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Bump Caves and Bocadillos

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With a recent long, late summer's weekend stretching out in front of us it seemed the perfect chance to completely the final piece of the beer puzzle on the Bermondsey Mile - as well as the chance to pop in to some old haunts alongside trying some trendy new cocktails in what has become one of my favourite corners of town.

Before the last IPA was imbibed at Brew by Numbers, we stopped at St John’s new Bakery Room (on the other side of the arches that churn out their famed bread and pastries) for some cop-like breakfast fortification in the form of coffee and their famed doughnuts.

Alongside the fabulous raspberry jam filled number we also sampled a butterscotch custard (I had first eaten one of these a couple of weeks before, but buying it on a very hot day, followed by a couple of nights in Stealth's fridge, rendered the outside tough and the insides curdled - needless to say, I still ate it, though). Thankfully this one was creamy, crispy, gooey perfection and paired nicely with a coffee.

Those prefering to start the day with the strong stuff can take advantage of the short French wine list, or enjoy seed cake and Maderia for elevenses. They also serve a selection of St John greatest hits - think pig's ears, tripe and cod's roe - for lunch.

Beers successfully drunk in the arches and we were back on Maltby Street again, this time to Bar Tozino, another gem of a place I first discovered a couple of winters ago on my first visit to the Ropewalk. It’s still as fab as ever; the velvet draped heavy oak doors leading into a long thin dark cave (as Iberian as anywhere I have been to outside Spain) lined with glistening hams and bottles of wine and sherry.

Here we lunched very well, as always, on a selection of green olives, Los Pedroches Bellota jamon, padron peppers, manchego flavoured with rosemary and pan con tomate; all washed down with a half bottle of icy cold, slightly salty, Manzanilla sherry. If you can get a seat near the front, you’ll also be treated to a ham show as the fat-flecked pink slices are artfully carved to order.

After stopping for a couple of sweet treats, a salted caramel Bad Brownie for the Ewing and a choc chip cookie for me, we made our way across London Bridge to see the new installation at the Tower of London - passing these cuddly fellas on the way, who look like they had already imbibed one too many shandies.

Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red - an installation marking the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War and created by ceramic artist Paul Cummins - will see 888,246 ceramic poppies, the first laid on the centenary of the Great War and the last due to be planted on 11th November this year, that will progressively fill the Tower’s famous moat.

It's a pretty a pretty sobering sight, as well as a moving piece of art in its own right, and is well worth making time to go and see; you can even volunteer to help 'plant' the poppies. Every evening, the Last Post will be played at sunset and the public are asked to nominate a member of the Commonwealth forces who was killed in the First World War to have their name read out in the nightly ceremony. The ceramic poppies are also available to buy after the installation ends for £25, with proceeds going to a range of service charities in the UK.

Final stop was for cocktails at Bump Caves, the new bar in the basement of a favourite old haunt, the Draft House on Tower Bridge road. We couldn't go down stairs without enjoying at least one beer in the sunshine, alongside some of their famed foot-long pork scratchings  - the 'deliciousest' around, and who am I to argue - and a must order whenever I visit.

Accessed by a door to the left of the Draft House, or down their stairs by the, shared, loos, Bump Caves is a Sixties inspired underground bar that, in the words of owner, Charlie McVeigh, is 'inspired by the late-Sixties psychedelic movement, Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, light shows, freedom, the destruction of phoney Fifties morality, ear-melting music and hallucinogenic drugs.'

It sounds, frankly, a tiny bit rubbish. Thankfully in real life Bump Caves is far more understated and laid-back than its raison d'être would suggest. While touches of neon give it a kinda groovy vibe there’s also plenty of modern tiling and shiny leather rather than tie dyes and sheepskin. Sadly there are no hallucinogenic drugs, but luckily – for those of a rapidly advancing age such as ourselves - there’s no ear-melting music either.

Max Chater, barman or “Chemist, Distiller and Rectifier” was there to greet us on our visit and remains sweetly enthusiastic despite the appearance of a bedraggled Stealth - who has arrived to join us for a quick G’n’T and remains a hard nut to crack at the best of times (these are not the best of times).

As the Ewing is on their mailing list, the first round of drinks, a house ‘bumped’ Gin and Tonic - with hop infused gin and house made tonic - is provided gratis in return for some emailed feedback later. It’s served in a flute, something which Stealth is immediately dubious about, but I rather like it. The flavours are mellow – there’s no rasp of juniper of throat tickle from the quinine, but it’s fragrant and the gentle carbonation means it slips down easily as a salve from the hot fuggy streets of the city above us.

Stealth downs hers pretty quickly and without (much) complaint, but after Max comes to talk to us about what we thought, she remains resolutely stubborn in her request for something ‘fizzy and with lime’; Heathen. Luckily he hits the jackpot with a large measure of the strong stuff, plenty of citrus fruit and a bottle of Fever tree. Job’s a good ‘un.

My next drink is the signature Electric Kool Aid Acid Test, described on the menu as Bump malt, Campari, C&PP, sparkling Piquepoul, 9V and acid - which, while looking rather naughty with its bag of white powder clipped to the side, is essentially a large glass of rose, served with a battery alongside.

The whole thing is pretty fun though; the powder (citric acid) gives the drink a little welcome fizz, and while I may have given up battery licking years ago (since the good old days of my Tomy Lights Alive) there is something childishly addictive about the fizz you get from putting it on your tongue. Not a drink for everyone perhaps, but strangely addictive.

I'll be honest, the name of the Ewing's second drink has been lost to the excitement of the evening. I do know that it was served with a 'bump' of white chocolate, and both beverage and confectionery were dispatched before I could taste them. The surest sign of success.

Her night was rounded off with a Schiz-A-Colada, a mixture of white rum, pineapple and creme anglaise (custard for plebs like me), served with a coconut vapour filled e-cigarette. A pina colada gone mad, as the tile suggests, and good fun if you miss a crafty puff indoors.

My final drink was a beer and a 'bump' pairing of a To Øl Blossom wheat beer from Denmark - flavoured with three hops and six dried flowers -served with a bump of any icy cold distillate infused with a dill and some other magical (aka, I can't remember) things. A pleasingly Scandi combination and surprisingly both refreshing and fortifying.

While I think I still prefer the beers and pork products served above ground at the Draft House, Bump Caves is a great subterranean spot with charming service. Perfect for an interesting drink, or even a sniff, a lick or a dab outside the long arm of the law.

The evening ended with the perfect drunken train sandwich, a remarkably well preserved ham and tomato bocadillo from Bar Tozino, a salty, crunchy, juicy masterpiece and proving, after a evening of fancy new experiences, that often the simplest things are still the best.

#crabandicecreamchallenge

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In a change from my usual default horizontal mode things have gone a bit crazy bonkers recently; lots of work stuff, plenty of friend stuff, some family stuff and an allotment that is hemorrhaging marrows (and spaghetti squash, pumpkins, artichokes and tomatoes...).

Thankfully, to help restore the chilled-out equilibrium, we had a week down in North Devon to look forward to with with my Dad and his antipodean other half Shelly for company. Seven days where there was nothing more demanding to do than meet my one self-imposed  target - to eat ice cream and crab at least once a day throughout stay. #crabandicecreamchallenge (check Instagram for all the photos) accepted.

First stop, after aborted plans for lunch at the Broomhill Sculpture Gardens due to holiday traffic and and obligatory first fall out of the trip halfway down the M5, was the Porlock Weir, a picture postcard fishing harbour on the West Somerset coast.

Luckily we soon had our first success, in the form of crab sandwiches on the lawn at the, simply monikered, The Cafe. These formed perfectly pleasant and rather genteel lunch - although I did lower the tone slightly by stuffing them with the accompanying cheese and onion crisps. A solid and shell-free (the one downside with crab sarnies) start to our adventure.

Our first ice creams of our trip came from the Harbour Stores, courtesy of Styles, a local producer who make their wares, including a variety of ewe's milk ice creams and frozen desserts, on a nearby Exmoor Farm. We both decide to start our onerous challenge with the ewe's milk varieties, with a single cone of the strawberry for me and a double cone of chocolate and blueberry for the Ewing.

The strawberry - a flavour I normally find too sweet or weirdly artificial - was both clean and creamy while the blueberry was similarly fresh and fruity, but a little too floral and sweet for my tastes; the Ewing, however, loved it. The chocolate was a revelation; smooth and rich but not cloying and with a lovely bitter chocolate back note. Certainly one of the best we tried all week, and as a bonus the ewe's milk ice cream is also far lower in fat that the usual cows milk varieties. 

The first night saw a bit of a diversion from our original plans, instead of heading straight for Appledore, our base for the week, we were invited to stay with some friends in Bampton, on the edge of Exmoor. Needless to say there was much merriment and plenty of alcohol and, despite the best efforts of pints of hot tea and local sausages and bacon cooked in the Aga, the following morning was something of a struggle.

Luckily a bit of sunshine and a soothing sea breeze greeted us on our arrival in Appledore - a pretty quayside village on the Torridge estuary that has enough pubs to keep your interest but is pretty much on the road to nowhere, keeping the worst of the summer hordes at bay.

Carbs and cold Coca Cola were very much the order of the day, and after dumping the suitcases we walked down onto the quayside for some late lunch. Thankfully we quickly found John's, a deli/cafe with branches in both Appledore and across the water in Instow. John's may be as close to my idea of heaven as I'll find on earth; inside is a cornucopia of local products including shelves of beers, wines, biscuits, jams, chutneys and coffees; a counter groaning with homemade scones, flapjacks and brownies; and a chilled cabinet stuffed with cheese, fish, pies, pastries and tarts.

Choosing a takeaway so we could enjoy the fresh air and sunshine, we eschewed several of their other tempting crustacean-based products in order to go for the classic crab baguette. A majestical combo of crispy bread, crunchy salad, white and brown crab and lashing of Devonshire butter; salvation in a sandwich

When I was a child I always thought getting old meant the day you began to actually began to prefer ready salted crisps and vanilla ice cream above the myriad of other exciting flavour available, and vowed that that would never happen to me. Of course, now I am old(er) I have realised the pleasure of simple things (although I'm not sure I'll ever end my passionate love affair with pickled onion Monster Munch and Wotsits) and nothing highlights that more than Hockings, a North Devon institution.

Based in Appledore, Hockings have four vans posted around the vicinity selling one flavour, and one flavour only, classic vanilla. The vans are still wonderfully old fashioned and you can have your ice cream sandwiched in a wafer (with or without nougat), in an oyster, in a cup or in a cone.

It may have been the sea air, it may have been the sunshine, it may have been the stinking hangover, but this, without doubt, was one of the best ice creams I have had for a long time. I went with a wafer, a tricky customer to eat and pure nostalgia in every messy mouthful. The Ewing surpassed even herself with a triple cone topped with a heap of Devonshire clotted cream; sheer unbridled gluttony that necessitated an afternoon nap but was worth every calorie. 

If you want to cause ripples in a quaint Victorian seaside town then surely the best way is to commission Brit Art’s l'enfant terrible to create a giant statue of a naked pregnant woman for the harbour. Well, that's exactly what they did in the sleepy town of Illfracombe, cue our visit to see 'Verity', the opinion polarising stainless steel and bronze statue by Damian Hirst, for ourselves.

Taller than the Angel of the North, and with its exposed cut-through of Verity’s inner-workings, it’s certainly a conversation piece, although I think I preferred the views across the dark blue waters to Lundy Island, seen as we walked around the cliff path from the town beach.

Lunch was a brace of these gigantic beauties at Espresso (a slightly strange name for a very good little seasonal bistro, a short walk from the seafront) served with a glorious homemade mayo, crisp fries and a wonderfully sweet tomato and onion salad.

After a hour or so of cracking, picking and delving amongst the shells of these beasts came the first, and possibly only time, I have ever seen the Ewing down her pick as she reached Peak Crab. Yes, it is true, there can be (almost) too much of a good thing. Thankfully a good walk in the sea air around the cliffs and past Henry Williams house (the author of Tarka the Otter), even bumping in to a friend's mum who I last saw at my sister's wedding en route, sharpened our appetite for another frozen desert.

As we were in Devon, what could be more appropriate than, err, gelato from Turin (It did come highly recommended by said friend's mum). We share a cone of coffee and Bronte pistachio flavour. The latter - checkout the lustrous, almost metallic shine of the sweet nut infused custard - being peerless amongst most pistachio ice creams I have eaten; matching (and even surpassing most) of those I have enjoyed on holiday in Italy.

The next day saw a group outing and the first stop was Clovelly -  the privately owned, pedestrianised fishing village known for its steeply cobbled main street, donkeys and sledge-pulled deliveries and somewhere I had first visited with my family many moons before. An unusually early start proved a bonus, as the steep cobbled main street that lead down to the quay were almost deserted, and the late August sun felt almost Mediterranean against the wattle and daub houses and blue seas beyond.

My, elephant memoried, father recollected a small seafood purveyor down by the quayside on our last visit, and, lo and behold, it soon came into sight as we descended the last stretch of cobbles. Alongside our daily dose of fresh crab - a good blend of meaty white flesh and the iron-rich dark meat - I couldn't resist a pot of cockles, doused in plenty of malt vinegar and white pepper.

Ice cream number one, this was a big day for frozen dairy-based deserts, was a scoop of Dunstaple Farm clotted cream vanilla, replete with a good old chocolate flake. This was a classic West Country ice cream, made on a farm near Holsworthy, complete with that unique yellow tinge that the rich cream adds to the mix. Very nice, although the Ewing, despite the refusal of a cone of her own, seemed to have little problem helping me demolish it.

Lunch was enjoyed overlooking the stunning spot above, at the foot of Tintagel castle on the North Cornish coast. Alongside a Famous Five-esque feast of bread, cold meats and cheeses, we also queued for an interminably long time in Tintagel village for a trio of pasties from the Pengenna Bakery; two traditional steak and veg and a steak and Stilton for the Ewing. The joy of a piping hot pastry and a fresh sea breeze is a combo that would struggle to be beaten.

To get back from the Castle we had to pass the Helsett Farm trailer. Knowing that they were based just own the road near Boscastle, it seemed remiss not to stop by for a scoop. This time it was the Ewing's choice of a, rather unusual and beautifully hued, blackcurrant and cream flavour. Unlike earlier, where I was more than happy to share, she proved more territorial. I can, however, report that the couple of licks I did manage to snatch went down very nicely.

Final stop of the day was lovely Padstow. After a mosey around the bustling harbour - with the crowds spilling from the assorted pasty shops and Rick Stein's chippy - we headed down to the beach where the acres of golden sand were only punctuated two gnarly fisherman. 

After a scramble over the rocks quick paddle - out in the distance, in the harbour entrance, lies the mythical Doombar, for which the Sharp's beer is named - we had worked up enough appetite to head back to the harbour to complete our hat trick of ice creams.

Every time I visit this town I always stop for at least one cone from Roskilly's, and this time was no different. With flaours ranging from Cream Tea to Gooseberry Yogurt Ice, it was a tricky decision, but the Ewing and I finally plumped on sharing a scoop of Malty Mystery (see picture right at the top of the post), a marvellous mix of malt, cream and chocolate pieces.

Dad chose a tub of the Cornish Fairing, with a big whack of ginger spice and crunchy biscuit pieces, while Shelly went with the classic strawberry in a choc dipped cone. Great ices in a lovely setting.

Wednesday saw a trip to the coastal towns of Lynmouth (at the bottom) and Lynton (at the top). To traverse between the two we queued up for the cliff railway, a water powered (from the nearby Lyn River) funicular railway that lifts you 500 feet on a 58% gradient. Which why I had earlier passed on the Ewing's suggestion of walking up the steps.

Our reward when we reached the top was a late lunch in the gardens of Lacey's Tea Rooms where both went for the special, spicy fishcakes with chips and salad, washed down with a large pot of West Country tea. This was good, simple English cooking -  hot and crisp chips and crab cakes, with a nice tickle of spice, served with a pleasingly old fashioned salad including pickled beetroot, homemade coleslaw and retro mustard cress.

The efforts expended walking back along the cliff path necessitated an ice cream from Mavis Thrupton's hut in Lynmouth harbour. I went with Britain's first 'spaghetti' ice cream ( a Mr Whippy by any other name) while the Ewing had a double scoop of Cointeu an orange ice cream with chocolate chunks. While mine was decent enough, if lacking some strawberry 'tomato' sauce to really recreate the proper Italian noodle based effect, the Ewing wasn't very fond of hers (of course, she didn't stop it going to waste, though...).

To negate any disappointment we walked up the road to the next ice cream parlour, there's a big choice in Lynmouth, where I had a cone of the, deservedly, 'award winning!' Caravel Fudge Royale. The Ewing plumped for a scoop of good old chocolate - this time with added 'cream crunch', in the form of Oreo-esque biscuit pieces - guaranteed to always hit the spot. 

The weather began to break on the penultimate day, reverting back to that familiar old English drizzle. Perfect for our hike around Lydford Gorge and down to the waterfall, where the Ewing tried to hijack the pooh stick competition by attempting to fling in a tree trunk.

The star of a picnic lunch, much needed to fortify us for our hike, was a crab and ginger quiche, again from our friends at John's of Appledore. This was their quiche of the month, and certainly one of the nicest I have eaten. A topping of South Devon chilli jam was especially inspired.

Also a huge thumbs up for the very kind man at the cafe, who held the doors open past five o o'clock so we could call in for an ice cream on the return leg through the gorge. I'm not sure that passion fruit sorbet counts as an ice cream, but, after scrambling over mossy rocks and through muddy streams, I'm not sure I care.

It wouldn't be a holiday without a swim in the sea, so we headed across the Torridge to Instow on our final morning so the Ewing could freeze her toes, and various other appendages, off. Sensibly, I stayed dry by assuming the esteemed job of clothes/towel carrier and general dogsbody.

Lunch was a hat-trick from John's, this time at their Instow branch, with their crab pate, crackers and Cornish tomatoes eaten on the harbour wall. We also nabbed slices of millionaire's shortbread, and a syrup-soaked orange and polenta cake for the drive back; and, most importantly, a squealer pork pie from Chunk's of Devon. Currently My New Favourite thing.

The final fling on our #crabandicecreamchallenge was a stop at the Quince Honey Farm in South Molten on our way back home. After buying up essential supplies of Exmoor honey, beeswax candles and honey hand cream we sat outside to enjoy some of their honey ice creams.

They offer three flavours; honey with fudge, honey with honeycombe and straight honey, all made for them at Dunstaple Farm (see my ice cream at Clovelly) and all featuring a mix both their Exmoor heather honey and Devon flower honey. An unusual and subtle flavour with a hint of 'chewiness' in the finished ice cream that proved very pleasant.

And so the sun finally set on our fish and frozen dairy based adventure. A week that also featured much laughter, a bitter and pork scratching baptism for the Aussie contingent, late night chips by the harbour, morris dancing, brass bands by the seafront and some decent English weather. Even the Ewing, despite both being on holiday with her in-laws and getting a daily dose of crabs, couldn't help but succumb to the Devonian charms.

Sambal Kitchen and Diner

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A few weeks ago the Ewing and I were tasked with picking up a parcel from Gerrards Cross. Not wanting to schlep all the way over to ‘mini Hollywood’ – Wikipedia’s words, certainly not mine - for nothing, I was quick to seize the chance for an impromptu lunch stop en route.

The question was, where? As far as good eating goes, since leaving my first ever job (at legendary sandwich bar Mrs Crusty, the place I learnt how to battle with clingfilm and win) GX ‘village’ (it’s not) is depressingly bereft of anywhere I’d actively choose to patronise. This really is white sliced Middle Englander and ladies wot lunch territory.

Sure, there’s a branch of Malik’s – Heston’s favourite Cookham based curry house, and there’s Bawarchi, another Indian where we'd recently had a rather nice dinner. There’s also an offshoot of Beaconsfield bakers Jung’s, always good for a cake and a coffee; and I’ve been meaning to try the Three Oaks, yet another Cookham spin-off - although our meal at mother pub, the White Oak, was pretty average and pretty expensive.

After a bit of aimless Googling, I decided the best course of action was to carry on a few miles down the Western Avenue to South Harrow where, again according to my friend, Wikipedia, ‘shops on Northolt Road sell Sri Lankan and Polish groceries. There are five Halal butchers, nine public houses and four chicken shops.’ Beer and fried poultry, now that’s more like it.

Despite the leafy beech trees and chalk escarpments of my Chiltern home, I still love this neck of the woods. I was born less than two miles up the road and good old Grandad still happily lives round the corner in Pinner. I also love the contrast; as you dice with death dodging in and out of bus lanes, marvelling at tmyserious shops with names such as Shankar Superstore and Natraj Sweet Centre, a mere twenty minutes away au pairs pushing Bugaboos are competing for space at the duck pond on GX Common. South Harrow can still boast a bigger branch of Waitrose, though.

After an attempt to entice us into having our fortune read under the railway bridge (lord if it wasn’t for bad luck, you know I wouldn’t have no luck at all), we made it to Sambal Kitchen and Diner, a Sri Lankan restaurant complete with sister takeaway branch next door. 

We started off with some mutton rolls; good old Findus pancake-esque cylinders wrapped in fluorescent breadcrumbs and stuffed with spiced lamb, and served alongside a hot chilli dip and the obligatory sparse shreds of warm iceberg. The classic tubular snack, fresh from the fryer, to get things going.

We also had a dosa, one of the Ewing’s favourites. This time we tried the Jaffna dosa, two spongy, slightly sour, lentil pancakes served with coconut chutney and a thin vegetable sambar for dipping. Rather different from the more familiar masala dosa, a drier, more French crepe like version, but very good none the less. 

 
Drinks, which appeared about half way through our meal, were interesting. The Ewing had a fresh pineapple juice, while I had the Nelli crush, a lurid green, ultra sweet gooseberry flavoured cordial that was surprisingly refreshing when paired with all the heat and spice. This one came, unusually, with crunchy jelly like lumps, adding its own unique frogspawn-like texture. Mmm, crunchy frogspawn

My main was the devilled mutton curry with two buttery Veechu roti – the Sri Lankan version being far closer to Malay style flaky flatbread rather than the, relatively, parsimonious Indian kind. Served with a dish of simple creamy, nutty yellow daal and more fresh coconut chutney.

I love curries like this; the thin fiery gravy rich with the slightly acrid note of fried curry leaves and the dry chilli spicing fierce enough to thoroughly clear the sinuses. The bread was great, too, breaking apart in fluffy, ghee-soaked layers to be used to scoop up the sticky shreds of tender meat.

 
The Ewing went for the Pittu and fish curry, an interesting combo of pittu, a dish of steamed cylinders of ground rice layered with coconut, usually served for breakfast; a punchy Ceylon omelette (stuffed with fresh green chillies); coconut sambal; a vegetable paal curry and a king fish curry.

The Ewing was slightly apprehensive about the king fish curry. The last time she had ordered one, down at Dosa World in Bournemouth, it was so hot that she couldn't manage eat it, while the insane spiciness left me temporarily deaf and barely able to breath. The sweaty endorphin rush at the time was great, the day after not so much.

This was far tamer, but still with a decent kick, the meaty king fish standing up well to the rich, slightly smoky, sauce and the turrets of rice providing a nice bland counterpoint to the spice of the curry.

I was beaten when it came to desert, but the Ewing, unsurprisingly, wasn’t ready to admit defeat. Her choice was the falooda, a tooth-achingly sugary ice cream desert flavoured with heady rosewater syrup and studded throughout with chunks of fruit.

On arrival it smelt rather like a gathering of freshly powdered grandmas and looked like pink ectoplasm, so when she proclaimed it was nice I was happy just to take her word for it. Although, even she doubted the wisdom of attempting to finish the whole thing after the vast spread that had preceded it.

Twenty four quid later and we were happily heading back to the leafy ‘burbs to pick the package up, only to discover that it had been locked in a storage cupboard and the only key holder had gone home twenty minutes beforehand (long story). Proving it really was a falooda too far. 

Eastern Sunday

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I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on th' other.

Most people have rather lofty, or at least exciting, ambitions and ideas; if you’re Miss World then, naturally, it’s world peace; the Ewing wants a dog and a self-watering allotment (or perhaps a dog that will water the allotment) and Stealth quite fancies a pad in the Barbican.

Since accepting the simple things in life really are often the best – the first hard cox in autumn (steady), a letter through the post from my Nan, breakfast in bed with the Ewing – my recent, and rather more modest goal, was getting to Wapping Market on a Sunday morning before all the Crosstown doughnuts and Dark Fluid coffee ran out. (I do still harbour a secret dream to drive through all the mainland States in a faux wood panelled station wagon while living off cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Kraft macaroni cheese cooked on a camping stove.)

Since the market - sister of the burgeoning Saturday market at Brockley, which also proved quite an effort getting to - opened at the beginning of the summer, I have been taunted with an endless Instagram feed every Sunday of fried chicken, ice cream, local fruit and veg and, of course, the famed coffee and doughnuts.

Finally, after feeling thoroughly down in the dumps most the preceding week, I decided the only way to shake the gloom and spin out the last hazy day of August was by eating, drinking and generally making merry. So I roused the Ewing from her precious weekend slumber and dragged her all the way down to Brussels Dock for breakfast. Well, by the time we actually arrived, more lunch-ish.

First stop was a dash down to Crosstown for our fried dough fix. The Monmouth coffee custard stuffed square was a given, but the second choice was more difficult and saw a squabble ensue over whether to pick the ring doughnut stuffed with chocolate ganache or the salted banana caramel. the former won out, although I would have been more than happy with the cinnamon and sugar dusted number, while the chatty guy serving us had plenty of praise for the seasonal nectarine flavour. Decisions, decisions.

After nabbing a brace of 'nuts I patiently joined the queue for our iced coffee and americano from Dark Fluid, SE London based bean roasters with a mobile coffee cart, before finally find a spot down on the wharf wall to scoff our haul.

While I was impressed with the effort of stuffing the rich ganache into chocolate truffle ring doughnut, I found the crumb itself a little dry. Far more successful was the coffee number, which oozed it's caffeine-spiked loan obscenely with every bite and went down perfectly with my, very decent, cuppa Joe.

Of course it wasn't all stimulants and sugar, the Ewing also hit the Roadery's van to grab a pretty spectacular sandwich that saw slices 5hr slow cooked ox cheek being paired with peppery salad leaves before being stuffed between two slices of toasted milk'n'honey sourdough bread.

Highlight of our visit came, unexpectedly, in the form of a cone of apricot and Amaretto ice cream from the Ruby Violet van. Apricots don't normally do it for me (I'm pretty sure that's why the Ewing chose it as we were going to 'share'), but this was utterly exceptional. The flavour was sharp and bright, while the texture was butter soft and a little fuzzy - just like the skin of a perfect, juicy apricot - on the tongue.

There were also a few treats to take home; the first ears of the autumn corn, a big bag of greengages and a punnet of Victoria plums, as well as some proper English muffins and gingerbread. My favourite take home purchase was the Graceburn cheese, a soft cow's cheese in oil with herbs and garic that's made with unpasteurised organic milk by Blackwoods in Bromley. Very good with homegrown tomatoes and sourdough toast (or out the jar with a teaspoon).

After sunning ourselves with the friendly crowd that had assembled down by the water it was time for some proper refreshments. The market is, quite literally, a stone’s throw from the old stalwart and favoured drinking hole whenever I'm in these parts, the Prospect of Whitby. This time however we eschewed it for a visit to the Captain Kidd, back down on Wapping High Street, after we had to skipped past it on our last pub crawl.

The Captain Kidd is a Sam Smith’s, pub, a Yorkshire brewers known for its impossibly cheap and rather mysterious range of own brand beers, ciders spirits and mixers. You can imagine the disquiet this must cause the average drinker when they call in looking for their favoured American piss or pint of wife beater and instead are faced with ‘Alpine Lager’ or 'Yorkshire Stingo'. Something that’s apparent by the mild irritation of the staff and the slightly sticky laminated menus they have to provide that describe the different libations actually available.

Overall the Captain Kidd's a pleasant enough pub, the Ewing rates the Extra Stout and it also boasts the best garden and river views of the trio of hostelries that run from the Town of Ramsgate to the Prospect. There was also a particularly vocal, and very amusing, group of locals trading salacious stories at the bar on our visit. An increasingly rare find in the Big Smoke.

The beers themselves or the ones I’ve had the pleasure to try - mostly at the John Snow, a labyrinth-like Sam Smiths in the centre of Soho - range from the pretty decent to pretty unpalatable, but at £2.70 for a pint of the Best Bitter it’s hard to care too much. Yo ho ho and a bottle of (own brand) rum, indeed.

Brick Lane, Curry Again

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When it comes to Sunday dinner there are three choices I favour. The good old roast, when you’re feeling traditional; a barbecue when it’s too hot to contemplate lashings of gravy and Yorkshire pud; and a curry for all other occasions. It may not please the purists, but in a country where tikka masala is our national dish why not slather a bit of tandoori marinade on your chicken dinner before falling asleep in front of Songs of Praise.

Of course many may think that filling up on ghee-laden mountains of rice and bread and spicy platters of charred meat, all washed down with fizzy lager, would be a disaster come Monday morning, when you’re slumped back in the office battling with the gastric consequences of that extra bhaj, but alternate weekend working means Mondays are my Sundays. Ergo Sunday evening is my Saturday night.

Stealth probably doesn’t know what day of the week it actually is, but is always up for a good curry, so after a sunny afternoon stocking up on beigels and drinking glasses of fresh watermelon juice and avocado smoothies on Brick Lane we met her at Needo Grill, the final missing piece in my quest to try the Whitechapel trilogy that also features Tayyabs and the Lahore Kebab House.

Needo was set up by the former manager of Tayyabs, so you have the pick of their lauded dishes without the mile-long queues.  Inside the red and black decor is smarter than Lahore and brighter than Tayaabs, although constantly spying yourself in the mirrored walls isn’t conducive to ordering yet another round of naan bread. Drinks are BYO, so we stocked up with large bottle of cold Cobra from the nearby corner store en route.

To start we shared the mixed grill, a platter of sizzling lamb chops, seekh kebabs, chicken tikka and grilled onions. While I’m not sure these were the best incarnations of the classic that I have had - the lamb chops particularly lacking the requisite fat and char ratio - they possessed a pleasingly fierce chilli kick that went well with the sweet yoghurt and mint dip that had appeared with our plate of poppadums.

Since our previous trip to Tayyabs had been marred slightly by Stealth claiming she had been struck by a gastric ulcer, before lying sweating in the corridor by the loos (never a dull moment) I took this opportunity to reorder the stalwarts, plus the pumpkin, that we had been too stuffed to order before. There was also a buttery nan for me that was mostly eaten by Stealth (no, no, I don't want one, really) plus two roti that were mostly eaten by Stealth, too.

Firstly we have the worst picture (not a single effort to capture this was in focus) of the best dish, the fabled dry meat. Never has a moniker been less appealing and, thankfully, less deserved, the ‘dry’ describing the lack of gravy rather than the texture of the dish itself, reminding me of a rendang, with soft shreds of sticky mutton in a thickly reduced and well-spiced sauce.

Accompanying were two vegetable choices.  The first was the Dal Baingan, a mixture of nutty lentils and smoky baby aubergine – although I notice singular, rather than the two we were served at Tayyabs. The consistency of lentils was also slightly looser. 

We also tried the Punjabi Tinda, or baby pumpkin, curry, with a pleasingly grown up sweet and sour flavour and, again, lashings of ghee (in case you fear veggies are actually good for you).

Overall I’d pick the dry meat at Needoo and the grilled meat at Tayyabs, but I’d give either a firm recommendation (the Karahi Ghost at Lahore Kebab House also deserves a mention) without much hesitation. 

Going at an off peak time, we arrived at about half five on a Sunday evening, also means  less hurrying and harrying by the waiter, who graciously lent us their bottle openers and provided jugs of iced water long after we had finished our main meals.

As always after a curry, pudding was a stretch too far. We had, however, bought Stealth a present, in the form of a Cinnamon Tree Bakery biscuit from our visit to Wapping market, to nibble on later.
 
In fact both Stealth’s gingerbread elephant and the Ewing’s shortbread owl were most appropriate, forming the first instalment of a new series ‘owners who looked like their baked goods’ - even featuring the adoption of an cigarette trunk for extra added likeness.  

A cheering Sunday night scene of friend swapping biscuits (Stealth bought us some earless rabbits lovingly baked by our friends Claire and Kam) and certainly one that was worth missing the traditional joint of British beef and golden heap of roasties for.

Say Cheese! (and some crackers)

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“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.” 
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

Fermented milk is a marvellous thing, and discovering that recent weekend trip to my Mum's in Wiltshire was going to coincide with a festival dedicated to its pursuit was pretty much my idea of heaven on earth. Slightly less celestial was the imbibing of one too many pints of 6D Best at the local pub, followed by a homemade lasagne washed down with several bottles of vino rosso the night before our visit...

The morning after started as a bit of a struggle, but a delivery of Stornoway black pudding for breakfast soon got things back on track. A while the idea of standing in a tent hot tent full of fermenting dairy products with a hangover may sound fairly hellish, it was mercifully far less whiffy than I first feared. In fact, once we were armed with our first toothpicks and set free on the tables laded with free samples of assorted cheesy wares I was quickly on my way to formaggi heaven.


As with these things, the first stall managed to divest us of most our money; firstly for half a wheel of White Nancy, a soft goat’s cheese with a bloomy white rind and gooey centre and secondly for a Alex James’ Goddess No 5 a Guernsey cow’s milk cheese washed in Temperley Somerset Cider Brandy until it reaches a supple sticky perfection. (Now safely stowed in Mum’s freezer, waiting for an unveiling come Christmas time.)  I was also rather enamoured with the Sloe Tavy, a semi hard, stinky heart-shaped goat’s milk cheese that’s washed in Plymouth sloe gin.


Next purchase was half a round of Little Ryding, a soft ewe’s milk cheese that was a bit of a bargain at a fiver for a whole cheese. They were also offering the rather lovely Millstone, a hard cheese, Manchego like in style with that lovely supple fattiness that sheep’s milk provides (possibly, depending which day you ask, my favourite milk for cheese).

The Windyridge stall was good fun, with their rather outre products and cheerful staff standing out amongst some of the rather more po-faced producers. While there's nothing sophisticated about their range of flavoured West Country cheddar all the samples I hose were great. Particular favourites were the horseradish and parsley, Spitfire with naga chilli and baked bean flavour (yes really). They were also good value at 3 packs for a fiver meaning we had no excused not to take a trio home.

Blue Vinny is one of the most interesting of English cheeses, as well as the most local to the festival, being made just outside Sturminster Newton itself. Historically the cheese is made with skimmed milk a by -product from the butter market. While the cream and butter were valuable in London, the skimmed milk was not, so was traditionally turned into blue cheese for farmers and the surrounding villagers to enjoy.

While the cheese was a common in Dorset for hundreds of years, production stopped around 1970 and the cheese became extinct. However, in 1980 Mike Davies of Woodbridge Farm, made the bold move to resurrect the 300 year old recipe and the unpasteurised cows’ milk cheese is now freely available once again.

Sadly, the product didn’t appeal as much as the tale behind it. White not a bad cheese by any stretch, the skimmed milk used in its production means the finished cheese is quite astringent and missing the smooth fattiness of my favourite kind of blues. Still worth a try if you ever spot it, if only for the chance to reclaim our history through food; especially good with a Dorset knob.

One stall that certainly disappoint was James’s Cheese, a company that concentrates on the affinage of products sourced from partner dairies and is run by James McCall, who started his great love of cheese under the tutorage of the great James Aldridge.

Most of the James’s cheeses are washed rind, matured at nearby Child Okeford, although there are a trio of soft cow’s milk cheese flavoured with chillies, pepper and herbs also available. My favourite of the selection, and perhaps the whole day, was the Francis, a washed rind cheese named after Atkinson's other given name.

Originally the cheese starts life as ‘Stoney Cross’, made by Salisbury-based Lyburn Cheese. James then takes it across the border to Dorset and turns it into the wonderfully meaty, sticky  beast that is Francis; a glorious cheese that could happily stand up to any French stinker but isn’t too overpowering.

The cloth-bound Sparkenhoe Vintage Red Leicester I tried was as good as ever, although one of our party wasn’t much of a fan, ruling it out for the cheeseboard. They were also offering the Bosworth Field, a pretty decent mould ripened unpasteurised cheese with a light and crumbly texture.

Alongside all the fromage, my exciting discovery of the day was the goat merguez from the Norsworthy Dairy Goat stall. As I was excitedly snapping some up the Ewing and my Mum had descended upon the selection of goat’s cheeses also offered, before settling on the Little Dollop, a gloriously runny specimen that flowed across the plate like cheesy lava when we cup it open the next day.



As the Ewing and my Mum were still hopelessly attempting to spear cheeses so ripe they’d be easier scooped up with a spoon, I had spied the one thing I was looking forward to above all else – the cheese toastie stall. And, fortuitously, just in time for lunch.

The grill, manned by the good people at Westcombe Dairies, was churning out delicious cheddar stuffed toasties on sourdough bread and studded with spring onions, cooked to a crisp perfection by the help of a couple of foil wrapped bricks. Moments later and the ambrosial mix of carbs and dairy was in hand (and down front).

The sandwich was so good, and the guys on the stall so friendly, that we also bought a chunk to take home. After all, it would have been remiss not to have at least one gum-tingling hard cheese in our selection and the Westcombe didn’t disappoint. A creamy and firm, rather than crumbly, cheddar with a rich nuttiness and a good lick of acidity to finish; super stuff.

While we couldn't face anymore coagulated curds and whey when we got home on Saturday, by Sunday evening we had got our cheese eating chops back and enjoyed this magnificent platter of choice morsels, alongside a nice Portugese red, a selection of polenta and spelt crackers and an episode of Morse. Perfect.

While most the haul was eaten, we did bring a hunk of the Francis washed rind from James's Cheese Company back home. Consulting my favourite tome, Nikki Segnit's Flavour Thesaurus, for potential flavour pairing combos (before I scoffed by the light of the fridge), I found a simple recipe for fennel-spiked crackers that would also make good use of the Maltstar flour, ground at Stoates mill in Dorset, that we had bought in Shaftesbury on the way back home.

Maltstar and Fennel Seed Crackers
(adapted from The Flavour Thesaurus)

150g flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
2 tsp fennel (or cumin or celery) seeds
25ml olive oil
125 ml water

put flour, baking powder and fennel seeds in a mixing bowl
add the oil and water in increments until the mixture formas a doufh
Knead for five minutes, wrap dough in clingfilm and allow to rest in the fridge for 30 mins
Unwrap dough and roll out to 5mm thick then press out your crackers with a cutter (you'll get approx 24 5cm diameter crackers).
Place crackers on a greased baking sheet, brush with water and bake at 160c for 25 minutes or until golden and baked through.
Allow to cool before storing in an airtight container.

Birthday Golf @ Swingers

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I'm feeling pretty excited right now, as in less than 12 hours I'll be saying sayonara to these shores for a trip to the land of the Rising Sun, and by the time you read this I'll hopefully be necking Suntory and slurping soba. But before I swap PG Tips for matcha and cod and chips for kaiten-zushi there's always time for some early birthday golf bragging after my triumph in East London last weekend.

The venue for these anniversary shenanigans was The Royal Shoreditch Golf Club, aka Swingers London (tip, don't Google at work), a warehouse that's been converted into a crazy golf-cum-bar-cum street food collective. Yes, on paper that does sound like a tiresome beard and plaid magnet (and that's just me and my entourage of ladies), where hipsters might congregate over Negronis on the 18th hole, but in reality it's just bloody good fun.

The good times started at the Freixenet bar with a round of sparkling rose and, after a wait for back-up ice supplies, some pretty lethal signature Soho Spritzes that we saw being ordered by the (obligatory) hen party (with obligatory gay guy) playing in front of us.

 
Dutch courage imbibed, we made our way to the first tee where I sensed the magical powers of the knitted tank top, classic wear for all stylish golfers about town, would give me that extra cutting edge against some fearsome (drunk and clueless) competition.

Course-side drink service was provided by the charming Jeremy Nine Iron, from whom we ordered pints of Meantime lager a couple of rounds of Dandies, based on the cocktails of the same name available at Hawksmoor; 'Cognac stirred with Maraschino & Benedictine, topped with Champagne. Adapted from a punch served at New York’s Waldorf-Astoria in the 1930s. We’ve taken a more refined approach, eschewing the original’s soda water in favour of more champagne.'

More champagne, can't say fairer than that, although I would like to say sorry to the member of the hen party I accidentally belted on the second tee after I'd drunk the first one of these. Thanks too, to the nice guy in front who provided helpful tactical tips a la Ken Brown on the BBC at Augusta. 

Of course, there can oly be one winner, and with a golf ball as loud as my trousers, it was fate the birthday girl would triumph. Of course, the rest of the party were equally fulsome with their praise as I was with my modesty...

With the absence of a buggy service or a caddy to carry our clubs, we were need of some serious sustenance after we made it back to the club house. The choices here are top notch, with the initial grub being provided by scene stalwarts Patty and Bun and Pizza Pilgrims, with more traders lined up later in the year.

I was allowed to order and, ignoring Stealth's protests that pizza without cheese is just tomatoes on toast, ordered a marinara and a pizza bianca with mushrooms and truffle oil. Both were excellent, possibly even better than the last time I ate at their bricks and mortar gaff, although the the tomato was a touch heavy handed.

We also shared Patty and Buns's crispy chicken thighs, served bathed in a punchy tamarind, fish sauce and chilli-spiked glaze and topped with crunchy peanuts and fresh coriander. Winner winner chicken dinner.

While they also offer a 'golf ball' sub, with pork and beef meat balls and tomato sauce, I couldn't miss up the opportunity to order an Ari Gold,one of London's truly great burgers. 'Beef patty, Cheese, Lettuce, Tomato, Pickled onions, Ketchup, Smokey P&B mayo, Brioche bun'. Job done. 


Of course, there's no party without a cake, so thanks to the fabulous, marvelous, wonderful (make the most of it, I only say it once a year) Stealth for my personalised box of Hummingbird cupcakes. They may have been little more than frosting and crumbs by the time we got them back to South London, but nothing could squash the start of a perfect birthday weekend.

The Living Daylights

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In a slight diversion from the usual food and drink based-shenanigans. I'm taking a time out to take Pies and Fries on location. Most avid readers of the blog (hi again, Mum and Mrs P) will no doubt be aware of my unabashed Bond love. It’s true I’m a massive 007 fan and my favourite film of the franchise – possibly... probably... if I really, really had to choose – is 1987's the Living Daylights.

Yes, that’s right not the classic Connery,  jocular Moore or ice cold Craig, but the wonderful, and very overlooked, Timothy Dalton making his debut in a first of a deuce of appearances as the world’s most famous spy. A fabulous film that, for various reasons, failed to jump start a flagging franchise and lead to the slightly less lovable Licence to Kill.

Now normally I’m not really a fan boy about such things, but rather excitingly – and, you can imagine, this really thrilled the Ewing -we recently had the chance to visit some of the locations in TLD; firstly in Vienna and then closer to home in London and the Chilterns.

 

Our first port of call was the Volksoper in Vienna which provided the façade of the 'Ľudové Konzervatorium' (people’s conservatory) in Bratislavia (still a Communist country, an not open to filming, when the TLD was shot), the backdrop to some of the most iconic scenes from the film.

While the building itself looks pretty much the same - save for the large red lettering on the left hand side of the building - the most striking thing is how much the scrawny little sapling that you see planted at the front of the building in the film has grown in the last 26 years!

I took my pictures of the Volksoper’s exterior from outside the sweet shop on the opposite side of the street. It’s the same shop that Bond and Saunders access in the film in order to try and get a clean shot at Kara Milovoy, Koskov’s supposed assassin, who appears in the top window above the balcony of the Volksoper during the interval. It was closing when we arrive, but pictures of Timothy Dalton can apparently still be seen stuck up inside.

 
While the interior shots of the Ľudové Konzervatorium were provided by the Sofiensäle (sadly burnt to a shell in 2001) in the film, we were lucky enough to have a night in the gods at the Volksoper. Our evening's entertainment was provided by Strauss' Die Fledermaus, a farcical operatta first premiered in Vienna 137 years before, and still able to raise a laugh, especially after a few cans of Ottakringer drunk en route.

Some of the best scenes from any Bond film are to be found in TLD, where Koskov is sprung from Blayden, the MI6 safe house deep in the English countryside. In real life the exterior shots of Blayden and its surrounds are provided by Stonor Park, just outside Henley, with the interior being filmed back in the studio.

Built in c.1180, Stonor House has been the home of the Stonor family for more than eight centuries and is still privately owned, and lived in, by the family. Both the house and gardens, with a small shop and tea room, can be visited between 1-5 on Sunday and Bank Holiday Mondays, so we jumped in the jalopy one sunny Sunday afternoon for a gander.

 
In Stor's scenes, Necros, undoubtedly one of the franchise’s most fearless henchmen, hijacks the local milkman’s float – one of the only things that really dates this classic film – before driving to the safe house and attacking the staff with various weapons including electric carving knives, handfuls of salt, a set of saucepans and the lead his Walkman headphones (another great 80’s touch).

This leads to the double agent Koskov being re-captured by the rebels, who arrive on the front lawn in an ambulance helicopter, assisted by Necros who is now disguised as a doctor. Only the grounds front of the house and chapel are visible in these scenes, which means that sadly you don’t get to see the beautiful English garden, with stunning views across the Chiltern Hills and to the deer park and woodland behind.

While they don't make the film, the Italianate style gardens are charming, shouldn’t be missed. As well as the neat as a pin lawn just to the back of the house there is a maze of meadow and orchard gardens that mix neatly topiaried rows of trees with wild grass. The long mixed border at the top of the terrace, complete with giant artichokes and glorious climbing roses, ends with a Japanese garden house, built after the 5th Lord Camoys visit to Kyoto at the turn of the last century.

Prior to the excitement of Koskov’s escape, we see Bond drive up to the gates of Blayden, before going inside to deliver a hamper of champagne and caviar from Harrods -

Koskov: “What’s this? From Harrods a godsend, the food here is horrible. What’s this, Caviar, well that’s peasant food for us, but with champagne it’s ok. And more – Bollinger RD – the best!” 

Bond also explains to M that he took the liberty of changing it as the champagne as the brand on the list was “questionable”.

As mentioned above, these interior shots were not set in Stonor, but we did get to see some of the interior for ourselves when we stopped by the tea room that is housed in the fabulous Old Great Hall. A fabulous room complete with its old deer skulls on the walls, trophies from the deer park behind the house, and new glass atrium. 

The cream tea comes highly recommended,; generous pots of tea and giant, freshly baked scones, although the portions of cream and jam were a little lacking. There’s also a range of homemade cakes and sandwiches available to eat in or out.

Slightly confusingly, after the scenes set in Bratislava that were filmed in Vienna, we then move on to the scenes set in Vienna that were also filmed in the city. 

After a great snowy chase that sees Bond and Kara crossing the Austrian/Slovakian border on a cello case they arrive, even more ingloriously, in Vienna on the back of a vegetable truck. On their disembarking you can see the Reisenrad in the background, as well as, very briefly, the Shell petrol station, which stills stands, unchanged, by the entrance. 

The Reisenrad, situated in the Prater Park, is one of Vienna’s most iconic landmarks, and Bond and Kara return to the Prater later that evening for a bit of schmoozing for Bond to rendezvous with Saunders. But not before they take a fiaker, traditional Viennese horse drawn carriage, to the Schonnbrunn Palace.

 
Bond is surprisingly gallant in these scenes, gazing lovingly at Kara in the carriage and then even insisting on separate rooms when they arrive at the hotel Palais Schwarzenberg. The film was made middle of the AIDS epidemic, and Bond’s usual philandering was kept in check, although he does smoke in the film, something which is now probably frowned upon more than promiscuity.

I wish I could describe our trip to the Schonbrunn quite as romantically as Bond’s, but it was hot, I was hungry and we had to climb the hill to the top of the Gloritte before we could eat our picnic. That said, once our pretzel rolls, schinken and Kase were dispatched, we could finally relax on the lawn and enjoy the glorious views over the city and things didn’t seem so bad after all.

The interior was similarly stunning and a mercifully brief audio guide means you can get a good over view of some of the 1,441 rooms without losing the will to live while looking at another four poster bed or antique dinner service. There’s also very good strudel available from the adjacent Café Residenz.

Balloon, Mein Herr?
On Bond and Kara returning to the Prater that evening, we see some of the most exciting and touching scenes in the film. After the obligatory ride on the waltzers and triumph on the shooting range the loved up pair take a spin on the big wheel. 

From his vantage point Bond spots a balloon seller, aka Necros, offering Saunders his wares.  His line, Balloon, Mein Herr?, is a direct reference to the Third Man, the most famous of all films shot in Vienna, and is well worth a watch if you haven’t seen it already.

After a bit of seduction high in the sky, Bond leaves Kara briefly to meet Saunders at the Prater café -I’m not sure if it’s still here or not, as we didn’t get a chance to explore much beyond the wheel, but from his expression James doesn’t rate the coffee too highly anyway.  Here we see Saunders hand over the info to Bond before being trapped between the remote controlled sliding doors as he exits (the rigged hydraulic piston can just be glimpsed in the far right of the shot).

Of course, if Necros was really clever, he would have dispatched Saunders before the rendezvous with Bond, but anyway I digress… What is really touching about this scene is seeing Dalton convey Bond’s softer side. Although Saunders is a stuffy bureaucrat at odds with Bonds lazzies fare attitude, during the film they develop an understanding and James is genuinely stricken by the fact he was unable to protect him.

Our ride was far less eventful, but still no less enjoyable, and the views from the wheel on a clear day are not to be missed. The rest of the park itself is a pleasantly old fashioned sort of place with the usual selection of fairground rides and games, although, as there’s no entrance fee to the park, it’s easy just to take the Metro to the Prater just for a spin on the wheel, as we did.

The park scenes mark the end of the European locations, until the final act when Bond returns to watch Kara in concert. In between, of the more far flung locale they visit, Tangier is high on the list for a potential next adventure, although remote Afghanistan, where bond joins the Mujahideen to try and bust Whittaker’s opium ring, is probably not going to be on the itinerary anytime soon. 

Their internment in Central Asia does, however, lead to one of the film’s funniest lines: Kara: "You were fantastic – we're free!" Bond: "Kara, we're inside a Russian air base in the middle of Afghanistan."

The film ends with the credits rolling over a night time view of the Schonbrunn Palace, accompanied by another criminally overlooked nugget, the Pretenders ‘If There Was a Man’; the first time a Bond film has featured a different track for both opening and closing credits.

A fitting end to a fabulous film; and, in case this post seems light on the consumables, Bond does make the time for a drink or two: 

Linda: [into phone] It's all so boring here, Margo - there's nothing but playboys and tennis pros. [sighs] If only I could find a real man. 
[James Bond, having just dispatched an assassin in a burning truck in mid-air, lands on the boat with a smouldering parachute] 
Bond: I need to use your phone [takes phone] She'll call you back [hangs up].
Linda: You are who? 
Bond: Bond, James Bond [into phone] Exercise Control, 007 here. I'll report in an hour. 
Linda: [offering drink] won’t you join me? 
Bond: [into phone] better make that two.

Using My Noodle, Japanese Style

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Any trip to Japan wouldn’t be complete without an obligatory boiled bone and carb-fest, and with over 4,000 ramen shops in Tokyo alone I knew we wouldn't be short of choice. Add in udon, soba and even instant (on average a Japanese person will eat 40 packs a year), and the Ewing and I were facing a fortnight of serious slurping. 

The best noodles of the trip, ergo possibly ever, were the first bowl we ate - discounting the, very good, green tea soba offered up by Lufthansa on the flight over - at Shinjuku noodle bar Fuunji. It was perfect noodle eating situation; we had woken up (very) hung-over from excessive sweet potato soychu drinking the night before and the howling wind and pounding rain from the tail of typhoon Phanfone looked set to continue for another day.

Luckily my obsessive researching on Google maps had paid off and after a quick mid-morning powernap we grabbed our brollies and braved the inclement conditions to find some of the best Tsukamen noodles in town.

Fuunji, like many of the restaurants in Tokyo, has a vending machine ordering system; great to avoid those awkward ordering conversations, less great when all the buttons are in Japanese. Again, thanks to Google, I knew which one to press (the top right for the tsukamen with all the toppings) although somehow breaking the machine when trying to order wasn’t part of the plan.

Thankfully the staff were far too polite to dwell on this, so while one chef took our order verbally while another stripped reams of stuck paper from the bowels of the machine accompanied by the soundtrack of a beeping warning alarm, all while smiling beatifically at us.

Any awkwardness was soon forgotten (or at least replaced with a new sort of awkward as we tried to convey the strands of starch to our mouths) when the food arrived. This truly was noodle nirvana, a sort of other-worldly pinnacle for which I feel fairly confident now other noodles can never reach.
Tsukamen means dipping noodle, and the noodles at Fuunji are served cold to accompany a bowl of the most unctuous nectar that has passed my lips. Made from long boiling of chicken and fish the resultant broth is rich and creamy and mined with pieces of wobbly pork belly and a perfectly boiled egg - the exterior darkened by its soy marinade and an interior of gooey burnished gold.

In order to make sure not a drop is wasted, jugs of dashi stock are available on the counter, along with iced water, to lengthen the precious liquid so it can be drunk as soup. And that’s it; no salads or sides or fancy cocktails, no desert trolley or cheese and port. Just the finest experience I have had since the joy of coming home from school as a child and finding my mum had bought me and my sister a much lusted after chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle each (of course, that’s before I tasted it...).

Ramen is not something to be lingered over and despite being the first in the counter quickly filled and emptied next to us as a stream of salary men (and women) sat, slurped and said sayonara as we struggled to scarf down our scran as quickly as the locals while attempting not to wear most of it in the process.

Finally, the Ewing speared her final piece of slippery nitro egg and we rose, dazed by the glories of so much chicken fat so early in the day, made our goodbyes and squeezed our way past to the umbrella stand to prepare for the onslaught outside. But on opening the noren curtain we discovered that, rather like ourselves, things had changed for the better and there were finally blue skies overhead. The magical powers a bowl of soup possesses.

If you’re stuck in a railway station back in dear old Blighty, the best you can hope for is a curling M&S sarnie and a scalding cup of scummy dishwater chain store coffee. Thankfully before rail travel in Japan there is a variety of far more tempting sustenance, and Kyoto and Tokyo stations even have their very own Ramen Koji, or ramen ‘streets’.

These ramen streets are great for tourists and locals alike, as they showcase seven (Kyoto) and eight (Tokyo) regional noodle styles all in on handy location. As with most things in Japan, the real trouble is finding them, with the Kyoto Ramen Street most easily accessed through the small lift on the left hand side of the 2nd floor of the Isetan department store that’s attached to the station. After squashing in with an assortment of other noodle lovers ride up to the 10 floor, where you’ll find a sign - unhelpfully all in Japanese, helpfully with pictures - detailing the different types of ramen on offer.

On our first visit we were tempted by the sign advertising Masutani ‘A Kyoto favourite since 1948’. As with most noodle shops, payment is by the vending machines outside the shop; we both chose the most expensive ramen, at a whole 1,000 Yen a bowl (£6) and threw caution to the wind with a frosty Ashahi each, 500 Yen, and a dish of pickled radish to nibble on to start at 100 Yen.

After collecting our tickets the waitress showed us to seats on the counter where we could, just about, see the chefs labouring under a fug of steamy pots of boiling pigskin and pasta. Moments later and our bowls were in front of us.

Much is made of the rapidity of which the Japanese eat their noodles. It is claimed that the optimum amount of time to eat a bowl of ramen, to stop the noodles growing fat and claggy in the soup, is seven minutes. Couple this with the fact that most ramen are served at boiling temperature and you can see why slurping is not just encouraged, but essential.

The true Japanese slurp is not executed through poor technique, bad etiquette or even to show appreciation to the chef; instead the clump of piping hot noodles are lifted from the broth by chopsticks and then drawn into the mouth on a noisy raft of cooling air. Done properly the slurp magically cools the cargo from incendiary to just Very Very Hot. It’s also great fun to join in with the chorus of greedy sucking noises that make every noodle joint sound like a chorus bullfrogs has descended each dinnertime.

These ramen, described on the website as, ‘a bit strong-tasting soy sauce and high-quality back fat blended into the simple soup based on carcass… with rather thin straight noodle,’ were no exception with the murky layer of porky oil serving to keep even more of the heat in. 

Despite not being much of a looker, the taste was rather good. The broth was unctuous and fatty without being cloying and the soy added seasoning and a little sweetness. Juicy slices of chashu and shredded nagi were present and correct and The Ewing also appreciated not one but two gooey-yolked eggs as I covertly shifted my nitamago to her bowl.

We like it so much we decided to go back for a quick dinner before catching the train back to Tokyo. This time we chose Kitataka Bannai, which are famed for their Kitakata-style noodles.
Kitatkata, as all good ramen fiend will know, is a town in northern Honshu known for its love of dough strands submerged in broth. 

With an estimated population of 49,857 there are over 120 ramen shops in the city, or one shop for every 416 people. Ramen has such prominence in the region that locally, the word soba usually refers to ramen, and not to actual soba which is referred to as nihon soba (‘Japanese soba’), (thanks Wikipedia), and the locals love it so much that many eat Asa-Rah (morning ramen) for breakfast.

Kitakata ramen features thick, flat and curly noodles served in pork and niboshi (sardine) based, shoyu (soy) flavoured soup. Bannai Shokudo ramen is described on the website as 'a fantastic marriage of Soy sauce and salt based soup, in which umami of just pork bone was plainly and simply extracted, and rather thick hand-rubbing firm noodle!' Who could fail to be excited.

The home-made roast pork, toro uma char siu, is prepared in the restaurant every day, and comprises the only topping on their number one chashu pork ramen. Normally thick, sweet fatty slices of pig would also top my number one ramen, but, after a day at Nishiki food market I scaled back a bit with the Kitakata ramen, which also features shredded Japanese leek alongside the slabs of meat.

As you can see from the picture, this was a far lighter soup than the one we had tackled the previous night. Usually I would favour the thick, funky pig-enriched broth, but this slightly sweet, salty soy-based number was delicate while still being imbibed with a deep fishy, porky flavour. Even better the small portion, pictured, came in at 6oo Yen (£3.60) which left plenty of money for train beers on the Shinkansen back to Tokyo.

We enjoyed ramen alley in kyoto so much that we decided to hit the original, in Toyo station, when we go back (actually this may be a small fib; I wanted to go there to buy oddly flavoured and impossible difficult to find Japanese Kit Kats, and the shop that sold them was directly opposite Raman Alley…).

The most famous, and popular, of the eight Tokyo offering is Rokurinsha, known for their tsukamen. After the offerings at Fuunji, I didn’t want to besmirch my magnificent memories of dipping noodles so we went in search of something a little different.

Which is how we ended up at Tonari, whose specialty is steaming bowls of tantanmen, or Chinese style ramen. Thoughtfully they provide paper aprons, which were also offered to the couple that were sat next to us, although I’m not sure if this was to protect their spotless white shirts before returning to work or make the Gajin next them feel slightly less socially awkward.

We both chose a set, my was the super-duper Toyo station special of tantanmen with a whole nitrotamago and a juicy slice of pork belly accompanied by a fearsome (not that fearsome, but hot for Japanese standards) dish of spicy chilli oil and a side of kara age which, rather remiss of me, was the first of the whole trip.

Here's the Tonari style tanmen, described on their sign as 'salty pork bone soup and voluminous wide noodles topped with eight types of sauteed vegetables - including Japanese mustard spinach, bean sprouts, Chinese cabbage and garlic chives - boiled fish cake, squid tentacles and pork.' 

This was about as healthy as ramen gets – if we ignore the (probably) astronomical sodium levels, pig-infused broth and great curl of cured meat on top – with the thicket of veg and chewy curly noodles going down very well, and very noisily, on what was turning into a rather dull and dreary autumn afternoon.

The karaage was everything I hoped, with its blistered and gossamer thin carapace giving way to hot, juicy, slightly greasy chook that went very well with an extra slick of the chili oil and a large bottle (three quid) of ice cold Asahi.

The Ewing picking the rather restrained regular bowl, which came with the same thatch of toppings, less the bacon and egg (of which I was happy to share the latter.) Her set was accompanied by some very good, perfectly squirty within, pork and veg gyoza.

A very nice pit stop, and certainly worth a punt if you are wanting to top up your 5 a day, or ever tire of the richer, saltier Tokyo Shoyu or creamy tonkotsu style broths (yes, I know, unlikely…).

Of all the (Eastern-style) noodles, udon may just be my favourite. Big, fat, wiggly strands of wheat, they are the noodles that put London’s Koya on the map, as well as being great when stir fried (especially with lots of pork and shredded ginger).

A tip provided by this great Serious Eats article (they also mention Fuunji) was Shinjuku’s Mentsu Dan, an informal canteen style noodle and tempura restaurant tucked away in the streets north of the JR station, which is where we found ourselves after a busy day shrine-hopping.

The noodles are handmade daily and the various preparations - hot hold, dipping, soup etc. – are posted on pictures (helpfully colour co-ordinated red and blue) on the window outside. Not much trusting our Japanese skills we took a couple of pictures to show the chef, but were thankfully saved when a rather lovely young lady stepped in to help us.

I chose the 'bukake' (or splashed) noodles. Yes, to those with a knowledge of 'adult' films this may sound slightly alarming, as a friend on twitter pointed out, but on trying a mouthful of these its hard to not be moan like a leading lady (don't worry, I restrained myself).

Apart from the superlative noodles I also loved the slender purple, pickled aubergines and the crunchy carrot and radish with sesame. The tempura were a little less successful, mainly owing to the fact that anything that's been immersed in the fryer needs to be eaten pronto lest it turns into a greasy sponge; a fate which sadly befell the green spiky thing (cabbage?) that looked so beguiling, but shattered into oily shards on eating.

That said, the potato croquette was good, as was the slice of kabutcha squash and the butterflied sardine the Ewing picked seemed to disappear pretty quickly. The Ewing's noodle choice, the classic cold udon served with a dipping sauce, was also spot on, if pretty tricky to eat, but that paled into insignificance when compared to the egg custard she had picked up from the cabinet for desert that was later attacked with nothing but chopsticks....

A special mention to our savaviour at the noodle ordering counter; not only did she explain our choices to us – both cold preparations, to highlight the bite noodles – she also went to get us drinks of iced water after we had sat down and even offered to take a picture for us before she and her friend left (despite arriving as we did, they had eaten their meal and had a chat and a post-noodle cigarette while, needless to say, our food was still barely touched, with more of it on the floor and the table than in us).

Our last night in Japan started like the beginning of our trip, with a deadly typhoon. Being Brits, and made of sterner stuff than letting a little category four cyclone dampen our spirits, we went for a rather wet and windy walk around Shinjuku before ending up - cold, tired and bedraggled - at the handmade soba restaurant in the mini shopping complex in the basement of our hotel. 

Our last Japanese meal mirrored our two first as the Ewing chose soba noodles and I had a bowl of comforting kare raisu, with carrots, pork and sweet potatoes, for a frankly unbeatable 280 Yen (£1.60). We also pushed the boat out with two giant tempura prawns, almost a bank-breaker at a whole 120 Yen (72p) each, and gloriously hot and crisp from the fryer.

The soba were equally good, made on the premises and accompanied by a distinctly autumnal melange of aubergine and squash in a thin dashi and mirin based broth. Soba are a noodle I sometimes struggle to like, seeming so, well, parsimonious next to their bigger, louder cousins, but these were restrained and nutty with a lovely, delicate bite.

As if there was any doubt that these were enjoyed I’ll leave you with this picture of the Ewing, eyes firmly down and, despite more than passable chopstick skills, more soba on the table than on the zaru tray. Proving that after two magical, intoxicating, challenging, exhilarating weeks, you can never tire of the novelty of noodles.

Japanese Junk

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One of the best things about travel is that the rule book goes out the window. 5am pint at the airport? Bloody marys on the plane?  Half a giant packet of strangely flavoured crisps, bowls of spicy fish curry and rice or whole basket of Danish pastries for breakfast? Why not?

The same goes for foreign fast food. Why does the same dreary McDonalds I walk past every day seem so much more alluring in foreign climes. Of course it’s context; the three in the morning, jet-lagged, Hong Kong McD’s cheeseburger that tasted like nectar, the McFlurry studded with Baci chocolates in Tuscany, the McGreek Pita burger (surprisingly edible) in Rhodes or the McLobster rolls that we all became addicted to one long summer in New England are always going trump the limp Big Mac, bought in post-boozing haste and regretted at leisure.

The first stop, prompted by blogger Skinny Bib’s visits to Japan that always seem to include one of these classic cheeseburgers, was Mos burger, where I was keen to try one of their famed rice 'buns' as well as the classic meat patty with the special meat sauce and oversized tomato slice.

The cheese burger was pretty decent; the (a little too thin) patty glazed with a gooey slice of white plastic cheese and the meat sauce and (thankfully not too dominant) tomato again bringing a little something different to proceedings. Add an extra patty and some spice (the hot version comes with chopped jalapeños) and you’ve got yourself a very passable fast food effort.

We also threw an ebiken burger into the mix, a glazed bun stuffed with a bread crumbed disc of prawns and finished off with tartare sauce and shredded white cabbage.  This was excellent, the croquette full of sweet pink crustacean pieces and the cabbage, whilst sounding odd to our Western palates, bringing a refreshing crunch to the party. They also offer the classic Japanese fried pork cutlet, again with cabbage, and also with cutlet sauce and hot mustard; tonkatsu in a bun.

The best, or certainly the most interesting, of the three was the rice burger which consisted of compressed discs of glutinous rice, millet and barley - brushed with a sweet soy glaze and grilled until slightly crisp outside - which masqueraded as the bun, stuffed with a seafood patty of squid and small shrimps with chunks of edamame, carrots and onion.

Really, this was nothing like a burger, tasting rather more like the container of slightly dried out Chinese fried rice you find at the back of the fridge; which of course is the very best thing you can find at the back of the fridge and the one reason I would like to see Mos on these shores in the future. Also, top marks to the guy who was working on the top floor of their Downtown Kyoto branch when we visited; a real gem.

The most expensive burger we ate on our trip was at Lotteria, another fast food chain that originated in Japan (its HQ is now in South Korea) known for their beef and teriyaki burgers and fried chicken; they were also the first to introduce the ebiken (shrimp) burger back in 1977.

We were there to sample the limited edition Wagyu burger, part of their promotion to offer a special item from every prefecture in Japan (I think, if my rather limited understanding of the box the burger came in was correct…). This one was from Tochigi, which is known for its strawberries, hence the addition of strawberry jam infused béchamel sauce to the burger…

As well as the strawberries, there was also a (molten) application of a sticky brown sauce (tonkatsu?) while the burger itself was also suspiciously nuclear temperature which, alongside the absence of a crusty exterior, pointed to the potential involvement of a microwave somewhere along the line - although it was hard to tell if the soft, rich fattiness of the meat was more a result of the cuts/breed used and wanting to preserve its tenderness by not overgrilling.

All of this probably sounds as if I didn’t enjoy it, and I did. The patty itself was huge and, as mentioned above, the meat almost pate like in texture and very juicy. Both sauces, and the glazed bun, leant sweetness which verged on being cloying, but the meatiness of the beef and the saltiness of the tonkotsu just pulled it back from the brink.

Whilst still in Shinjuku we called in to a well-known burger establishment for a McWee (spotless facilities), but ended up also ordering their two Halloween specials to share. The first was the witch inspired number, with it’s the black bun infused with bamboo charcoal. Inside was a double beef patty, yellow mustard, spicy black (squid ink-infused) sauce and fried onions.

Disappointingly, the bun was more of a washed out blue, the colour of your favourite band t-shirts turns when you’re a teenager, although the oozing sauce was far more ominous in colour. Overall it was ok, if not memorable, although I was a big fan of the crunch the deep fried onion shards provided.

The, distinctly unscary, ghost influenced burger showcased a crispy coated chicken fillet with a camembert cheese and shredded iceberg topping. I’m starting my own one woman crusade to see more camembert in burgers, as this was actually rather nice and could have even been blinding with a crustier bun, less homogenous chicken and even more cheese; one to practice at home.

After eating the McD's black burger I had to try the BK version for comparison; a quest that saw us scouring the streets of Shinjuku, as well as the labyrinthine passages of Shinjuku stations subterranean shopping streets (as well as being the world’s busiest station it has 60 exits), for a BK that I ‘knew was here somewhere’.  A quest that ultimately ended in frustrated failure and retreating to the hotel for a vending machine beer and a soothing session in the in-room massage chair.

Thankfully the processed meat Gods were with us the following day as we, unwittingly, stumbled straight into a BK in Asuskusa after visiting the Senso-ji temple. It proved worth the wait for the Kuro Pearl burger if only for its startling, if not particularly appetising, novelty. The bun was a far darker hue than McDonalds and the addition of liberal amounts of black pepper gave it some pep; even the cheese was an ebony shade, coloured with more squid ink.

Refreshment came from one of the most popular Japanese sodas we encountered, melon flavour, whose neon hues were toned down somewhat by a swirl of vanilla soft serve. Ridiculously lurid an ridiculaously sweet, but knocked the beginnings of an early afternoon hangover on the head, so full marks for that.

What is life, to paraphrase W.H Davies, without time to standing around eating crisps, possibly my very favourite of 'junk' foodstuffs (all foodstuffs). Of all foreign comestibles crisps are possibly the most appealing to me as I have rarely met a bag I haven’t got along with.

To add to my excitement, Calbee, Japanese crisp manufacture, also have several shops in Tokyo dedicated to freshly frying the potato snack. Here you can pick crinkle cut, normal or potato tubes, all freshly made from real potatoes here on the premises (you can watch them all hard at work behind a glass screen) and topped with various different toppings including chicken, cheese and caramel.

I chose the crinkle cut with spicy cheese sauce, and soon a cup of sliced spuds, straight from the fryer were in my hands. What I found curious about these is they were still warm, which is standard for a chip but unusual for a crisp (unless you’ve carelessly left a packet of Walkers from the petrol station on your dashboard in summer. Not that I'd know...).

Calbee also make the Jagabee range of potato sticks, the new love of my life (although I'm not sure if their tea making skills are quite up to the Ewing's). It is impossible to adequately explain my love for these, pitched somewhere between a French Fry (the British crisp variety) and a hollow Chipstick. They also come in some of the best flavour combinations, including vegetable soup, baked potato and my favourite, soy sauce and butter.

Other findsincluded sweet potato Hula Hoops, currently my favourite type of Hula Hoop, and the famous Bōkun Habanero, the most popular spicy potato snack in Japan, and likely the most recognisable to foreign crisp fiends on these shores. Bōkun Habanero means ‘tyrant habanero,’ a pun on both the  chili pepper and the Roman emperor; the character that advertises the crisps, a grinning devil like character, has also become a bit of a cult figure and focus of a popular Japanese internet meme.

For Japanese standards these are spicy - although they are also available in a bebinero version, which features a younger version of the regular character - but I also found something far more exciting in the form of a version that is ten times hotter than the original. If you don’t feel like destroying all your taste buds then the extra-spicy powder comes in a separate packet, enabling customers to add as little or as much as they like, and the potato hoops even have serrated edges to trap as much as the powdered napalm as possible. Hawt stuff and certainly worth the effort of carefully transporting a couple of bags home. Just a shame (not really a shame) that I'll have to make a return visit for that rice burger.

The End of the Endless Summer

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I remember being given a menu when in a Fuller’s pub a couple of years ago emblazoned with ‘summers were longer when we were younger’ across the front. Despite this only being the late spring Bank Holiday, I already felt the wistful nostalgia that it may as well be November already and time for lost scarves and log fires and chipping frost off the car window.

Of course, our perception does change as we get older. Birthdays seemed aeons away when I was growing up, and for good reason; the gap between my fifth and sixth year, for example, being 20% of my life lived up to that point. As a kid that's a mighty long time.

This summer - contrary to the feeling that sees us all hurtling toward old age with the belief that nine out of ten days are overcast with a hint of drizzle (no matter what the time of year) while the remaining few veer from blistering hot to drifts of snow – was perfect, and not just because of the weather.

Of course by perfect, I mean flawed in the way that life is. There were high days and holidays and all-nighters and early bedtime; there were new friends and old friends and fantastic family gatherings; lots of laughter, a few cross words and a big loss. Stealth and I learnt how to rock a party while the Ewing’s allotment blossomed with scotch bonnets, artichokes and more marrows than seemed humanly possible.

Which is why I didn’t have that usual pang of autumnal regret thoughts of dark nights and gloom descending – I was summered out. The thought of digging out a scarf and eating soup and sausages and baked potatoes and putting my socks on the radiator in the morning, just like my mum used to do before I got dressed for school, suddenly seemed very appealing. And also, what better time to slip in a nice summery photo montage.

As she had accompanied me through most the fun parts of the summer, and most the bad bits too, it was only fitting I should spend the last of the dying light with Stealth, who was suffering from yet another romance-induced malady.

Despite my attempted efforts to plan an adventure further afield, I knew that after we had woken up eaten all the Chocolate Orange and prawn crackers (due to lack of any other food) washed down with black coffee (due to lack of milk) we would end up in the Old Red Lion in Kennington, a five minute stagger from Stealth’s doorstep.

To be honest, I’ve got rather a soft spot for the ORL and there are certainly far worst places to find yourself on a Sunday afternoon.  For a start the beer selection is very good, with plenty of hand pulled ales and stouts and a good choice of canned and bottled beers, especially American brewers such as Rouge and Flying Dog. On my last visit, in the sweaty height of summer, I enjoyed a few Modus Hoperandis in the beer garden.

This time we started with pints of Twickenham Brewery's Naked Ladies, as if they knew and were ready to taunt the love lorn Stealth, followed by a couple more pints of whatever porter and stout were on tap. Remissly, I have know idea of what they actually were, but all were well kept and went down rather too easily.

I also started with a bloody mary, which was one of the best I have had for a long while. The tomato juice was nicely spiced with a good slug of horseradish and pepper and was pepped up even further with pickled cherry tomatoes, lemon and celery. Sadly there wasn't much vodka kick and it was served in a glass little bigger than a thimble and so necessitated several beer chasers.

Obviously Sunday equals a roast dinner (luckily as there isn't much else on the menu on the seventh day of the week) I have to be fair and say I didn't have high hopes for the food; roasts eaten anywhere but home (or someone else's home) are notoriously difficult to nail and are are often wanting. At least the food is well priced, pitching in between the sub tenner (danger, Bisto gravy you can stand a spoon in and beef like sawdust) and over fifteen quid (the meat's probably going to be rare but the veg still crunchy and served with 'jus' instead of gravy) offerings that make choosing a pub roast such a minefield.

Hands up, this was a admirably commendable effort with very little to criticize. I had gone for the chicken, needing something soothing after the previous late night and feeling that gnawing on a nice juicy drumstick may just sort things out. A decision that I soon regretted when I saw the hulking great supreme of meat that was placed in front of me.

Thankfully, I was proved wrong. I'm not sure if the breast had been brined or not but the chicken was fantastic; lots of flavour (they use free range birds) and with the perfect amount of lubrication. The bed of roasties the meat perched on were fair, if not really very crispy, but as a bonus there were roast carrot and parsnips buried at the bottom of the heap.

Alongside the chciken star prize had to go to the yorkie. Normally I'm a bit of a traditionalist and wouldn't choose a batter puddings to accompanying anything but beef (or sausages), but they come alongside all roasts here, and I'm very glad they do. While I appreciate that the squidgy yorkshire pudding wouldn't suit all tastes, to me they are far better than the airy domes that shatter as you put a fork in them, and these were just perfect.

With her eating irons poised, Stealth attempted to take on her roast topside with all the trimmings. Another good effort with meat that, while not being particularly pink, was big in flavour and nicely cooked. Lots of decent gravy, too; and often overlooked but essential part of any good roast. A mention for the carrots and broccoli, too, which were on the right side of al dente.

A roast dinner isn't a roast dinner without cauli cheese in my house and a side order of the aforementioned had an admirably un-waterlogged veg with a decent, if probably not quite fromage-filled enough, beachamel sauce.

Pudding came in the form of chocolate mousse served with lashings of cream and another pint of stout. The mousse itself was the squidgy, sweet almost chewy type rich with egg whites and sugar that you could imagine being served in a dingy backstreet Paris bistro, rather than the light fluffy rich kind that is more familiar. I enjoyed it, even if the texture was a little bit gluey in texture; for three quid however, it would be churlish to complain.

In fact it would be churlish to complain about much (except perhaps the company). A very decent drinking spot and no with a good roast upits sleeve. They also sometime have an awseome homemade Guinness cake on the bar to boot. Surely a perfect trilogy in pub terms.

Old Red Lion on Urbanspoon
Of course I had my whole extra hour to kill, so after waving farewell to Stealth (not mentioning how she dumped me by the E&C roundabout instead of gallantly walking me to the station) I decided to make the most of the newly dark early evenings by taking a stroll around the bright lights of the West End, which is how I ended up at Shake Shack in the bowels of Hell Covent Garden.

It was worth braving the crowds, though for a chance to try a couple of their seasonal specials. Firstly the bacon wrapped chhpped chilli and cheese doused Smoke Dog which was accompanied by one of their famed concrete ice creams, this time with the addition of a slice of London bakery Cocomaya's pumpkin pie for good measure. Refreshment came in the form of an Arnold Palmer, sadly so seldom seen on these shores.

Despite the fact I was still digesting the last remnants of Yorkshire pudding and choccy mousse I had no problem devouring both of these. The combo of cherry peppers, their legendary cheese sauce and bacon could hardly fail, and the pumpkin pie concrete was both spicy and sweet without being cloying, the chunks of pie crust adding buttery crunch.

Taking a postprandial stroll to nowhere, soaking up the atmosphere while enjoying the twinkling lights of the Big City and breathing in the top notes of roasting chestnuts and diesel fumes, I thought that, not for the first time, John Lennon was right; time you enjoy wasting is time not wasted. Amen to that (and roll on 29th March...).

Shake Shack on Urbanspoon

(Mostly) Raw Fish

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While originally becoming popular across South East Asia as a way to preserve fish in fermented rice so it would last longer, also see zabasushi below, Hanaya Yohei is generally credited as the inventor of today's Tokyo-style nigiri sushi, at the end of Japan's Edo period, circa 1850. And what would a trip to Japan be without scarfing down huge amounts of possibly their most famous export, mercury poisoning and fishing quotas be damned.

The fish sold during this time would often be salted or marinated in soy as lack of refrigeration caused the catch (mostly from Tokyo Bay) to spoil very quickly. Skip forwards a century and sushi with raw fish, roe and seafood was becoming more easily available and could be found for sale on the streets of most Japanese cities.

Come the 1980s and the west coast of America bought a charge with the introduction of fusion sushi including California rolls stuffed with all sorts of weird and wonderful things including mayo, avocado and crabsticks and spicy tuna, quickly followed by the excitement of kaiten (conveyor) belt restaurants and the ensuing sushi saturation of the 2000s where you could find boxes to takeaway in every Tescos in every town.

So here we are in 2014 and while it doesn’t look like we are going to get the hoverboards or pizzas that grow in the microwave that we were promised, you can order sushi on an iPad that is bought to your table on a robotic train; which is how we came to find ourselves at Genki Sushi for a little birthday lunch of raw fish and rice.

Of all the stops planned out on our two week itinerary sadly I think this is the one I was most looking forward to; as with the best of Japanese culture it demonstrates the perfect blend of ancient tradition with technology and it also meant I could stuff myself silly with sushi for a ridiculously small amount of Yen.

The premise is simple; on entering you are given a small electronic tag corresponding to a seat in the restaurant, on finding said seat activate the ipad that is mounted above it (thankfully there is an English option) and begin ordering your food and drink. When you have finished ‘checkout’ on the iPad then take your tag to the counter at the entrance to settle up.

Of course the real fun comes when you have placed you order. As soon as the kitchen has freshly prepared your food they load up the little robotic trains before sending them out to you via a double set of tracks that run around the restaurant like a miniature railway enthusiasts wet dream. On receiving your order, grab the food then press the flashing ‘Genki’ button to send the train back; rinse, lather, repeat.

I had been avidly watching Youtube videos on Genki etiquette (and other strange Japanese things) before our trip including one,from American video bloggers in Japan, Eric and Kyde, that showed them, on Eric’s birthday, eating at the same Shibuya branch of Genki. I decided to commemorate this auspicious coincidence on the anniversary of my birth by ordering Eric’s two favourite dishes to start, maguro (tuna) and pepper ebi (prawn) plus a special plate called ‘fatty trio’, because with a name like that how could I resist.

The tuna was good, the prawns great – they had been topped with Kewpie mayo and sprinkled with plenty of black pepper  before being blowtorched– and the fatty trio totally Genki (trans. happy, energetic or feeling well and still my favourite word of the moment).

The Ewing started with crab miso soup (189 Yen) which looked like it contained the creature from the Blue Lagoon, plus a basket three plump panko’d oysters served with a poky tartare sauce and a dish of her favourite edamame beans.

Throughout the meal we tried, amongst others, tuna mayo and creamed corn gunkan, a little odd but strangely moreish; a crispy grilled pork rib nigiri, served hot with lemon; bonito, looked great but a touch chewy; ama ebi (raw sweet shrimp) that lived up to the name; salmon roe gunkan, my nightmare but one of the Ewing's faves; and salmon with raw onions and mayo, that was highly inauthentic but a delight.

To give you a rough idea of the cost, the basic nigiri - tuna, salmon, prawn etc. - come as two pieces per plate and cost 189 Yen (about a pound) while the specials, like the fatty trio and oysters, are about 350 Yen (about two pounds). Matcha tea is free and each seat comes equipped with a hot water spigot, cups and powdered green tea so you can make and drink as much as you like through your meal. We also had a bottle of ice cold sake, come on, it was my birthday. Total damage just over 3,000 Yen or £18; yes, this place is cheap.

Of course, all of this jiggery pokery may alarm the purist but for this price the sushi, certainly for these two Gajin, was unbeatable value and tasty, too. Halfway through our meal, probably corresponding to the ridiculous amount I had been ordering, I got to play rock, paper, scissors with the animated girl who popped up on my ipad. Defeating her meant a 10% off token for our next visit. How could we resist?

 
Before we went back we made time for a flying visit to Genki’s even cheaper brother, Uoebi, a few streets away in Shibuya. Uoebi’s basic plates come in at 100 Yen, plus tax, a laughably small amount of money that would blow 90% of the sushi here out the water. The premise of the restaurant is the same, although the layout isn’t maze-like as in Genki, but configured as rows of seats with parallel tracks running from the kitchen along each wall.

The menu is pretty similar and the food just as good.  One different item they did offer (alongside battered chicken gristle, which I declined) was cheeseburger sushi, an abomination of an idea that actually tasted pretty damn fabulous. They also had unagi (broiled eel with a sweet sauce) and toro (tuna belly) for 189 Yen a piece. At that price, how could I say no.

There was also minced tuna with green onions and salt; crab brain gunkan for the Ewing; Pacific sauray (an autumn specialty); scallop sashimi; a trio of tuna ranging from lean to fatty; and pepper salmon which was good but not quite up to the dizzy heights of the shrimp.

Our last visit to Genki saw me trying out some of the non-raw options with rolled chicken breast stuffed with perilla leaves and deep fried (crispy, sweet and sour) and huge chunks of tuna coated in a tempura batter (a delight, but in need of an extra bit of lubrication to help them down. Where’s the mayo when you need it?).

I also had my favourite dish from the first visit, sweet shrimp topped with burnt leeks and Kewpie, but this time with raw scallop and then, because it was so good, with boiled octopus too. The scallop version was possibly the single most delicious thing I put in my mouth on the whole trip; the combination of soft, sweet, bitter and crispy being unbeatable. The salmon with spicy red oil and shredded raw leeks was also rather good.

There’s also a dessert menu available, although I can only comment on the slices of fresh pineapple, which made a welcome relief after all the fat and salt and were mercifully cheap compared to most Japanese fruit we encountered. Luckily the Ewing was far more up to the job and managed during her two visits the sweet potato cheesecake, the chestnut sponge cake and the green tea pudding, pictured. On our visit to Ueobi a group of four young American backpackers put away 16 bowls of cake and ice cream between them, which I had a sneaking amount of admiration for.

Kyoto, lying inland, doesn't share the same nigiri history as Tokyo. What it does, however specialize in, is sabazushi. Saba (mackerel) was originally bought to Kyoto over the so-called Saba Kaido, the "Mackerel Highway" between Kyoto and the fishing port of Obama in Fukui. To preserve them, the fillets of mackerel are lightly salted, then vinegared, before being pressed with sushi rice in a wooden mould before traditionally being wrapped in kelp.

To try the zabazushi we went for an early dinner at Izuju, which is handily located opposite the Yasaka Shrine. Inside is pretty tiny - the sushi being made at the front, leading through to five tables in the middle and a small kitchen out the back - but the traditional decor (the restaurant is nearly 100 tears old), with its curved wooden walls and sliding doors, is well worth checking out.

As well as the saba zushi they also offer inari pockets; deep fried tofu skin (another Kyoto specialty) stuffed with sushi rice and simmered vegetables. We chose a set which included the mackerel and tofu alongside hako (literally box) sushi which, quelle surprise, is pressed in box shaped moulds, and maki (roll) sushi.

Shortly after our beautiful platter of sushi was delivered to our table the chef quickly raced after the waitress jabbing his finger at something on the menu and gesticulating at us. While I politely nodded while carrying on attempting to eat my food  the Ewing  was more astute, noticing the warning 'please remove kelp before eating' and saving me the ignominy of battling my way through the tough and stringy band of seaweed that was wrapped around the mackerel.

The fish was god, although they recommend it without soy and overall I found it a little lacking next to my favourite nigiri sushi. The maki was beautiful, stuffed with strange shaped mushrooms and rolled omelette, something which also turned up in the hako. Other options for the box sushi include prawns and pike eel, that look like beautiful mosaics.

My favourite, surprisingly, was the inari pockets which featured a sweet tofu layer stuffed with a lemony rice and some strange little seeds that looked a little like cumin, but had a far more subtle, nutty flavour.

As well as a beautiful dinner we also got this beautiful view of the Yasaka Shrine, under a harvest moon, as we left the restaurant. This was followed by a nightime DIY tour of the back streets of the Kyoto, ably guided by the Ewing, that included the Gion district and the Potochino. A fglorious and beguiling city that deserves to be on any traveller's must see list.

Being the world’s biggest fish eaters, some 80kg each per year, and with only twenty four hours in the day to fit it all in, you know fish is going to feature in some way at the breakfast table. Alongside miso soup, traditionally with a bonito based stock, and the ever present rice there is often a pick‘n’mix of rolled omelette, pickles, natto (fermented soya beans) and salted fish.

I had seen a poster in the window of Matsuya, a famous Japanese chain of restaurants, while we were walking around Kyoto, but somehow the feat of making it back there before 11 am seemed beyond us. Thankfully I found a branch near the post office in Shinjuku, a five minute walk from our hotel, and we made it there for 10.50 on our penultimate morning.

Like many casual places the vending machine is king and all meals are ordered and paid for before you are seated. Helpful pictures helped us locate the breakfast set meals and we both chose the salmon collar- beef gyudon and fried sausage and eggs are also available – for 450 Yen (£2.50).

After sitting down at the horseshoe shaped counter and handing tickets over top the waitress several more baffling choices of additional extras quickly followed, although the laminated picture cards helped a little, and five minutes later our meals were in front of us.

If you haven’t yet had your eyes opened to the delights of slated salmon in the morning, I can highly recommend it, what I would struggle to recommend however was the hulking great block of tofu, supplemented with yet more fish in the form of bonito flakes, that came as my chosen side dish. No one deserves to eat that much tofu, especially before midday.

My pale and wobbling block of coagulated soya was nothing compared to the Ewing’s choice of grated yam, which turned up looking a little like American style grits but with the texture of ectoplasm. The other options included natto, a fermented soya bean that’s equally slimy and also smells like an unwashed gym kit. An eastern Marmite, perhaps?

Trying to watch the Ewing battle with the yam and a pair of chopsticks (alongside her stringently tasting every one of the five mystery condiments on the bench) was probably the highlight of my meal. I would also like to thank her for not only eating all the yam but also 93% of my tofu.

We also had time for a late night fishy interlude at another popular chain restaurant, Yoshino. Yoshino are most well known for their beef gyudon, a sort of thinly sliced beef and onion mix that’s simmered in dashi stock and served on rice. Due to BSE found in US cattle at the beginning of the century Yoshina stopped their beef imports and so couldn’t find enough short plate (the cut needed) to make their gyudon bowls for the first time since the first restaurant opened in 1899.

Despite the introduction of pork bowls (butadon) instead, the public’s love didn’t waiver. As the years went by beef bowls were reintroduced for special occasion, such as 2006’s one day the ‘beef bowl revival festival’ and occasionally during limited serving times, but it wasn’t until 2008 that the guydon was permanently back on the menu around the clock (most restaurants are open 24 hours).

Back to the fish and the Ewing went for their unagi bowl, served with pickles and miso soup. At 700 yen (£4.20) for one eel fillet on rice and sides, this represented an extravagant blow out (multiple eel fillets are also available but we were running out of the cold hard cash, at least  until we could find an international ATM, and so showed some restraint) but was worth every penny.

I had to try the mythical gyudon, served in a set with a side of corn salad and sesame dressing for a frankly laughable 350 Yen (2.20). Many around me were eating theirs with a raw egg stirred in, but I just went for lashing of beni shōga (pink pickled ginger) and a dash of soy. Despite its rather average appearance I suddenly understood the appeal of queuing up for this stuff during the dark days of the beef shortage, it truly was supreme and one of the few dishes from the trip I really long for since being back home. Forget another ramen restaurant, the Big smoke needs beef bowls!

A blog about fish (and, it seems, gyudon) wouldn't be complete without the jewel in Japan’s crown, Tsujiki fish market. This place is legendary, and for a reason. Every year it handles over 600,000 tonnes of seafood or 1 in every 5 fish caught. While you can find over 480 types of fish, tuna is king with the most expensive specimen selling for over a million US dollars.

Access to the tuna auctions has been restricted to tourists since a charmingly inebriated Brit licked the head of a frozen tuna and another tourist turned up naked in a wooden handcart used for making deliveries, but that doesn't stop hundreds of people queuing up from three o'clock every morning for a chance to pick up one of the 120 fluorescent tabards that allow you to see some action live for yourself.

Sadly we weren't one of the lucky few - to be fair we were still deep in a slumber as the hypnotic bell ringing and frantic nodding and shouting began, and didn't arrive until a far more civilised hour. If you want to see a slice of the fascinating action in full flow and cant get to the Chuo District anytime soon try YouTube, where you can also see the sheer size of some of the magnificent fish that are up for grabs.

Although we missed the main action the market was still a swarming mass of activity come mid-morning. While many of the fish had been bought and sold we still saw endless barrels of eels, buckets of fish heads and piles of crushed ice topped with everything from the finest fillets to brains and fins. Electric band saws hummed as they made light work of huge hunks of frozen tuna but, even at that time of the day, watch out for the fleet of motorised vehicles that whizz up and down through the impossibly narrow walkways at a demon speed. This is the most cutthroat I saw the placid Japanese throughout my visit; these guys won't stop for anyone.

Following on in the Japanese tradition, and despite all the blood and guts, everything remained relatively spotless. Oddly the market itself didn't smell at all fishy, with the strongest piscine whiff coming when we got off the metro and were walking through the underground station. With most the catch being sold we had the opportunity to see the grand cleaning down process - wear old clothes if your worried about being hosed down as you wonder through - which is far more fascinating than you may think, alongside some wonderful displays of knife sharpening. 

After the buzz of the market we moved to the out warren of streets, which by this point on a Saturday afternoon were postively thronging with people.Top sushi joints around the market, and there are a few, include Daiwa Sushi and Sushidai which, with only one small counter in each, often have crouds of three otr four hours plus. While I don't mind a wait for my lunch, breakfast seemed like a long way away so we picked the slightly less daunting queue outside Sushi Zanmai's flagship branch. A quick wait and we were soon seated at their upstairs counter for lunch.

As time goes on I realise more and more that, despite all the endless varieties of fish and seafood in the sea, my heart really belongs to tuna. I'm far from a fussy eater, and enjoy most types of sushi, but there are always a few that come and crash the party. Crunchy fish roe leaves me cold, sea urchin makes me shudder, surf clams are often like chewing gum and raw oysters, what ever anyone says about 'growing to like them', are awful.

The Ewing indulged her love for the weird and wonderful by choosing their second set, a mixture of assorted fish and crustaceans. Alongside a huge strip of unagi and a ginat prawn, complete with eyes on stalks, there was tuna, squid wrapped in perilla, sea urchin, crab with a topping of crab brains, salmon roe, chines chives and tamago.

While my wife went with her crazy underwater pick'n'mix ere I was free indulge my love of maguro with the special tuna set; maki rolls, blow torched tuna, freshly minced tuna gunkan and a selection of akami, chutoro and otoro, of which my favourite was probably the middle. Not too fatty, not too lean, just right. 

In fact it was all perfect; nothing squidgy, crunchy, slimy or bitter; nothing that popped unexpectedly as you bit in to it, and nothing that wriggled or writhed. It just like my own imagining of my favourite scene in Home Alone (that's fast becoming a theme on the blog) where Kevin orders the cheese and tomato pizza. The king of the sea, all for me, and my perfect plate of (mostly) raw fish.

Deep Fried Things and Drinking

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One of my favourite sayings remains, much the the Ewing’s chagrin, if you’re going to get wet then you may as well go swimming; a motto that perfectly encapsulates drinking while on holiday. Or how a lunchtime ‘lite’ beer can quickly escalate to a dinner time bottle of sweet potato sochu (firewater would probably be too kind a word) followed by some late night drunken sausage eating. No euphemism intended.

The best way to start any lash up has got to be with a visit to Tokyo’s famed ‘Piss Alley’ or Omoide Yokocho (Memory Lane). Set amongst the ultra-modern skyline of Shinjuku this tumble down warren of alleys by the railway station remains untouched by the bulldozers of modernity.  Which is a jolly good thing as these tiny drinking dens, thick with the smoke from charcoal grilled yakatori skewers, remain one of the most exhilarating places in the city for a jar or two.

We got their early doors on a Saturday, just as the sun was going down. Despite my intention to stay cool and wander up and down for a bit checking things out, we were commandeered almost immediately by a friendly lady beckoning us to sit at her tiny bar; with most of the establishments being of a similarly bijou size we took the opportunity to get settled down in a friendly spot.

Feeling fearless, I commandeered the menu and ordered two sticks each of gizzards, chicken skin, tsukune (chicken meatballs), cartilage, chicken and Japanese spring onion, pork tongue and garlic. These can all be ordered with tare (sweet glaze) or shiro (salt). We just pointed and hoped.

First up was the skin, burnished and crisp from the hot coals, followed by the cartilage (bordering on distressingly crunchy) meatballs (good, but still full of cartilage) chicken (a safe, but tasty choice), tongue (surprisingly good, if a little offaly) garlic (potent enough to dissuade an army of vampires) and gizzards (the Ewing finally gave up, calling them ‘chewy pebbles’ and made me finish them).

The following day was my birthday and after a sake lunch at Genki sushi, before a restorative matcha frappucciono at the Starbucks overlooking the famous crossing in Shibuya we made like Bill Maurray and headed up to the 52nd floor of the Park Hyatt Tokyo for cocktails in the New York Bar.

In an interesting quirk of the changeable Japanese weather, Typhoon Phanfone, the first of our brief visit, had rapidly descended and you would have been lucky to see your hand in front of your face let alone the glittering lights of the big city. While we had been rather spilt with our visit up the Government Tower the day before, where we had seen Mount Fuji at sunset, the swirling gloom outside only served to make it more exciting at night time.

Clearly there was only one drink I could have ordered, the Suntory Hibiki 17 Japanese whisky. ‘For relaxing times, chose Suntory times’, to borrow a phrase. It was very nice, as were the little rice crackers that they dished out to each table, which I gobbled up to take the sting out of the fact my single finger of whisky cost more than lunch for two had earlier.

Of course, it was worth it, even with the labyrinth like route to the top that involved walking through a library and two restaurants before taking two lifts and three sets of stairs and even involved one poor lady at reception running out ion to the road to steer us back in the right direction. If you’re there yourself I can recommend the French 75, made with both gin and ‘proper’ fizz to see you right.

In the miracle that was actually escaping without incident we decided to head down into the bowels of the building, there is also a food court, shops and offices at the same location, for some late night supper. We chose BLAH, primarily because of the bewitching plastic food in the window (still one of my favourite Japanese quirks) and had soon both chosen a set meal of pork cutlets and other deep fried things with rice, white cabbage and various other accoutrements.

Tonkatsu is a big deal in japan and the shredded cabbage also bought with it a ridged dish of black and white sesame seeds alongside a wooden pestle. Here the object was to pulverise the seeds with the wooden object, before adding ladles of sweet tonkatsu sauce from the crock on the table. 

What you did with it next was anyone’s guess as in the intervening time we had ordered and made serious inroads, into a large bottle of sweet potato sochu, a kind of fortified rot gut that feels like such a good idea the night before.

Of course, there were also the cutlets themselves; a straight pork number and a rolled cutlet, made of wafer thin curls of meat that resembled a porcine cigar. These were served alongside alongside giant crispy shrimp, a croquette of minced chicken and vegetables and a chicken breast stuffed with umboshi sour plums. Add rice and miso soup and it was a proper, pissed feast.

Needless to say we had a wonderful evening that was, thankfully, curtailed when we were thrown out in the politest way possible. No because of any terrible transgressions, merely they were trying to close for the evening. We still managed to have lots of fun recording the automatic flush noises in the loo outside, before ’comically’ riding the escalators for a bit, though.

Of course the evening couldn’t end there and so we found an off licence near our hotel that was crammed to the gills with all sorts of weird and wonderful (native and imported) goodies. First up was the huge choice of Japanese whiskeys, including a bottle of Nikka from the barrel we picked up for under a tenner (there were four litres of cheapo whiskey available for about 12 quid) sake and sochu (wisely declined). They also had a full range of Hachiko Japanese craft ale as well as the biggest range of Brew Dog beer I have seen anywhere, including most of their bars (they do have one in Tokyo, which may be a clue to how they were so well stocked).

After walking around for a while in an inebriated daze we left with our whiskey, reserves of crazy flavoured Pringles, amazing snack sausages and some ales including a Hitachino Espresso Stout and Suiyoubi No Neko Yona Yona Ale, a wheat beer the Ewing coverted as it had a cat on the label. Definitely a place to check out if there’s any room in the suitcase, or if you just want the party to carry on a little longer.

Of course a big night before means a morning after but I knew I could always get through the day knowing I could come back to my massage chair, and the prospect of a vending machine beer from the hotel lobby.

Another great drinking accompaniment are dumplings. Like ramen, Japanese gyoza (or, originally, jiaozi) are a Chinese import; and like ramen, the Japanese have taken to them like the proverbial duck to water (and a very many ducks have ended up in these dumplings). One of the best spots in town to enjoy some gyoza is Harajuku’s Gyozaro, a nondescript place just off the main drag that can be identified by its yellow and red sign advertising (I presume) the two types of dumpling on offer there.

Alongside the dumplings there’s not much else, just a two side dishes, chicken soup and rice and drinks. To start we had a round of frosty Kirin beer and the sides; firstly a utilitarian bowl of sliced cucumber with miso followed by bean sprouts with a meat sauce.  Both sounded rather uninspiring but tasted superlative, reminding me of the benefits of a small menu where everything has to earn its place.

After the appetisers I worried the dumplings would disappoint. Thankfully I needn’t have worried, the main draw, ordered by the half dozen - either pan fried or steamed and filled with a choice of pork or pork and garlic chives (nira) - were spot on. We had a portion of each, both with chives, and I can highly recommend both the crisp gossamer skins of the fried version and the chewy, succulent steamed snacks; especially good with lashings of rice vinegar, soy and blazing chilli oil, and icy beer, of course.

Everyone loves a train beer and thankfully Japanese beers, like most beers, are getting more sophisticated. No longer is cheap, gassy lager going to cut it (although low malt, low flavour brews are still popular thanks to the low tax they attract from the government).

The beverage I chose for my trip on the Shinkansen was a Aooni pale ale, an pale ale touted as 'a taste of magic', which went down a storm with my tonkatsu sando (yes, that is a breaded cutlet sandwiched between yet more bread) and pickle flecked potato salad. And one of the most gratifying meal I had on the whole trip, enjoyed as the plains of Honshu whizzed past at nearly 200 km an hour.

The return trip was a little more restrained. This time I enjoyed an Asahi autumn lager (bizarrely I had been drinking the winter edition while in Kyoto) alongside some short and crumbly matcha biscuits.

Of course, there is always a place for a cold lager, and so we headed for a Sunday brewski at the pop-up Kirin beer garden in Shibuya. After sitting through the (mercifully short) promo video before we could actually gain access, we were lead to the bar where we chose one of their special frozen beers. The Ewing going with the brown one (stout) which I later described on Instagram as being Mr Hankey-esque, while I chose the curious, orangey one.

The lack of English made me slightly concerned, but hey, it was beer, right. And yes it was beer, only with the addition of long life orange juice. It was as harrowing as it sounded; God only knows what was in the red one…Of course, I drank it anyway, as quickly as I could and with a sad look on my face all while trying to desperately convince myself it was merely a Calippo with a faintly ‘adult’ flavour...  

After I had successfully sunk it I rewarded myself with a ‘proper’ frozen Kirin, still rather weak and watery (as is most crowd-pleasing lager), but rather fun and refreshing on a muggy day. To be fair a deuce of these was all I needed in the heat of the afternoon to mean a restorative trip to Genki was needed for a fix of maguro nigiri. Any excuse…

Stealth's Dark Sugars (aka the Blog is Invaded)

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Clearly Pies and Fries’ loyal readers are primarily interested in updates about Stealth’s life and long for more pictures of her to be uploaded to the blog.  So, as a special November treat, I, Stealth, have written a guest blog…

Too early for Christmas cheer, too late for the evenings to have any light, winter had engulfed everyone’s psyche. Flu stalked the office, passing from desk to desk until it returned to its original host and began its relentless crawl again. The minutes were physically moving towards the weekend but the Friday feeling eluded us all.

So the blog begins in a soulless office, where pasty faces peer into multi-coloured spreadsheets and colleagues argue over the merits of karaoke as entertainment.  Our hero, Stealth, decides to make her escape and so she creeps from her desk, keen that her absence is noticed at the latest possible moment, and starts her cycle to the East End.  With every revolution of her pedals she can feel the footsteps of those who have gone before her: Dickens, Defoe, Cromwell, Wilde ...

The reality is that I could keep this up forever, and it would be forever because I don’t know how to end it.  So, I’ll stop now and get to the point, because today my heart was warmed by a lovely chocolate shop: Dark Sugars.

In order to ingratiate myself into The Ewing’s favor and in an attempt to usurp the cat ‘Pusskins’ from his bed so that I had somewhere to sleep, I had headed to Brick Lane to get her a salmon bagel. As I locked up my bike, I was delighted to stumble across Dark Sugars.  The shop is set out as a homage to chocolate and, given The Ewing’s well documented penchant for cacao, the perfect place to pick her up a treat.

I could write about how truly charming and passionate the chap who served me was.  Or I could mention that the chocolate is laid out on Ghanian wood so that customers have a sense of where their food has come from.  Or I could tell you that in a beautiful London twist the shop was opened on Brick Lane during Black History Month because the owner wanted to bring some African diversity to what is already one of the most diverse places in the world.  Or I could tell you about how absolutely delicious every truffle is. Truth be told, though, I couldn’t do any of it justice. Suffice to say that the fact I’m writing this and took photographs of the place is a testament to what a pleasure it is to go.


Naan and Grandad @ Mr Chilly

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Throughout life I've so far mostly ignored the many well intentioned warnings about peaking too early; hence why I was always a sprinter not a cross-country-er (that, and a complete lack of endurance and stamina). But I do fear that giving my best joke up to the title of this post can mean only an anticlimax. The one secret weapon I do have, however, is Grandad. And like babies and fluffy kittens, everyone loves old people; unless they are ahead of you, in the queue at the supermarket, on your lunch break....

At the ripe old age of 88 Grandad shows little signs of losing his sense of humour and spirit of adventure, meaning he was the ideal person to accompany us to North Harrow's Mr Chilly for a Saturday night curry. Possibly a little too enthusiastic as he and the Ewing ploughed their way through the plate of poppadoms like hungry locusts as I was distracted with ordering the food and snapping a few (pretty bad) pics on my phone.

Sadly he didn't make any inroads on my drink which was advertised as 'Fresh Passion' but didn't float my boat, having the strange sweet and salty flavour that reminded me of the electrolyte drinks you get given when ill (or, more likely, hungover).

Dishes feature fairly typical Pakistani fare - grilled lamb chops, kebabs and 'turbo' wings to start with grilled paneer, pakoras and mogo chips for the veggies, followed by the familiar role call of breads, rice and curries, although ingredients such methi (fenugreek leaves), burjee (scrambled eggs), haleem (wheat, meat and lentil stew), and paya (braised feet) give things a both a more homely and more exotic twist compared the Bombay Palace identikits found on most high streets.

We shared a selection of mains including a beautifully tender and fragrant spring lamb spiked with fresh ginger, a decent bhindi bhaji (fast becoming my favourite vegetable side dish) and a, slightly dry, jeera chicken with huge amonts of smoky roasted cumin seeds. Vegetable biryani appeared in what looked like a glass butter dish, but was no worse for that while garlic naans, like the spicy poppadoms, seemed to be very popular across the table, although the crusts I managed to snaffle were very good.

Standout was probably the prawn karahi, which featured a subtle onion and tomato based sauce with a decent lick of coriander and garlic in the background that came studded with about a dozen impossibly large and sweet crustaceans.

There's a definite utilitarian vibe about the place; sauces - one white and one red - come in squeezy bottles, the plates look like something from you Nan's wedding service and the decor is fairly sparse (one of the few pictures actually fell off the wall while we were there), but it has an endearing charm and friendly staff who all dutifully laughed at Grandad's jokes. The food was freshly prepared and with enough distinctive spicing to make each dish stand out; and at £10 a head for a huge amount of food (including a couple of the most expensive dishes on the menu) the bill was pleasingly small.

Of course, despite my not being very good at building to a climax, there always has to be a little anticipation and this time I really have saved the best until last. My two favourites, and that elusive garlic naan.

Foxlow and Craft Beer Co.

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Foxlow is the baby sibling of the much loved Hawksmoor, and whilst there has always been a pricking curiosity to try their famed smoked beef ribs and soft serve sundaes, with something as perfect as Hawksmoor already existing it seemed destined to remain the overlooked runt of the litter.

Anyway, they now do brunch and who doesn’t love brunch (while this question may sound rhetorical, I emphatically did not like brunch as a child, not being able to overcome the confusion of missing a meal).  But with a half price soft launch on food through November weekends to test the new menu, it was time to overcome distrust of condensing two meals into one and book a table for Sunday lunch.

First things first though, and after arriving a little early for our table we walked down to Gray's Inn Road to Bottledog, Brewdog's dedicated beer shop, to stock up on a few bevvies.

Wintery stouts and porters were very much the order of the day, with a Mikkeller Cointreau barrel aged stout for the Ewing; the Mikeller brunch Weasel stout; Brewdog/Victory's U-Boat, a smoked porter; and Stone Brewery's Milk Stout being pick of the bunch. There may also be a bottle of the Black Tokyo Horizon underneath one lucky girl's Christmas tree...

I started brunch with a green juice, and also a red juice as our waiter eschewed anything so sensible as a pad and paper and so originally bought the wrong colour. I also had a glass of Prosecco, safe in the knowledge that the celery and apple elixir was stealing a march on my liver and ergo neutralising the brunch cocktails. The Ewing went with the wonderfully camp Miami Dolphin, a neon mashup of rum, lime and strawberry.

While we waited for our mountains of fried food to descend we enjoyed a rather sophisticated - and rather pungent - nibble of anchovies, goat's butter and raw onion on rye crisps. This is one serious, and seriously good snack. They also have a butternut squash version of baba ghanoush topped with sesame brittle. Yes, please.

The Montecristo (ham and cheese stuffed cronut) was sadly off the menu, so we compensated with the fried chicken on a croissant waffle topped with a fried egg and side of sausage gravy. Swap bacon for egg and double the waffle size and you may just have found my perfect brekkie.

I also promised the Ewing the basket of fried chicken, served with habanero vinegar and green slaw, alongside sides of fried tdusted with chicken salt and cavlo nero with lemon, garlic and chilli.

The chicken was everything you dream about when you order a family sized bucket (but usually end up with fowl that is both dry and greasy and pretty foul), crisp, juicy and perfectly pimped by the heat and tang of the vinegar. Fries – or what I saw of them – passed the Ewing’s stringent quality control with flying colours and cavlo nero is surely one of God’s ways of making up for the downsides of winter.

Despite eager over ordering (although far better than a recent trip to Hawksmoor) to skip pud would have been unthinkable, especially with soft serve sundae on the menu. In the end I chose the Elvis sandwich; slices of fried bread stuffed with soft serve, banana and peanut butter before being swamped in crispy bacon and caramel. As outrageous as it sounded, although the too icy ice cream turned out to be the bum note in the dish and, (quelle surprise), it was enormously rich after so much fried food.

The Ewing’s chocolate and hazelnut pot was no less indulgent but, being comprised mostly of her favourite foodstuff, didn’t prove much off a challenge.  Like Nutella on steroids and more acceptable to sit and eat from the jar with a spoon.

Whilst it was always going to be a hard gig to match up to such an eminently cool older brother, Foxlow is a lot of fun. With plenty of salt, smoke and sugar on the menu, a great drinks list - the six quid negroni slushies are certainly worth a punt - and fried chicken that passed the Ewing's stringent tests with flying colours, the young upstart has plenty of its own merits to recommend it.

While any sensible person with work the next day may have decided that this was the perfect adjunct for returning home for Antiques Roadshow and an early night, the eminently less sensible would take the opportunity to drag Stealth out east for a few beverages at the nearby Leather Lane branch of the craft Beer Co.

This branch of the expanding mini chain is very much a city boys’ pub, with the down stairs being set up for the maximum amount of ‘vertical drinking’ – high, narrow  tables and stools running around the side of the room and a long bar to stand at. Thankfully they also have an upstairs lounge area which is much comfier, although you do have to navigate the stairs every time you want a drink, increasing tricky as the evening wears on. Full marks too, to the lovely staff, who bought our drinks up on trays for us and kept us in pints of iced water throughout the hours we managed to while away

A quick glance at the menu – known for its range of rare and interesting brews, although keep an eye on the keg prices as they are quoted in half pints and can get pretty pricey pretty quickly - had me squeaking with delight (literally) when I saw the Beavertown/Napabier ‘Bone King’ DIPA collaboration was available on cask. 

This poured a golden orange, with a thick hazy look about it with an Um Bungo undercurrent; a funky, skunky, gum watering collision of peach and pineapple and passion fruit. The flavour didn’t disappoint, with bitterness from the hops and a tropical note that bellied its 8.5 percent abv.

Tempting as it was to just stick with the Bone King, my liver thanked me for swapping to a half of the Kent Brewery's Altered States, followed by two dark and brutish bruisers – a keg Yin from the Evil Twin and a cask Teleporter from the Summer Wine Brewery and a Calypso from Dugges.

Remaining memories were a little hazy; I know my wife loved the elderflower saison from Kent enough to order it twice and, at some point, Stealth had a scotch egg to go with her pint of Devil's Rest Burning Sky IPA. I also know that the Ewing (happily) acquiesced to partake in a selfie as we stood on the platform at Farringdon waiting for the tube home and, knowing her as I do, you can’t get a more ringing endorsement of fun (or certainly drunkenness) than that.


Pints and Pancakes, Chesham Style

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Recently, at the fifth time braving the concentric circles of hell, aka IKEA - I did get to eat lots of meatballs, though – we bought a new bed. This turned out to be rather more fortuitous than I imagined, as two weeks later I was consigned to it with a rather nasty bout of ‘flu.

Whist I had all the extra cushions I had ever craved, a fluffy duvet and a memory foam mattress that pushed sleeping right back up to the top of my list of recreational activities, I was also undeniably ill. This was proved when I didn’t even venture downstairs into the kitchen for a whole weekend and even turned down dinner. Twice. 

It wasn’t all bad news, however. After a week of consignment I had dropped a notch on my belt, and although we had to cancel plans to visit the London Brewers market at Spitalfields, a trip to the supermarket to restock the cupboards took us perilously close to the Brewery Shop in Chesham…

Before my fortifying and well deserved drink, we popped in to the main reason for this blog post, Poppins. Poppins is a Southern-based chain of restaurant/cafes whose Canterbury branch retains somewhat legendary status in my mind as a regular place of salvation, providing fry ups and strong tea after nights on the tiles whist at uni.

Inside is formica heaven. In fact everything is shiny, from the laminated menus to the fried eggs. It’s the comforting kind of place that you don’t really see any more – the sort of place where you can have a deep fried burger with your all day breakfast (chips are pretty much compulsory) or mash-topped shepherd’s pie with a baked potato on the side, or toasted teacakes and beans on toast, and everything, well most things, come with lashings of squirty cream. My kinda place.

My first choice, lamb chops with all the trimmings, was off so I switched to the pork instead. It’s not actually an exaggeration to say that Poppins’ lamb chops are some of the best I have eaten, although I wasn’t holding out the same hopes for the porcine variety. Thankfully, whist being a little dry, they passed my stringent, Homer Simpson-esque, test. 

If there's any sight more comforting than grilled tomato, fried mushrooms, chops chips and peas, especially when one has crawled off their death bed to eat it, I haven’t yet made its acquaintance, and this was my perfect plate of comfort food. Oh, yeah, and it's all yours for £6.45.

The Ewing, unsurprisingly, was in her culinary heaven, choosing the three egg omelette with cheese and mushroom as a paean to the homely cooking of her Mum, whose childhood offering of ‘yellow fish with mash and peas’ remains her favourite dish, regardless of how many Michelin stars are on the menu.

With a pudding list like the one above, how could you resist (although I'm not sure if the Ewing's look is joy or trepidation)? Of course, we couldn’t and soon we were staring down a silver platter of pancakes heaped with hot cherries and a can of cream. If you want to look at the reasons behind the hole in the Ozone layer, Poppins is probably a good place to start.

CFCs aside, this is England set in aspic, the kind of place everyone remembers visiting with their grandparents - and still does, judging by the clientele. Come for lunch, stay for heart disease and diabetes, although they do have an on trend smoothie menu and even a selection of salads (prominently featuring cheese, mayo and coleslaw, obviously). The staff are also lovely, although the music – Muse interspersed with Nat King Cole – was possibly an acquired taste.

Next up it was time for a fortifying beer at The Chesham Brewery Shop, the Brewery tap for the Red Squirrel Brewery in Berkhampstead. As well as there own brews they also offer a selection of other ales, beer, cider and wine to drink in or take out.

While you can’t move around Bermondsey, Beavertown or Brixton for fear of disturbing another nest of beer drinking bead wearers huddled in a railway arch somewhere, this is a little piece of beer geek heaven transported to the end of the Metropolitan line.

They have a decent, regularly changing, selection on keg, including the lovely Gadds number 3 on our visit, of which I sampled the sweet and creamy Red Squirrel Milk Stout, an appropriate choice as the extra lactose in the brew meant it was often given to convalescents. 

We also grabbed a few bottles of the Red Squirrel Best Bitter for Christmas alongside a trio from Great Heck - the Amish Mash, a heavily hopped weisse hybrid, being particularly good – and a couple of oyster stouts from Redemption and Arbor.

No trip to Chesham would be complete without a visit to Darvells and Sons the bakers which, like Poppins, remains a place preserved time. Here you can buy old fashioned delights such as the barrel loaf - round toast anyone – wonky-eyed chocolate chip footballers, lardy cake, bath buns and cream horns. There’s even a nod to the contemporary with whoopee pies, and Syrian onion loaf, macaron and chia bread.

Our haul contained Viennese whirl topped mince pies, the gold standard of mince pies, a seasonal stilton and pear cobb and, my favourite, the ‘Battenberg Bookend’; a slice of strawberry jam filled cake covered in marzipan and then dipped in chocolate. As the lady behind the counter said, ’we can’t have that sponge drying out…’ 

Needless to say, after a week of snuffling, coughing and ineffective pill-popping, the best way to aid my recovery was with a slice of this chocolate covered delight and a cuppa - that good old English panacea - when we got home.

XT Brewery and the Eight Bells

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Saturday sun came early one morning
In a sky so clear and blue
Saturday sun came without warning
So no-one knew what to do

Well, that last line wasn’t completely true. When the winter sun shines then what better than a brewery visit to stock up on festive supplies, followed by a boozy afternoon at the pub.

The brewery in question was XT, based at Notley farm way up in the wilds of North Bucks. We normally manage to make at least one visit at this time of year, as our Christmas guests have become rather partial to their beers; and I don’t mind a drop, either.

While our last visit was so foggy you could barely see past the pint in your hand, this time we were blessed with one of those glorious December mornings – brilliant blue skies, a crisp frost on the green fields – that made driving through the chocolate box villages, with their thatched cottages and wood smoke curling from the chimneys, an utter joy (save for the resurfacing argument about who had last seen the Cure CD that I wanted to listen on the drive, and the bit where the Ewing clipped someone’s wing mirror in one of the aforementioned  villages).

To get us in the mood we started off with half pints (quite the bargain at pound each) of their standard Xmas brew, the 25, a decent enough red AltBier. We also tried the 8, a rich dark beer brewed four different malts. The good weather meant we could sup these out in the sunshine, although it also meant the Ewing spied their sign offering free broken pallets alongside a help yourself hop compost heap – although I suppose further repeat visits will have to involve the purchase of beer, too.

As well as brewing beers under the XT moniker, they also offer a range of Animal beers, which allow them to experiment with a few more quirky flavour combinations. This time they had the Christmas-themed Gobble on cask (this version especially cellared in oak barrels), a rich dark stout brewed with roasted cacao nibs and a hint of orange, a beer the Ewing (and I) was so fond of we also picked up a two litre bottle straight from the keg for drinking later.

Next up was a visit to the Eight Bells - a pretty pub dating from 1607 in the nearby village of Long Crendon and perennial star in Midsommer Murders  - where I was very much looking forward to a long and lazy lunch and a prime spot in front of the log fire; circumstances which, alongside the Saturday papers made a very warm (literally) welcome. They also had the XT’s 25 on cask, so I settled for another pint of that.

Starters we decent enough; the crab pate was great, but the bread to crustacean ratio was a little off (too many carbs not enough crab) while the advertised and anticipated smoked garlic aioli was either absent or (possibly?) the dressing on the side salad.

The duck rillettes, served with granary bread, befell the opposite problem of too little bread – clearly not really a problem, who minds scooping up tender shreds of confit meat straight from plate to mouth? While the duck was nice enough the clementine marmalade, freshly made in the kitchen, was outstanding; a perfect bittersweet counterpoint to the fatty meat.

Sadly the mains fell as flat as the pizzas. Normally pub pizza is best avoided, but a whole section dedicated to their thin crust Italian bases and seasonal toppings including blue cheese and mushrooms and the ‘Porky Pig’, including chorizo, black pudding and pulled pork, were too tempting to turn down.

While the toppings -especially the glorious black pudding and mushrooms - were good, the base was far too thick and pallid and the intriguing ‘pork veloute’, replacing the familiar metallic tang of tomato, just bland. Add the fact that the extra pineapple salsa (the Ewing made me do it) looked suspiciously just like something tipped out of a can by the man from Del Monte and it was rather underwhelming.

That said, the remaining pizza that they boxed up for us to take home made a great post drinking snack after being  given a further crisp up in the oven the following evening, so it wasn’t without salvation. Prices, at around eight quid a pop, are also fair for a product that is often given astronomical mark ups.

Restraining ourselves from getting too pizza-logged also meant we had room for pud, which for me was the standout part of the menu. Despite not having a hugely sweet tooth, and often not being very excited by deserts when eating out, there was nothing here I wouldn’t have happily buried my face in – literally or figuratively.

In a very strange turn of events, confirmed chocoholic the Ewing turned down the chocolate bundt cake with Mexican hot chocolate sauce and coffee ice cream; which meant, with that description, I was almost duty bound to order it. It was pretty much perfect; gooey cake, subtly spiced sauce set off by the creamy and caffeinated accompaniment. The only thing I rued being that by choosing it, I missed the opportunity to order the spotted dick and fresh custard or the apple and custard millefuille.

The Ewing, thankfully, wasn’t disappointed with her choice. A butternut squash bavavois served with red wine poached pears and homemade amaretti biscuits. The bavavois was particularly noteworthy; smooth, sweet and slightly claggy - like the best sort of cheesecake, but this time served with the biscuits on top.

I liked the Eight Bells; while the cooking could do with a little work, the menu’s interesting without being too outré -  there’s still plenty of room for lunchtime baguettes and staples such as fish and chips and steak pie – the greeting is friendly and there’s plenty of local ales and cider to slake a thirst.

While it might not all have been perfect, to get through a few drinks at lunch followed by Saturday afternoon visits to both Waitrose and Lidl (to stock up on the all important reserves of marzipan and stollen) on the way home and avoid a murder, Misdsommer related or otherwise, seemed like a pretty good result. Pass me the bottle opener.

Festive Fun, St Albans

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Anyone (or the one) who has read this blog with any regularity will know my perfect Sunday roast criteria; red meat should be rare, white meat not dry; yorkies should be both crisp and squidgy, there should be plenty of suitable condiments; a dish of bronzed cauliflower cheese and roast parsnips. Always roast parsnips.

For our lunch at The Fighting Cocks, I wasn’t really expecting any of the above. For a start I had chosen it primarily because I knew it and it was central, meaning we could go for a wander around the lake beforehand and Christmas market by the cathedral afterwards; and while I was curious about its claim to be the oldest pub in England, it also made me more doubtful it would actually be any good.

Unusually, however, I was completely unperturbed about the idea of tough beef and lumpy Bisto as the real reason for our visit was to see the lovely Maz, wedding witness, and the less lovely Stealth (only joking Mrs, P). When you’ve already got a good amount of juicy gossip to digest you tend to care far less about what’s actually on your plate.

One way the Cocks immediately impressed was with the snack menu, a list so appealing I had to send a picture to my crisp fiend sister, banished in almost completely decent potato-snack free Sydney. Any pub that offers Quavers, peanuts, posh crisps and pickled Onion Monster Munch is already onto a winner.

They also had Great Heck Treasure, on cask – a brewery whose beers I’ve recently been enjoying – and this thumping IPA was no different. Perfect with our selection of pizza flavoured crisps and pork scratchings. Whilst Stealth got stuck in to her first of five gins and everyone else battened down the hatches for the long afternoon ahead…

By now I’ve accepted that ordering roast beef in a pub means an assumption of overcooked (at least for my liking). This is not always based on surroundings, previous experience or even prices – downward of a tenner and expects sisal carpet- but by employing the pessimist is never disappointed approach. Grey beef? Well, that was to be expected. Rare beef? Well, what a lovely surprise.

I don’t know if it was because we were eating early, whether it was because we specified ‘as rare as you’ve got’ or if the Cocks just always nails the crowning glory of an Englishman’s Sunday dinner, but the meat was spot on. As, indeed, was everything else from the roasties to the yorkie, via the blob of fearsomely hot horseradish adorning each plate. The belly, with its shard of crackling (no, Maz didn’t share, despite a pleading look or two) went down equally well.

After a surfeit of gin, another beer, two - surprisingly poky with the festive spirit (there was certainly some in there…) - mulled wines and the unbridled excitement of seeing the picture that hung in my childhood bathroom in their loos, it was time for my promised reward for being so well behaved, a visit to the, snappily monikered, Beer Shop on the London Road.

Like the Chesham Brewery Shop – I’m seeing a theme with the names here – they offer a range of four or five keg beers to drink in or take away, alongside a big selection of bottles and cans. Stealth and I raced ahead and got in a round of Moor Brewery Revival (big hops, low ABV, very nice), while the drivers lingered behind, making do with digesting more gossip.

The range of beers here is pretty special; there are local beers from breweries including Leighton Buzzard and Tring, alongside a good UK showing, including a vast selection of Marbles, Buxton and Dark Star as well as a whole wall of well-chosen Belgians and Americans, with the odd Kiwi and Dane thrown in for good measure.

A few quid lighter and with a haul including Flying Dog Gonzo porter, Green Flash Triple IPA (an invalubale help when wrapping presents the following week) and a bottle of Sorachi Ace for Stealth’s New Year celebrations, we decamped for a delayed pudding, in the form of an ‘ultimate’ hot chocolate from the Hatch stall at Christmas market in the Cathedral gardens.

While not normally a big fan of hot chocolate, preferring my cocoa in cakes, cookies or ice creams, and despite the absence of mini marshmallows on top, this was perfect sugary salve for frozen fingers and burgeoning hangovers; providing the metaphorical (and literal) whipped cream that topped a lovely day.

While I take a break to sit about eating Toblerone and drinking sherry in my dressing gown, here's to a very Merry Christmas to all. Eat, drink and tolerate your in-laws and I'll be back deliberating, cogitating and digesting some more in the New Year.

January Blues

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For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
― T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

There’s something relentlessly dull about January. All the on the wagon hashtags and pictures of kale smoothies and running shoes that flood social media. As well as the physical interventions, usually staged after a solid month of eating Quality Street and mainlining Baileys in front of the Christmas tree, I also find there’s a horrible mental malaise to overcome, too. While it’s the perfect opportunity to look forward to the future, as you get older it seems harder to see past the past.

in an attempt to conquer this malaise, and in sheer defiance of abstinence I started 2015 with a healthy dose of alcohol salt and saturated fat in the form of the limited edition return of the McRib, washed down with a bottle of Lanson that had been overlooked at New Year. A promising start, but I still needed a little fillip to perk up what had dawned as a particularly grim and rainy Saturday morning, even the view of the Shard had disappeared from Stealth’s balcony. This little piggy was going to Borough Market (with a reluctant Ewing trailing behind).

After a row about finding the bus stop, than a row at the bus stop and another disagreement after alighting from the bus, the restoration of matrimonial bliss (Stealth had wisely stayed at home napping) the situation demanded a doughnut. Not just any doughnuts but those baked at the Bread Ahead Bakery - founded by Matt Jones of Flour Power and Justin Gellately formerly of St John fame. The very doughy orbs that spurt their custard and jam obscenely over my Twitter feed every weekend.

It seems that the apprentice has indeed surpassed the master as the doughnuts we tried – mine the honeycomb topped and salted caramel custard-stuffed and the Ewing’s cacao nib-dusted chocolate velvet – were both bigger and fluffier than the recent St John incarnations I’ve eaten. While I still appreciate the simplicity of the originals, there is something pretty special about these pretenders to London's doughnut throne

Passing time with a couple of these is probably the most fun you can have with your clothes on a Saturday morning, although with your clothes off it may be even better (watch out, though, for any errant sugar in the the cracks). Mercifully for everybody else we stayed fully clothed, although with the thick fog still descending I’m not sure anyone would have noticed either way.

 
Because the Ewing had both forgotten her hat and gloves and was nursing the hangover from a bad ankle sprain from before Christmas (as well as the vestiges of a hangover of the more traditional kind), I thought it infinitely wise to leave the plethora of warm eating places with plenty of seating around Borough and make her traverse the foggy streets of Bermondsey to Jose, Jose Pizarro’s bijou tapas and sherry place.

In a benevolent stroke of luck a couple of stools at the bar opened almost as we arrived and soon we were drinking cold glasses of Estrella Damm accompanied by a plate of hand carved pig, and not just any pig but ‘the most excellent Maldonado Ibérico bellota pig’. It was lovely, of course, but the heathen in me still has a lot of love for the leg of cured ham from Lidl that I spend all Christmas surreptitiously standing by the fridge scoffing.

Alongside we enjoyed some punchy bocerones , with a gum tingling dose of vinegar, an ethereal spinach tortilla that just missed oozing in the middle and some of the finest, paprika dusted, crisp calamari fresh from the fryer. A crust or two of bread, a perfect sop for some of the fishy juices, was sadly absent, but they do serve very good pam amb tomate if you’re in the need of a few carbs.

Jose isn’t especially cheap - the price of small plate eating can sky rocket swiftly, especially if you’re making use of their Spanish wine and sherry list - but as I sat there on a leaden January afternoon, holding court with my lovely and long suffering wife with a plate of pig and glass of beer at my side, I couldn’t have felt more satisfied.

José on Urbanspoon

These little piggies soon went back to market, this time to fetch an indoor picnic for Stealth (who, in a fortuitous stroke of luck had meanwhile ordered a Japanese takeaway, meaning more for us to take back and snaffle later).

From the almost overwhelming section of cheese and charcuterie we chose a heady mixture of 15 month aged Comte, a hunk of Altesse des Vosges - a washed cheese, somewhere between a Reblochon and a Munster from the Lorraine -and a very nice donkey salami (well, it was just after Christmas) that the Ewing refused to eat. There was also a huge veg box, -with beefsteak tomatoes, frisee, peppers and fennel – picked up for two quid and a giant avocado for a pound.

Top prize went to the loaf of the Borough White from the Flour Station. Anyone who thinks that four quid is too much for flour and water needs to try some of this. A few slices, with its smoky, burnished crust and a wonderfully chewy, light crumb, slathered with butter and the stinky, sticky Altesse des Voges and eaten while tucked up in bed made the perfect welcome back home to our empty house after all the festive excitement. A very happy New Year indeed.
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