Sitting down to write this, I was pretty convinced that I’d spent yesterday as an accidental vegan, until I remembered that the bean and pea salad I had for breakfast came with a yoghurt dressing which dragged me a few steps back down the path towards animal cruelty. Many of you might be thinking that anyone who starts the day with a pea and bean salad deserves everything he gets, but breakfast wasn’t included with my hotel, and I had decided to turn the lack of choice at the local Tesco Express into a virtue before I realised I was compromising a lifestyle choice I hadn’t actually made.

I do have a sneaking admiration for vegans, mainly for their consistency, not to say bloody-mindedness, and probably above all for their patience. The stereotypical worthiness and what my father always insists on referring to as the ‘rope sandals and muesli’ element I can do without, but in my experience, most vegans are simply committed to something they believe in and don’t wish to appear hypocritical by shoveling down mung beans whilst wearing a parka made of baby goat. On the other hand, as I have said before, I do love meat, and I’m afraid I’m unlikely to give it up for anyone, no matter what their consistency.

Morally, I do feel this means I somewhat surrender the high ground. Why should something die, just because I’m hungry? Well, frankly, it shouldn’t, but if I want to get my protein fix, it inevitably does and I think it’s important to at least accept the reality of that, if not, in all probability, the responsibility.

I was in Nottingham for the weekend, appearing at The Glee Club with a reliably excellent bill that included one of my favourite comedians and Cutting Edge colleague, Roger Monkhouse. As I said when introducing him on Friday, if there was any justice in the world he would be a household name, but there isn’t, so he’s not. Also appearing was the quite new and therefore annoyingly impressive Micky Sharma, and the marvellous Michael Legge with whom I have worked many times and who once memorably described my stand up as “like watching Have I Got News For You, on Dave”, which is exactly the sort of comment I would normally get massively stroppy about if it wasn’t so funny. And accurate.

An angry vegan (This is what they’re all like)

Michael is hilarious company, and considerably more thoughtful about whom he offends than his infamous blog sometimes suggests. He is also, in his own words, ‘an angry vegan’, a subject about which he claims, completely falsely, to have no sense of humour whatsoever. When I asked him why he became a vegan, he replied with the words ‘Adam Bloom’, which is already quite an amusing answer even before you hear the explanation. Adam is a good friend and brilliant stand up, but when Michael saw him doing a routine that elicited cheers for calling vegetarians ‘self-righteous’, after twenty years as one, he decided, on the spot, that he wasn’t ‘doing enough’, and immediately became vegan. The fact that this happened at the Edinburgh Festival, where many people are living on offal deep fried in animal fats only adds to the comedy value of the story as far as I’m concerned.

I only discovered Michael was vegan when I suggested we went for lunch – I’ve already blogged about the rather good Waiting Room just outside Newcastle, and I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect another meat free meal to pop up on Food Ponce every now and then. Michael discovered the Alley Cat Cafe on the internet, which I imagine is an invaluable resource for vegans, (the Alley Cat is actually vegetarian but offers vegan options) and so we arranged to meet Adam Crow there – another comic, who was in town playing Jongleurs. It was, as you might expect, down an alley, just off the main square.

Passing a cheerfully painted wall outside, we went upstairs to order. The room itself was light, and quite wood beamy and casual, or, as Michael put it “this is what they’re all like”. We were cheerfully served from behind a bar with a very reasonable selection of beers, including the rather good Freedom lager, which I haven’t seen for a while. As I’m booze free at the moment I ordered a ginger beer and had a look at the fairly limited menu. That is not a criticism as such – they are clearly more cafe than restaurant, as evidenced by the large number of wraps, bagels and homemade cakes and biscuits on offer, but I wanted something a bit more substantial, so opted for the marinated tofu steak, as did Michael. Adam went for a cream cheese bagel and what turned out to be very good wedges as he’s “trying to be good” and “lose some weight”, which we all know is best achieved through the medium of bread, cheese and potatoes.

Marinated tofu ‘wodge’

We sat outside and waited for the rain to start falling as it’s June, but luckily our food arrived first. My main problem with my meal was the use of the word ‘steak’, because what arrived just wasn’t one. I guess ‘wodge’ doesn’t scan so well on a menu. What I did have though, was a big wodge of char-grilled tofu sitting on top of some very tasty root veg mash with a commendably rich and spicy red wine and tomato sauce, finished off with a few sunflower and sesame seeds. I must admit I’d be hard pressed to tell you much about the marinade, but the sauce, and the rather nice side salad made for a pretty good lunch, even if I felt the weak point was, inevitably, the tofu. It was at this point, as we’d run through the usual gamut of veggie jokes, that Michael pointed out that the one I’d just made, about how it would have been really good with some actual steak, was the one they all really hated.

The rain then inevitably arrived, so we nipped back inside for a very good cup of coffee. My meal had come to just over a tenner, which you really can’t argue with. By accident, my supper consisted of Tesco cous-cous which I’d picked up as part of a two for one offer with the earlier pea and bean salad, and I have to say I did feel rather good about myself and my intake for the day, although whether that was down to the health giving properties of what I ate or its smugness content is debatable.

Having said that, I had a thoroughly enjoyable lunch, partly down to the company, but also because of the food. I’m extremely unlikely to find myself turning vegan, or, if I’m honest, going out of my way to eat vegetarian all that often, but at the same time, I’m not going to criticize people who choose to consume a lot of pulses, just because they’ve decided not to eat something that used to have one. Which is a very good vegan joke, although I’m sure Michael will tell me it’s a very old one, which was probably heard on Dave, last year.

July 2012

When Nick Revell, James O’Brien and I first started producing our topical panel show and podcast, No Pressure To Be Funny, we did so at the quite lovely, but somewhat distant, Hob in Forest Hill. Despite wonderful support from everyone down there, after a while it became clear that we were going to have to find a new home which was slightly easier to get to. We ended up in the Leicester Square Theatre, from which we amicably parted company after a season to take up a monthly residency at The Soho Theatre earlier this year. This August also sees Amnesty International taking us up to Scotland for a one off special at the Edinburgh Festival, so I think it’s safe to say that, for a show involving quite a lot of sitting down, it certainly gets around.

One thing has remained constant – the huge importance that we all attach to getting together a couple of days beforehand to discuss an upcoming show. It is absolutely vital that these meetings take place somewhere highly conducive to the preparation of top quality comedy debate and merely coincidental that this inevitably means a really good restaurant. I have previously reviewed a quite celebratory meal at Les Deux Salons, where we usually meet, but this was not our original haunt. Back in the halcyon days of 2010, when you were fairly sure which Milliband to back and the idea of a pasty tax or Englebert Humperdink at Eurovision was deemed too far-fetched for satire, we were regulars at Terroirs, just around the corner. The food was excellent and the staff were friendly, helpful and just the fun side of familiar.

Duck rillettes

We enjoyed a heady start to the relationship, as so often happens – I even took my parents along to introduce them and they were thoroughly charmed. However, after a while, faces changed and things started to become a little distant. The food, while still generally very good, took a little longer to order, and even longer to arrive, and we began to drift apart. Things came to a head one day when Nick’s starter had still not arrived as James and I were finishing our mains – when questioned about this for the third time, the waiter gave a shrug so Gallic it would have been comical if it hadn’t been so annoying. Words were spoken and we left. We stopped calling and, inevitably, we lost touch. Life moved on and we started seeing other people – about fifteen metres away, to be precise, which may have been a little indelicate.

Boudin noir & spring vegetables

However, as I have been slightly remiss on the blogging front recently, I suggested that this month we went back to see how things were, and whether we could rekindle some of the old magic. To take the already somewhat overstretched metaphor even further, I’m delighted to announce that No Pressure and Terroirs still quite fancy each other. The smiley service that we originally remembered was present and correct, even if things slowed a little towards the end of the meal, and the food was every bit as good as it used to be. Terroirs was originally at the forefront of ‘small plate’ eating, whereby you can order as many of them as you like, in a sort of French tapas manner, dip into a superb selection of charcuterie, or go for the more substantial plats du jour. Or all of the above. We decided on this occasion to take the traditional three course route – after all, you don’t want to ruin a reunion by being too experimental.

Pork chop

James’s pea and sorrel soup had just that hint of herb that can easily be lost, while Nick’s duck rillettes were large juicy quenelles of moistness, perfectly accompanied by deliciously dense sourdough. I had a large globe artichoke with a mustard vinaigrette that had just a little too much kick for my liking – I must admit I prefer my artichokes warm, with garlic butter – but it remained a thoroughly enjoyable dish, and the heart was outstanding. The mains were pretty much faultless. My superb boudin noir was deliciously crisp on the outside and came with spring vegetables in a gently fresh broth that was further flavoured by the boudin as you went along, while Nick’s wonderfully tasty pork chop with beautifully rendered fat sat perfectly on a bed of peas, broad beans and mushrooms. The stand out dish, however, was James’s rabbit and ham hock broth with pearl barley – generous hunks of delicately cooked and seasoned meat and vegetables in a stock that managed to be both light and hearty at the same time.

A groundbreaking shot of a pannacotta

As we were clearly considering getting back together at this point, dessert was inevitable – Nick went for a salted caramel crêpe that was just this side of properly decadent, while my pannacotta with fresh raspberries was perhaps not as firm as it might have been, but then you could say that about all of us these days. Added to which, I much prefer the sharpness of raspberries cutting through the creamy taste of a slightly wobbly pannacotta than bouncing off an overly rubbery one. James had some wonderful Munster cheese and a slightly less inspiring Bonde de Sologne, and we finished off with an espresso each to kick us into the afternoon. Perhaps we shouldn’t have needed the coffees as we were all drinking water (alcohol might have ruined the moment,) but somehow they just felt right.

As did the whole meal. As we got up to leave, James suggested that this was perhaps the best meal we’d ever had at Terroirs, and I tend to agree, even if I retain a certain fondness for our earlier dalliances. The bill came to a not unreasonable £109 including service, and I think it’s safe to say we may be seeing each other again. I mean, don’t buy a hat, but watch this space.

June 2012

‘Amnesty International presents No Pressure To Be Funny’ will be taking place at the Edinburgh International Conference Centre at 15:00 on August 18th. Guests include Mark Thomas and Pippa Evans. Tickets and further information are available here.

They say that travel broadens the mind, but what they don’t tell you is that one major temptation of doing a ridiculous amount of flouncing around the planet can be the quite pressing one to stay in your hotel room. This may sound daft to those of you who actually have to book time off and make proper grown up decisions about where you’re going to go on holiday, but when life is often a succession of economy class flights and anonymous hotel rooms, the desire to simply lie down in front of unintelligible telly can become quite overpowering. Having said that, I’m quite good at getting out and about when I genuinely am on holiday because I know I’m not being paid, so I try to make the most of it. I’m not complaining – the main reason I take so few holidays is because there is a fairly robust argument that my job is one long one.

There are a number of comics who are notorious for their touring inactivism, beyond the obvious demands of getting to and from the actual gig. I performed in South Africa for a month with an American comic who not only never left his room, he wouldn’t let housekeeping in either. Coupled with the amount of room service he ordered, that room began to take on quasi-mythical status among staff and fellow comedians alike. Ask any touring comic the most consistent offenders and the same names will come tripping off the tongue. The reverse of course, is also true – Nick Wilty, for instance, can’t get off a plane without first ordering a moped and then haring off into the sunset.

Tom 1

Speaking personally, I am not always the most active traveller, but am easily led. As a result, I will always be grateful to Martin Bigpig Mor for forcing me round Singapore’s nature reserves like a bearded and tattooed David Attenborough. I had one of my best ever trips wandering repeatedly through Kuala Lumpur’s Chinatown with Steve Allison, and I will always remember Zoe Lyons pretending to be my wife to secure us better pashmina prices in Dubai’s Souk – something her actual wife has always been very understanding about. Similarly, I will never forget Mick Ferry and I catching one another’s eye as we lifted the third pint to our lips during our ‘quiet first night’ on Hong Kong’s Lan Kwai Fong and one of us (it really doesn’t matter which) uttering the immortal line “This is going to turn into a session, isn’t it?” In fairness, we still managed to get up a hill to a Buddhist Temple the next day.

Pomfret fillets

As I type this, I realise that there are so many more stories, but the reason for this somewhat lengthy preamble is to excuse the fact that I didn’t do much in Mumbai this time around. It’s my fourth visit in two years, I was only there for five jet-lagged days and I had quite a lot of work to do. I did, however, want to review a restaurant, so I surpassed myself in adventurousness by going to the same place and ordering the same dishes twice, both times with blokes called Tom. Just call me Thesiger.

The first Tom was the estimable Tom Wrigglesworth, who is one of nature’s travellers. Mainly to his tailor. At 6’4” and built like the proverbial beanpole, Tom has some difficulty in finding clothes that fit him properly and as a result has decided to prop up India’s fabric and tailoring sector on a quite unprecedented scale. He had already made his first visit (by train) when I came round from a post-flight snooze, and continued to make a daily pilgrimage to ensure production was up to his exacting standards. He also fancied dinner in the evening and had heard that Trishna did the best seafood in Mumbai. Paul Thorne, the third member of The Comedy Store’s bill for the weekend, had done his bit of exploring by going to Goa before we even started, so opted out, leaving myself and Tom to head off with Dipen, the taxi driver I first made friends with a couple of years ago and so who now sees more of the UK circuit than most broadsheet reviewers.

Black pepper crab & Garlic crab

Trishna is hidden down a back street I’m not sure I would have found by myself, a doorman greeted us, and we were shown into a brightly lit restaurant with décor that I think was trying to be a boat, scurrying waiters and a pleasing sense of doing what it did well. The head waiter came over to take our order, and basically, we let him. One of my favourite things in the world is Singapore style black pepper crab (if you are ever there, try The East Coast Seafood Centre) so we had one of those, and a garlic one, by which I mean, a really garlic one. Before these arrived, we had a few little pomfret fillets, rolled in black pepper and spices and cooked as kebabs. Moist, tender, with a little peppery bite and utterly delicious. Then we afixed bibs and attacked the crabs. They were sublime. A couple of naans and a pea dish accompanied them, but this was really about dismembering crustacea and getting covered in sauces and bits and sucking flesh out of the nooks and crannies where it was hiding. This is possibly my favourite sort of eating, and we chatted merrily away as we, and the table, became more and more covered in crab detritus. We stuck to Perrier, glasses of which became dirty fingered as we progressed – Trishna’s glass washer has a much harder job than he has any right to expect – and when everything was cleared away we shared an ice cream with fresh mango; a perfect end to an exceptional meal.

Tom 2

After a hugely enjoyable weekend of gigs, Tom headed off for a week’s holiday in Kerela with his wife, before returning to Mumbai and his new wardrobe next week, while Paul caught the late flight back to London. Due to a booking error, my flight was not for another 24 hours, but luckily, this gave me the chance to take Tom 2 to Trishna to show him what he’d been missing as he’d not been before. Tom has been managing the Mumbai Store for two years and I know him from London, so it was great to catch up properly, and this time we threw a rather nice bottle of Indian Sula sauvigon blanc into the mix as well. We changed the peas for spinach, but really shouldn’t have bothered as it turned into exactly the same crab horror film as before. If I was going to be ultra picky, the garlic crab this time was perhaps just a touch overdone, but with that much garlic involved, it’s very hard to take a little problem like that too seriously. We even had the same pudding.

Perhaps I should have showed more originality, but in this instance, I know what I like, and I don’t get to like it that often, so I had it twice, and I loved it. Service was impeccable, and the bill on both occasions (unsurprisingly) came in around the £80 mark – admittedly pretty stiff for Mumbai, but excellent value as far as I was concerned. I really couldn’t recommend Trishna highly enough, although of course if you do want to eat there, you will have to travel to Mumbai first, and leave your hotel room at least once, if not twice. Though if you do choose to stay in, you might be able to carve out a career on the international comedy circuit.

May 2012

That’s me in the corner…

You know the way that celebrities get given enormous amounts of freebies, partly because their endorsement is like advertising gold dust, and also because the providers of these free services and products get some sort of reflected glory by association? Well, that sort of thing has rarely happened to me, mainly because I am not a celebrity. I did recently appear on Celebrity Deal or No Deal, but I think it’s safe to say Jimmy Carr was the celebrity there – the 22 comics standing behind boxes were mere screen filler and it should really have been called ‘Only One Actual Celebrity Deal or No Deal’ in the interests of veracity. It could also have been called ‘Watch Jimmy Balls Up Making A Lot Of Money For Charity’ but he does keep quite a sharp eye on his image, and I’m not sure they could have sneaked that one past him.*

Scallops & pig’s trotters

I did once get free room service in my suite at The International Carlton in Cannes as I was doing a corporate gig there (lobster on the balcony since you ask – or haymaking with sun shining, as I saw it,) and I was once given a very useful bag with a handy compartment for my laptop that is perfect for overnight stays, but the free clothes, cars and watches etc. have generally failed to materialize, with, it has to be said, fairly good reason.

So, imagine my surprise, when, amongst all the spam comments a blog inevitably attracts, I found a message from Andrei Lesment, chef/patron at Verru, who had read my review of his restaurant, and invited me to come along and have the à la carte, on him. This sort of thing just doesn’t happen that often – to me, at any rate. I’m sure it happens to Michael Winner all the time, but I’m very happy not being him. I mention this partly in the spirit of full disclosure, but also because having met Andrei, I very much get the feeling he was aware he was not feeding Winner-lite, but is simply enormously proud of his food and wanted to show it off to someone who appreciated it. On that front, we were all winners.

Lamb chops

I invited my friend Philippa along as it was her recommendation that brought me here in the first place, and it was near enough to her birthday to count as a celebration, so I offered to buy her dinner. We were greeted with a complimentary glass of champagne, which can never hurt, and some of the garlic bread I gushed about last time. The Maître d’ still looks unbearably young, but was kind enough not to draw attention to the fact I’d mentioned it previously, and service was once again excellent. My starter of scallops with pig trotters was simply stunning. The trotter was like delightfully chewy crackling, combining perfectly with the sweetness of the scallops, small blobs of nashi pear, dandelion and a little red curry sauce which essentially took my socks, and blew them right off. And I am hard to separate from my socks. The lamb chop with asparagus and ramsons (wild garlic) tempura opposite was also excellent, if slightly lacking the total ‘wow’ factor of my starter, but that is hardly a criticism.

Venison & pork belly

And then the main courses arrived. I had wanted to try the venison with crispy suckling pork belly, baked beetroot, rhubarb and treacle jus and luckily Phil let me have some of hers. This was a faultless plate of food, the venison standing up perfectly to the saltiness of the pork and the sweetness of the other ingredients and setting off a little symphony in my mouth. As it turned out, the orchestra was having a busy night – superb wild halibut with cauliflower, squash, mussels and lemongrass sauce was another piece of alchemy. The final masterstroke was the addition of monk’s beard, a sort of non-salty samphire that brought everything together astonishingly. We also had some green beans with garlic and the chips – because you have to have the chips, as I have noted before. At this point the orchestra had to put down their instruments to light the fireworks – I really can’t remember two more complex, tasty and original dishes appearing on the same table in a very long time. Perhaps the general feel of the à la carte is slightly more classic French than I had previously realised, but it is the addition of clever foraged ingredients and unusual taste combinations, beautifully cooked, that really make this an exhibition of Baltic brilliance.

Wild halibut

For dessert, Phil went for the burnt vanilla with rum and plum – essentially a crème brûlée – which was thoroughly acceptable, if a little bit humdrum when compared with what had gone before. I, on the other hand, ordered the forest berries, meringue and white chocolate and was transported straight back to tastebud central – a beautifully sharp, tart yet sweet conclusion to the meal. As Phil noted, “I think you won pudding”.

With a very decent bottle of Spanish white at £18.95, the bill (excluding my food) still came to £75 including service – so as you can see, not a steal, especially if you actually have to pay for your own food, which is what I imagine Andrei traditionally likes his customers to do. What is so impressive is how he plays with traditions in his cooking to provide a meal that I think would be hard to better in London at the moment, and that is great value for money no matter how you look at it. Although, of course, I would say that – I may not be a celebrity, but in the unlikely event that Andrei Lesment ever offers you anything for free, I can only advise you to Deal.

Apr 2012

* To be fair to Jimmy, the website for his charity –  Helen & Douglas House – received so much traffic after the programme, it crashed. It’s better now, though, and you can make a donation by clicking on it.

Having picked my way back through the carnage of a Newcastle Saturday night, I think we can safely say the Toon quite likes a drink. Come to that, I don’t think it’s massively opposed to a fight, projectile vomiting, an al fresco shag or public urination either. The evening began as it meant to continue with various stag nights circling one another in my hotel bar while two separate hen parties eyed each other suspiciously to see who had the best boa and deely bopper combination – one was the obvious winner, but may well have been docked points for being a second marriage. I don’t wish to appear overly judgemental (although I am,) but one of the things I especially love about The Stand is the no stags and hens policy, because, frankly, I’ve seen them bugger up far too may comedy nights over the years*. This rule is of particular benefit in Newcastle in April when it appears the entire North East is gearing up to get married and has come into town to celebrate.

There is, of course, so much more to the city than what it gets up to on a Saturday night. I mentioned the galleries and architecture when I reviewed Marco Polo last year, but on this occasion I also enjoyed walking through the city centre and being able to see into, not to mention hear, a full St James’ Park, or Cockney Dickhead Direct or whatever Mike Ashley is now calling it in his ongoing attempts to personally widen the North/South divide. This was on our way back from The Biscuit Factory – an art gallery come restaurant where I had just had lunch with the delightful Tom Allen and Eddie French – a newer comic I’d not worked with before, but who does a mean impression of Jamie Oliver as played by the lead singer of Rocket From The Crypt.

Some art I don’t like

The Biscuit Factory is located a little further from the city centre than we realized, although to be fair that was more to do with the slightly circuitous route we took rather than actual geography. The restaurant itself is called David Kennedy’s Food Social, after the chef, and comes with the strapline ‘This is art meets haute cuisine’, which I have to confess filled me with a little trepidation, especially when I saw some of the art. The room itself was not overly busy, but most tables were filled as they did seem to be scattered in a slightly haphazard manner around the room.

The place had been recommended by my friend, former short film co-star and now Newcastle-based comic, Dave Hadingham, and as we were shown to a table and looked at the menus, the omens seemed pretty good, even if one painting in particular was making me wince. The set menu was excellent value at £10 for two courses and £12.95 for three, which Tom and Eddie both opted for. I ordered from the à la carte because I’m me, although we then had to wait a while to inform anyone of this. Service was cheerful and informative when it arrived, but we did feel that the general vibe was quite…relaxed, which can of course be a very good thing, but then so is a little bit of haste in taking orders and keeping a general eye on your tables, especially when there aren’t that many of them.

Marjoram cream, roast peppers, croutons & flowers

My home made black pudding with greens, poached egg and wholegrain mustard sauce was a big, big slab that Eddie suggested could be used as a patch for recent vegetarians suffering withdrawal symptoms. The pudding was good, but as a whole, the dish was a little underseasoned, and the mustard gave it a slight sweetness that robbed the dish of the real punch it should have had. A spring pea soup was a beautifully vivid green (maybe it should have been hung on the wall) and was nicely lifted with the addition of goat’s curds, but the real star was Tom’s marjoram cream with croutons, peppers and deep fried (courgette?) flowers – essentially a lightly herbed pannacotta, which was a fresh, novel and very good looking plate of food.

Crispy pork, black pudding and Belford egg

For mains, I went for poached Loch Duart salmon with fir potatoes and broccoli. This dish is simplicity itself, but luckily it was much more than the sum of it’s parts, held together beautifully with a herb butter, even if the portion of fish was a little parsimonious for a dish that cost £2.50 more than the three courses either side of me. Tom and Eddie both went for the crispy pork and black pudding with slow cooked Belford egg which was another winner – the meat encased in bread crumbs and deep fried to give it a fantastic texture that made much better use of the black pudding than my starter.

Lemon curd ice cream with meringue

I held off on dessert, but a lemon curd ice cream was appropriately zingy, even if the addition of a couple of little meringues left it a little over-sweetened. A banana and vanilla cheesecake, all piled up in a glass, was delicious – creamy and biscuity with a little powdered lime zest on top to give it an added kick. With coffees and a glass of white from a very approachable wine list, the bill came to £74.25 including service, which strikes me as a perfectly reasonable price for three hungry comedians to pay. We then toddled next door to the gallery to find some art we didn’t hate (there was some, luckily) before heading back into town to do battle with the evening.

As a post script, the good people of The Stand had suggested on Twitter that I ate at The Bistro there, but even I’m not stupid enough to review my employers. What I will say is that an anchovy and bacon wrapped chicken Caesar salad on Thursday night was one of the best I’ve ever had, and when Tommy Sheppard (the owner) insists you try the Yakitori burger, you kind of have to.

THAT burger…

This burger is beginning to take on legendary status in the comedy world, and so I made sure I tried it before Saturday’s show. Wow. Apparently the beef is marinated in soy and spring onion, and then finished with a chilli mayonnaise and pickled ginger, but I don’t really want to know, I just want another one. It’s so rich it almost tastes like venison, which is ironic, considering that’s the nearest you’re going to get to a stag in the whole building, if not across the rest of the city.

Apr 2012

* This ‘Stag’s To Do List’, confiscated at a gig recently, came to light just as I was writing this. See what I mean? (With thanks to Liam Mullone.)

There’s nothing to get a comedian’s blood pumping like Glasgow. Legendary tales of Empire death and epic failure abound, and when you’re being compered by the effortlessly brilliant (and very Scottish) Joe Heenan and following local tornado Janey Godley, you’d better be bringing your ‘A’ game. Joe’s Sherlock Holmes routine is the best new thing I’ve heard on the circuit in a while, and Janey is such an astonishing fount of stories the crowd never want her to leave. So, when you walk on and everyone hears ‘Glas-go’ and not ‘-gie’, there is a perceptible sigh of disappointment, rapidly followed by an almost audible audience thought balloon that says, “This had better be fuckin’ good”. And that is when you earn your money. It says much for the generosity of the Glaswegian audience and the brilliance of The Stand as a venue that I was able to have such lovely gigs this weekend, but I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t beat that little bit quicker on the way to the microphone.

Sea bass with crab & sweet potato cake

Rightly or wrongly I’ve always felt something of a connection with Glasgow (though luckily not the type that results in thinking I should wear a kilt at weddings.) My grandfather was born here and my Great Aunt Chrissie lived to the ripe old age of 104 in a small flat just behind Partick station – her motto: “If you can’t laugh, what can you do?” – and I have yet to come across a more infectious giggle in all the world. Unfortunately, I didn’t see a great deal of the city on this visit as much my time was spent hunched over a keyboard, but I did have a couple of restaurant recommendations to alleviate the typing, which I then summarily ignored as it turned out a very old friend was in town with her partner. She insisted we went to Stravaigin, and as she lived here for ten years, and tends to get her own way, I happily agreed.

I arrived first – unfortunately the restaurant was booked for a wedding reception, but it says much for the quality of what was to follow that someone wanted to celebrate their nuptials in a room adjoining a bar full of people nursing varying levels of Saturday hangovers. We sat on high stools until a table became available, and then we set about the menu. The staff were attentive and helpful throughout, especially when I changed my starter from mussels having discovered boudin of pike was one of the specials. I had seriously considered the pannacotta of parsley root, which was the stand out oddity on offer, but rejected it on the grounds that I’m a blogger, not an explorer, and the idea of a milk pudding on a stomach that had had one more Guinness than was strictly necessary the night before simply didn’t appeal.

Boudin of pike

The pike was beautiful – not really a boudin in the strict sense of the word, but probably served like that to make sure this famously bony fish wasn’t. Combined with booze-soused grapes, homemade lattice crisps and a nicely tart sauce vierge, this was a highly imaginative combination of tastes and textures. Similarly, a pork cheek and kimchee starter was a delightfully rich reminder of why cheekiness can be a wonderful thing, and a tamarind glazed sea bass with crab and sweet potato cake was both deceptively subtle and very tasty.

Haggis, neeps and tatties

According to the menu, ‘stravaig’ is an old Scots word meaning ‘to wander aimlessly with intent’, which as well as being a perfect metaphor for my career, is also a fair description of the main courses on offer. I was sorely tempted by a wonderful looking nasi goreng with poached egg to banish the last of those Guinness cobwebs, but then I spotted the guinea fowl Kiev with potato rosti. Often a dry meat, this lent itself spectacularly to the garlic butter treatment, and even if the rosti was inevitably a slight touch on the greasy side, it was topped with red cabbage that even I managed to enjoy. Now that really is saying something. Another pork cheek was happily being stuffed into someone else’s opposite me, as was one of the best haggis, neeps and tatties I have ever tasted. Apparently Stravaigin’s sister (or should that be mother) restaurant, the much venerated Ubiquitous Chip, does a venison version, which means I shall be wandering towards it on my next visit – not aimlessly, but very much with intent.

Guinea fowl Kiev

When recommending the restaurant, my friend had used the deceptively simple argument ‘because I love it’, and with the arrival of desserts it was even easier to see why. My coconut pannacotta (I succumbed in the end) was the perfect wobble, with a shredded mango and chilli salad and quite brilliant kaffir lime and lemongrass arancini. The combination of flavours with the added texture of the rice balls lifted this pudding seamlessly into the realms of the very special indeed. An olive oil cake with pistachio sabayon and coffee mascarpone was a similarly stunning balancing act, and a sticky toffee pudding was sticky and toffee and pudding. Who could ask for more? Well, we could – espressos, a grappa and a Laphroaig as it happens. I stayed off the booze as I had one eye on the evening ahead, but when the biggest complaint of an entire meal is that the coffees arrived before the desserts, you generally know you’re on to a good thing. It almost feels churlish to mention it now, as if I’m berating the staff for being too efficient.

Coconut pannacotta, arancini & mango

The bill came to an astonishingly reasonable £100, and we threw an extra £15 on top for service as we had been very well taken care of. That’s the thing about Glasgow, as every comedian knows – it can take care of you in more ways than one, and I, for one, cannot wait to Stravaig it’s way again.

Apr 2012

Well here’s a thing. I love Bath. I went to school here and have nothing but fond memories of the place. That’s not entirely true. Like most people, I have all kinds of jumbled up and confused memories of the period marked 10-18, but, looking back, I can’t be anything but pleased by the place and the people I spent the eighties with. As if to prove this, after a lovely gig at The Bath Komedia, I ended up in Moles (where I spent most evenings in 1990) with old school friends and the rather lovely Rich Wilson, dancing around like a tit to Primal Scream and having an absurdly good time. I probably looked like someone’s dad behaving inappropriately at a wedding but do you know what? I really didn’t care, and that’s where all the best times are to be had.

According to Rich’s wife, India, we did rock up home rather later, and I have a dim recollection of him being very naked as we ate her cheese and gargled red wine, but as a result, I thought it was somewhat beholden on me to make amends with lunch the next day. Some of my dearest friends live in Box, about a ten minute drive outside of Bath, where they keep godkids I’m allowed to visit and spoil but thankfully don’t have to keep or pay for. They were away for the weekend, but have previously introduced me to The Quarrymans Arms, which is so hidden away that you really need to know where it is to know it’s there. But once you know, you know.

One man and his 'pie'

This place is a friendly gem. There’s a lovely patio/beer garden with a stunning view of the valley and a hugely warm welcome inside if it’s a little too chilly to fully appreciate those dark Avonic hills. Once inside, it feels like everyone is in on a secret. There’s a regular menu and lots of special Specials. We took the marvelous Karl Spain with us, who ruined everything by having baked beans with his Full English (now is not the time for that debate) but the rest of us opted for lunch, as opposed to further offending my Full English/baked bean sensibilities.

Rich and India went for another sensibility offending item – a chicken and ham pie that was basically a really good combination of those items in a creamy sauce with some pastry floating on it. I don’t mean to be overly picky, but that’s not a fucking pie is it? Define pie. OK. Encased in pastry. Done. It wasn’t a pie. It was, on the other hand, bloody lovely, as was my carrot and coriander soup with croutons. It was possibly the hottest soup I have ever had, and resolutely refused to cool down the entire time I was eating it, but that’s hardly a valid criticism is it?

Dover Sole with lime hollandaise

This was followed by Dover Sole with lime hollandaise and a little chilli. For £14.95. I know. If I’m going to be ultra critical I could say that it was possibly just a minute overdone, but luckily sole is hardy enough to cope and so was I. Life is tough sometimes isn’t it? It was delicious, as was the ridiculously indulgent Banoffee pie that turned up at the end to remind us all that heart conditions are clearly something that happen to other people.

And then we all trooped back into the car and back to Bath for another lovely evening at The Komedia. There may have been more dancing. It is genuinely one of my favourite venues in the world – I got caught smoking outside it in 1986 by my chemistry teacher when it was still the Beau Nash Cinema, but my relationship with it has seriously improved since then. If you want a lovely weekend, I cannot recommend it highly enough, and it is well worth digging out The Quarrymans Arms while you’re at it.

Apr 2012

Even if I say so myself, I do a bloody good roast chicken. The secret is to cook it in plenty of stock under foil, which you remove for the last fifteen minutes to crisp up the skin, but which means the meat has been steamed as much as roasted, thus retaining its moisture, and providing a rather nice chickeny (which is a word) gravy with absolutely no effort whatsoever. I’ve messed about with it for my own amusement over the years, but the starting point was a recipe from the children’s author Georgia Byng which can be found here.

As a result, I very rarely order roast chicken, mainly because it is often a disappointment and I feel I can do it better at home. I also very rarely write a blog if my meal consists of one course eaten by myself and accompanied only by my paper on the basis that it would probably be quite dull and fairly unhelpful. Although regular readers might feel they’re already used to that.

However, having just returned from The Masons Arms, I decided to make an exception – I have eaten there many times, and the lunch I have just had seemed to me to be a fairly good barometer of what is available at an all round excellent ‘gastropub’ in the best sense of the word. The pub was providing good food and drink in Battersea for many years before I moved here (it’s almost as if my arrival in the area was not the most important thing that has ever happened to it,) and has just had a minor refurbishment. It is actually my nearest pub, although I don’t go in all that much as it is not the cheapest, and I spend so much time out and about in places where alcohol is available that when I have a night off, I’m quite keen on my sofa as opposed to yet another bar. Having said that, I did pop in a week or two ago for a mid-afternoon Guinness (because I can) and got chatting to the manager, Matt, about the refurb – which, in all fairness, does seem to consist mainly of making the kitchen slightly less open and getting Fullers to pay for some new windows. Having said that, there is some nice art of the local artist type on the walls, sofas, proper tables and chairs, occasional live music, a quiz and some genuinely friendly and helpful staff who strike just the right balance between being waiting and bar staff. They seem happy in their work, which is always the first step in making sure you’re happy to enjoy it too. All in all, a pretty perfect local.

Interior with rubiks cubes...

As summer seems to be doing its usual job of turning up in spring (and then buggering off again til autumn, I should imagine,) and I have to drive for a couple of hours for a show tonight, I thought I’d treat myself to lunch. There was much to enjoy on the menu, and I was sorely tempted by the salt and pepper squid, but in the end, I decided not to be greedy, and I also decided against red meat for the main course as I eat too much of it and apparently it’s going to give us all cancer. This is up there with all my other pan-flashing, teacup-storming health kicks in that I’m sure I will find myself happily sitting down to munch my way through a couple of packets of chilli biltong later, but in this case, it led to me ordering the half a corn-fed chicken. I had a very good cup of coffee and a pint of apple juice and soda water as I sat in the corner, right next to a radiator which pleasingly compensated for a day that was not quite as warm as it was pretending to be.

'Majestic' roast chicken

The chicken arrived with something of a flourish (I think the words were “the majestic roast chicken,”) but to be fair, this was spot on. A really tasty, and yes, chickeny, roast chicken, with properly crispy, herby (and indeed mustard seedy) skin and moist flesh, sitting on top of duck fat roast potatoes, carrots and parsnips, with a couple of different types of cabbage in a pool of very commendable gravy.  I am aware that the last three blogs have all been Sunday lunches, but there was so little wrong with this dish that I decided it was worth one all by itself, so here it is. The dessert menu was a little heavy, and as the health kick is extending to not absolutely stuffing my face on a regular basis, I decided to simply have another apple and soda and cry into the sports pages about Southampton’s 3-0 defeat to Blackpool yesterday instead. The bill came to £19.50 without service, and merely added to my opinion that I am very lucky to have such a great place so close, and that perhaps I’m not the only one who can do a roast chicken justice in SW11.

Apr 2012

Once more to Brighton for the delights of The Komedia, which, as I have said before, remains one of the best gigs on the planet, even if it is now so popular that they run three gigs on a Saturday night that leave you running up and down stairs unsure of your own name by the end of the evening, let alone which gags you’ve told. Quite a few of the audience seem to have similar problems, although admittedly for slightly different reasons. To be fair, it’s hardest for resident MC Stephen Grant who manages the impressive feat of compering two of the shows simultaneously, the very typing of which makes my head throb slightly. Though possibly not as much as many other heads the next morning – this is, indeed, a place that likes to party.

I have eaten in Hove’s thumpingly excellent Ginger Pig a couple of times, and can genuinely say it is one of the best restaurants on the South Coast. More a restaurant with a small pub attached to the front of it, both times I have eaten there I have come away with taste buds singing and superlatives flying. I have also heard great things about The Gingerman and The Ginger Fox, and as an erstwhile ginger myself, I was thoroughly looking forward to Sunday lunch at Kemptown’s Ginger Dog, which I am led to believe is the pubbiest of the group. The interior didn’t disappoint, although clearly with the number of tables they have crammed in, the emphasis is again more on the food than the pub. Nonetheless, it was nice to see a happy group of regulars congregate around the bar as the afternoon progressed, although they may well have been drawn there by the funky top hat lampshades that hang above it.

Wood pigeon with pumpkin and sage

We arrived half an hour early, but were directed straight to our table by one of three or four cheerful staff. It was horrible outside, and walking into a pub where people look up and actually smile really is a neat trick to start things off on the right foot – it’s amazing how often some pubs cock it up. The menu was fairly minimal traditional pub lunch, which, as that’s what we were there for, is no bad thing. There were specials on the blackboard for each course, but I went for five-spiced wood pigeon with squash and pumpkin seeds, and pork belly for main course. Over the table was roast beef only. My starter was attractively plated, topped with a couple of deep fried sage leaves and the pigeon breast almost stood up to the sweetness of the squash – almost, but not quite. I would have like a little more of the iron tang of the pigeon to balance the dish, but I really shouldn’t complain about the portions when I didn’t quite have space for my main course. Glazed carrots were excellent, as were the roast potatoes, the brocolli and the stuffing. I could also recognize the quality of the red cabbage, even though I’ve been trying to like the stuff for decades and still can’t quite manage it. The square of crackling was exemplary, but sadly,  the sizeable chunk of pork belly it sat upon was just too dry, and didn’t fall apart into moist shreds under the knife as it should. It’s a real shame when the star of the show is a disappointment – I’m not sure if it had been cooked too long, or at too high a heat, but it’s very unusual for me to struggle with pork belly. The beef was a lot further along than we would have liked as well – there was no disputing the quality, it’s just a shame that it wasn’t a little bloody for a couple of Sunday carnivores.

Pork belly

Having stuck with water throughout, I decided to risk a Bloody Mary, which seemed a little under powered until I got to the bottom of it, whereupon I sucked back a huge glug of Worcestershire sauce, which isn’t anyone’s idea of fun. There was some very good espresso and a couple of glasses of very reasonably priced white Paradosso for my companion, and an overall bill of £50 excluding service, which is quite steep, if not indecent, for Sunday lunch. By this time, the pub was filling up with the millions of families that one imagines have all moved to Brighton from London for the children, possibly all in the same coach, and it was time we were off. I’m sure they had an excellent lunch, and were very well looked after, as were we. My problem? I really wanted to love The Ginger Dog as much as I love The Ginger Pig and I just really didn’t. I have an overwhelming suspicion that we were a little unlucky, as with a couple of tweaks, I would probably be singing their praises unconditionally. And I will be returning to see if I’m right – after all, very few people are at their absolute best in Brighton every Sunday morning.

Mar 2012

I’m always a little perplexed by the question, ‘Where are you from?’ My stock response is ‘London’, which often fails to prevent foreigners nodding and saying ‘Ah…Manchester United’ when I’m overseas. I was born in The South London Hospital for Women and Children, which is now a Tesco, opposite Clapham South Tube station. This means I sometimes shop in my birthplace and have come an enormously long way since the early seventies. Having lived in London for the last twenty-two years, I think I can claim to be a Londoner with a reasonable degree of accuracy, but this does conveniently ignore the fact that my parents moved to the Isle of Wight in 1978, and, as was traditional at the time, took me with them. They clearly thought better of this after a while and sent me to school in Bath for most of the eighties, which further added to my confusion. As I’ve got older my relationship with the Island has grown considerably warmer as it has become more the rather delightful place my folks live and less the Devil’s Island where none of my friends are. In addition to which, some of my best friends do live there now, which meant a Sunday lunch on a recent visit seemed like an excellent idea.

Sea bass with crab risotto

There are people who have never left the Island and its reputation for insularity is not merely geographical – one of the reasons I disliked it so much in the eighties was it felt like everyone knew each other except me. However, if there is one place that you are likely to meet other Londoners, it is Seaview – with its yacht club and second homes it has always been viewed by other islanders as terribly, terribly, and with some justification. A wander round here in the summer can feel like you’ve accidentally strayed into Conservative Central Office, and not in a good way*, but that is quite easily explained by the fact that it is a very pretty stretch of coast with a great beach and just, well, terribly terribly.

The Island was for many years something of a culinary black hole, with almost the only bright spot being the Seaview Hotel, where my family went for every meal of any importance between 1980 and 1994. Things have looked up recently with the addition of The Priory Bay Hotel and The Hambrough, with its Michelin star, which you’ll find people do mention occasionally, not to say incessantly, if you even hint at an interest in eating something that isn’t deep-fried.

The other thing that everyone (i.e. my dad) complained about for most of the last thirty years was an absence of decent pubs. I suspect this was more a rose tinted spectacle affair as he has never exactly been the personalized barstool and tankard type, but he had a point. Therefore, in the age of the gastropub, it’s not surprising to see that both the food and drink options are now being catered for rather well in Seaview.

My friends Matt and Nicky suggested the Old Fort, and although it’s been there for many years, it’s clearly upped its game recently. I arrived first, blown in by a gale from the seafront to a room that’s more conservatory than pub, but with a view across the Solent that makes this something of a plus. There’s a bit of your obligatory nautical business hanging on the walls, but the welcome, from Debbie, was hugely warm, and I tucked myself into our table with my paper, proper coffee and a little voucher promising me discounts if I stuck with the soft drinks. Shortly afterwards, Matt and Nicky arrived with other friends and family and we were moved to a bigger table with a minimum of fuss.

Fish stew

The food, advertised on blackboards above the bar, was a very reasonably priced selection of things you’d like to eat for Sunday lunch. There was a roast, but also Mediterranean fish stew, pork belly, sea bass with crab risotto, a spaghetti and proper scampi. I opted for the bass (at £10.50) on Debbie’s recommendation – the skin very crisp (a little…carbonized, even,) but the flesh still juicy, and the crab risotto quite punchy with added lemon. This was good, but the best dish was clearly the fish stew – lots of seafood with a beautifully reduced sauce, deep and silky and with new potatoes to mash down into it. The pork belly was excellent, as was the scampi – intended for the youngest present, but also quite handsome pickings when he wasn’t looking. It was good to see an Island pub full almost to capacity on a weekend in mid January, but with this quality on offer, I’m not surprised. We skipped dessert, cashed our tokens in for more coffee and counted ourselves thoroughly satisfied, apart from Matt, who had to pay for two friends who’d forgotten to do so before they left, which, considering the convivial atmosphere, was an easy mistake to make.

Pork belly

When I mentioned that I was going to write about our meal, Nicky asked me not to as she didn’t want the place overrun, thus massively over-estimating the size of my readership. I’m sure that word of mouth on the Island will be a far more effective advertisement than my recommendation, but if you fancy it, I would still advise you to book. The next day, I walked along the seafront with my mum, and on the way back we stopped in on her friend Jean for a cup of tea. I mentioned The Old Fort, and Jean agreed that it was very good – in fact, her daughter worked there. Her name, unsurprisingly, is Debbie, which probably tells you more about the Isle of Wight than I ever could.

Jan 2012

* Like, with a snowplough, or something.