozen, the Princess is stored weekly, according to Sous Chef, Michael Hall. Blessed with a generous budget ‘and very few vegetarians’, five chefs craft ‘classic British’, with staples like the Sunday roast as well as highland venison, Oban lobsters, seabass and scallops. In addition to main meals and afternoon tea, sherry decanters are kept topped in cabins and fruit and other nibbles are always available. Guests are also welcomed to see the galley on the evening of the seven-course ‘gala’ dinner.

Most crew spend five weeks on-board, with two weeks off. Amongst their benefits, a dedicated staff chef works on themed meal evenings, including ‘successful Indian and Polish nights.’

Unlike Oasis, cabins have names not numbers and cannot be locked. Should we both live to a decent age, I may well embark for a break one day. A far more elegant way to expand my waistline than a plastic-fantastic, 16-storey leviathan...

Hebridean Princess will be out of service until March 2010 for a refit.

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Hove-ward Bound

CONSIDERING consumption (and copulation) are life’s cornerstones, the desire to know what others are eating is hardly surprising. But bites for bytes, it does seems that everyone has become a critic these days, vis-à-vis the Big Bang of blogs, review sites and real-time, mealtime, ‘Twitter’ updates...

Such instant, accessible and often entertaining reviews must cramp the style of resto-ranting mainstream critics, many of whom have enjoyed a kind of culinary ‘Droit de Seigneur’ for rather too long.
Other than receiving an occasional insult from them, my frustration with the paid print ‘cholesterasauri’ is their London focus. If it’s well-sourced, competently cooked and elegantly served, I’ll travel miles for a memorable meal. In the past month alone, I’ve savoured sublime seafood in Scotland and perfect pork on Jersey.
More entertaining than the town’s floral clock and in ruder health than its ill-looking palms, Hove’s ‘L’Eglise’ brasserie is well-worth an escape from the capital’s chaos. Founded by former Camden and Covent Garden restaurateur, Jean-Christophe Martin (above) and his wife, Julia, I am told that the majority of customers track it down via word of mouth.
I booked for a Bordeaux-themed banquet – a journey in five-courses and five-wines chosen by Knight of France’s Order of Agricultural Merit, François Domange (top). Domange begun tasting wine ‘by age three’, becoming proficient in cellar duties in the Loire ‘at 13.’ A kind of ‘vinous angel’, he now works with small, largely unknown estates, advising on style and branding whilst taking care of sales and export. Customers include the Holy Grail, ‘Le Gavroche’.
Representing Bordeaux’s ‘Miroir d’Eau’ - a rectangle of shallow water reflecting buildings on the Place de la Bourse - we started with a glossy tile of al-dente dim sum sacks of pristine steamed duck foie gras and meaty goose confit crossed with expressive Cabernet Sauvignon paste. Rested, Château Pavilion Rocher’s ’04 Grand Cru added fine, truffle-scented savoury facets and a little dry herbs and fruit.
As one waiter transported roast duck legs to the estate agents next-door, another brought us tender monkfish tail ‘caught from the middle of the English Channel’. Served with saffron-kissed, beady rice and pearl-like grapes, a sufficient depth of velouté coated the forkful – far more functional than a few dainty, decorative dots. ’07 Graves Blanc (Domaine Moulin à Vent) was aromatic and full-bodied with honeysuckle, discernible bite and a long, dry, mineral rich finish. A slight trace of resin brought the pine tree windbreaks that protect the vineyard into the glass.
The absolute highlight was the Côte Bordelaise (beef short rib) lacquered with lustrous winey sauce lifted with cinnamon and star anise. According to Martin, who originally worked as a chef, this was inspired by ‘Balthazar’, New York’s ‘ultimate’ Parisian-styled restaurant. From the same soil as illustrious, Château Beychevelle, Château du Retout’s Haut Medoc Cru Bourgeois ’02 was sturdy, with saddle leather, earthy cress, some cassis and cosy game notes, echoing the ruddy seven-week matured meat. Incidentally, by arrangement, the restaurant will push some cuts to three months maturity. By contrast, conversation fleetingly turned to Heather Mills’ nearby vegan café...
Unfortunately, grilled goat’s ‘Fromage d’Aquitaine’ on walnut toast lost its grace alongside still-closed Saint-Estèphe Fief de la Haye (’05). When spun in the glass, it left inky traces like potassium permanganate. Despite Domange ‘not being scared of it’, the vinaigrette binding an accompanying mesclun muddled matters further.
Lastly, jelly-shaped, chewy-edged Canelé de Bordeaux baked in copper and enhanced with vanilla ice cream achieved sybaritic unison with young, cleansing Sauternes. This presently light-coloured sweetie came from Château Caillou – a surprisingly well-known wine to punctuate Domange’s otherwise low-key portfolio (’07).
It was unquestionably worth the journey for this journey, which brought the world’s largest fine wine region 1,000 miles closer. At £70 inclusive of fizz, all matches and espresso, it seemed fairly priced. Whilst omissions, like the absence of side-plates proved a perpetual niggle, the culinary mastery of chef, Jean Yves Guiomar (particularly his dexterous saucing) combined with Domange’s thoughtful vinous collaborations made this meal a standout...

The next epicurean event takes place 15th December.
L’EGLISE: 196 Church Road, Hove. BN3 2DJ
FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Style, Scanned

MARINA, author of addictive fashion site, 'Style Scanner' and partner of cork connoisseur, Jonathan ('Wine Splodge') is hosting this decadently dressed mannequin. Dazed and hungover, I snapped it following the 24-hour train journey from St. Pancras to Portugal for the European Wine Bloggers Conference.

Read Marina's interpretation HERE.

To recall the off-campus activities of the European Wine Bloggers conference, here are some final photos, beginning with the sparsely planted Tejo cork forests and factory floor of uber producer, Amorim.

Sentry, Quinta da Lagolva

Liquid buffet, Niepoort

Liquid lothario, Cristiano van Zeller of Quinta Vale D. Maria

Quinta do Vallado

Aqua Pura Hotel, Douro. So hi-tech, I couldn't switch off the lights.

Filmically grand tasting, Quinta do Crasto

Douro train

Chestnuts, Quinta do Vale Meão

Alongside the windy road

Express Distress

THE rambling basement sequel to Waterloo’s ‘Bangalore Express’ has a colour scheme resembling a hyped sports shoe, austere seating and A3 placemats that double as menus (supplemented by a la carte flyers).
The food compliment comprises a bewilderingly expansive array of dishes, from Indi-tapas to solitary low fat plate, via (drawing breath): French ostrich tikka, Caribbean curried goat, South African Bunny Chow, Indian Fish ‘n’ Chips, Massala Burgers, Indian Calzone and a 28-box strong customisable flow chart of ‘big plates of curry and rice’, not forgetting appalling desserts.
Despite a lightness of touch from a kitchen dealing with what totals over 100 combinations, and a pleasant, patient, knowledgeable team front of house, the muddling of genres will infuriate a purist.
My verdict? -This is a case of simplify or die...

BANGALORE EXPRESS: 1 Corbet Ct, Gracechurch St. EC3V 0DT

Cutting Cheese on Moxon Street

‘All top gastronomy writers survive on Milk Thistle – you really must start taking it,’ advised Dacotah Renneau, the venerable PR from leading Prosecco producer, ‘Bisol’. In addition to Mark Hix’s tenderly cured salmon, Richard Haward’s fragrant native oysters and La Fromagerie’s artisan cheeses, Dacotah’s tall flutes offered revitalisation. They helped untangle the tightly-bound cliques of food writers, commissioning editors and Masterchef alumni too.

I had come to arguably London’s best cheesemonger, La Fromagerie, Moxon Street for the London launch of Marianne Lumb’s ‘Knife Skills’ book, a ‘remarkably informative and useful’, step-by-step guide to mastering carving, dicing, slicing, chopping, boning, mincing and filleting.

In addition to writing, Lumb works as an international private chef to the stars, including Elton John, and as a culinary consultant. However she is best-known for graduating the BBC’s ‘Masterchef’ contest as finalist. Fame through television has seen an escalation of interest in both her book (a larger print run is planned early 2010) and her personal profile (Lumb’s mother is employed, full-time, to respond to fan mail).

Sipping the couth, pear-scented Prosecco with brittle, sweet Parmesan crackers then tense, immaculate Brillat-Savarin and powerful Fourme d’Ambert blue, I listened to the speeches unfold. ‘We look for specific attributes in an author,’ explained the representative from publisher, Firefly Books. ‘These include handing in the manuscript on-time, and having nice hands!’

Shimmering in a silver dress by designer, Vivienne Westwood, Lumb admitted to nerves even though she retained 'grace under pressure' in Masterchef. She made particular mention of the book’s photographer, Andrew Atkinson, who ‘still kept life fun’ despite amassing a pool of over 10,000 images. She also thanked judge, Michel Roux Junior for his trust and support, and laughed when it was pointed out that she had received no fewer than three marriage proposals since the programme was aired.

Afterwards, a chat to one of La Fromagerie’s affineurs revealed the scrum to get the venue ready, which happens to be one of Lumb’s favourite shops along with neighbour, the ‘Ginger Pig’. ‘We had three tall pallets of cheese delivered this morning,’ explained the manager of the humidity-controlled glass cheese vault. ‘Not only did we have to store them away, but some required washing and brining. Our advantage is our ability to raise the cheeses to maturity...’

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Roasting Guests

THERE is, as the adage goes, no such thing as a free lunch. Owing to the intensity and expectation of organisers, I found a recent meal at Borough Market’s British restaurant, ‘Roast’ occasionally hard to digest.

Invited by England’s largest wine producer, ‘Chapel Down’, who are based in picture postcard, Tenterden, Kent, seven professionally-inclined foodie carrier pigeons were sat strategically. Between us, three reps from the winery, two PRs (there would have been a third if she hadn’t been afflicted by vegetarianism) and the restaurant’s owner came armed with dossiers describing us. If you include cameos by chef, the ratio of clients to writers equated to an envoy each.

We were encouraged to comment as we masticated via the pervasive, but not unpleasurable, expression of the inner monologue, ‘Twitter’. You can find our thoughts HERE.

However before morsels entered mouths, it became apparent that our preferred wine and food combinations would be bound into a ‘diner offer’ to trail on our sites. Rather than reasoned, seasoned, editorial comment, such a request for ostensibly free advertising felt presumptious.*

Regardless, a man must eat! Advised almost maternally ‘not to fill-up on bread’, we set to work on five courses matched with nine wines and a Porter. The best dish was satisfyingly crunchy-skinned Essex pig belly in bramley sauce with a silky potato pile which looked like Chet from ‘Weird Science’ in excremental state. This sung with Bacchus Reserve ’07 which added hedgerow scents, fresh acidity, and a soft, long-lived texture. Second best was spiced clementine custard with feintly anise-scented shortbread-like biscuits matched with late-harvested, Nectar ’07. Citrus mirrored citrus.

Regardless of what others thought, I found the Tenterden estate Pinot Noir ’08 a skilful endeavour at English red – 90p/c of English wines are white. Cocoa-scented, complex and pleasantly persistent with a velvet texture, it was, alas, swamped by the lethargic chocolate sauce of chestnut and conference pear cake. Despite a tart, slightly frisky Rondo, Regent and Pinot Noir combined from various years – Californians might label it ‘an earthquake cuvee’, as if blended thoughtlessly to save toppling vats – the efforts of world music label founder turned winemaker, Owen Elias, who changed careers because the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle would ‘have killed him otherwise’, seemed successful.

However the drink of the day involved only a dash of grapes – Black Velvet built with sherbet scented Vintage Reserve Brut and Elias’ fragrant, lifted, Admiral Porter. A striking collaborator with a kind of haggis burger embellished with celeriac and oxtail sauce.

Despite the constant narrative about Chapel Down piped around the table, it had been an enjoyable lunch. After no fewer than nine glasses, I even began to interpret the PRs persistence as pride (possibly). Roast, incidentally, is a beautiful restaurant, arguably serving London’s best breakfast to up to 270 a morning. Originally at Covent Garden, the shimmering portico was bought by Borough’s trustees for £1. In an exotic gesture to the market’s history of fruit and veg, architects, Grieg & Stephenson most recently added pineapples to the roof.

*The offer:

Special Evening Service, November 24th:
On arrival, a glass of Chapel Down Brut Rose

oOo

Ramsey of Carluke haggis with celeriac and oxtail sauce, with a glass of Chapel Down Rondo Regent Pinot Noir NV
oOo

Slow-roast Wicks Manor pork belly with mashed potatoes and Bramley apple sauce, served with a glass of Roast Bacchus Reserve '07

oOo

Spiced clementine custard with anise biscuits, served with a glass of Chapel Down Nectar 2007

oOo

Tea or coffee

£44.50 – quote ‘Chapel Down Roast Bloggers’ Dinner’ when booking - 0845 034 7300.

Chapel Down have offered the Pinot Reserve 2004 for £99 for a case of six including delivery to any UK mainland address (normally £150 plus delivery). Phone the vineyard on 01580 763033, ask for Lizzie or Wendy and quote ‘Blogger Offer.’

FIRST PUBLISHED: Foodepedia

Lisbon, Part Three

UNLIKE the majority of summits and symposiums, Bacchus’ ferment was a constant bedfellow at the European Wine Bloggers Conference. Held at the ‘VIP’ Grand Lisboa, an angular, orange pen for drab suits, with pebbly feng shui bits and a bar menu boasting ‘bee fillet’ (the sting was in the price) I hope our conference room made other guests jealous. Pallets of crystal glasses stretched across tabletops like an alcoholic Fairy Challenge. Between sips, spurts and even a little singing, delegates quietly beamed their thoughts on pressing concerns as diverse as personal grooming to one another from laptops and BlackBerry phones using that crack cocaine of social media – ‘Twitter’. The grown-up equivalent of passing notes around a classroom.

Outside such formality, participants let their hair down, like this:

Off the Rails

PRESSED against the tinny fuselage of train number two – the Metro – we darted under Paris from the elegant Gare du Nord to jagged-looking, ‘Fritz Lang’ like hell, Gare Montparnasse. Our next transport, announced by a hectic, tick-ticking departures board, would cut to Basque border town, Irun, best known for a festival which recreates the Peninsula War. With perfect timing, the TGV slipped the platform. Under disapproving glances which persisted for the full six-hour journey, we reached into Andrew’s holdall and released Taittinger from its cocoon of two cooler jackets.
After a spectacular sunset, we docked at the border. Bedraggled guards wandered our luggage through what looked like a prototype photocopier, scarcely watching the monitor. Another ushered us towards a tall old coach which smelt of moss and oil. It was ambitiously titled, ‘Sud Express’...
Crouching in our tiny, formica-coated cabin, we liberated Les Climats ’04 from Jadot alongside the remnants of sweaty Manchego. Fitful bouts of sleep were snatched between the din of buffeting tunnels, noxious Diesel fumes, cheese nightmares and the recurrent fear of falling ten feet to broken bones from the top bunk. To replace my cold sweats, Andrew was unhappy when I sated my thirst by stealing his water.
The following day, mist clung Portugal’s hills like condensed breath on a pane. Gradually, we rolled towards the capital, signalled by the sight of clean washing clinging ropes between balconies.
After 24-hours of travelling, lecture theatre discussions of ‘Social Wine Brands’, ‘Top Down Messaging’ (?) and a ‘bouncy, racy’ session moderated by Bibendum Wine’s Dan Coward, loomed large...

Dawn Bubbles

ANDREW, author of ‘Spitton.biz’ forced me to go to the wine bloggers conference in Lisbon. I’ll be honest – the idea of actually paying to take a seat amidst 150 self-important, klaxon-loud alcoholics held all the appeal of acupuncture through the heart (which I suffered last week). He dressed it up, of course. We would start at St. Pancras Champagne Bar and then weave through four countries on trains of decreasing slowness armed with a lavish buffet. And rather than hole-up in a glassy, aloof tower spiking some distant district of finance, we would rent an apartment in a local’s block in the heart of the old town. He raised one further incentive – after the steady conference activities melted, we would take advantage of a comped tour of the brilliantly-marketed ‘Douro Boys’ holdings, pausing at the too-cool-for-school, ‘Aqua Pura’ hotel. Before long, my conference fee was transferred and train tickets were booked.

‘Be there for 7am’ advised Andrew of our meet-up. Bleary-eyed, I duly dragged my case past Betjeman’s bronze to the Champagne terrace. I craved a decadent breakfast in one of the heated booths overlooking departing trains gliding to France. Alas Searcy’s waiter, wrapped in tunic, wouldn’t let us sit there, shooing us into a golden tomb where coffee tasted of trench. ‘So what time does the train actually leave?’ I asked Andrew. ‘11:00’ he said, revealing an obsessive fear of tardiness.

Four hours, two flutes, and a thorough security frisk later, we took our seats (actually someone else’s, as they keenly pointed out) and submitted to the first leg of our journey...

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 bill of fare 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: ‘enjoying 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 final 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...’