Being the young, thrusting, savvy-type comedian I am, my life is an endless whirl of meetings, projects and pow-wows, and the sight of me bustling into a restaurant with important files, lap-tops, iPads and armies of assistants to bark at as I bash heads with top corporate and broadcasting bods is a familiar one to the Maître d’s of all the major London eateries. I have The Ivy on speed dial, San Lorenzo in my pocket and Le Caprice on hold. That’s just the way life is for someone who this weekend can be seen at two (count ‘em) separate gigs in Leeds, ON THE SAME NIGHT.

Now, the more astute amongst you will have noticed that the above paragraph is a tissue of lies (apart from the bit about Leeds – I am ON FIRE up here,) but I did have a meeting recently with an actual producer who works for a proper broadcaster and everything. I did this mainly so I could write this review from the point of view of Ronnie Corbett (“as I said to the producer…”) although taking into account that he passed out in a restaurant a few days ago, this was perhaps not such a brilliant idea. (Don’t worry Ronnie, it’s called ‘Chinese restaurant syndrome’ and often happens when people of advanced years eat more than they’re used to. My dad tells a story about it happening to both of my grandparents at the same time – he’s a doctor and he thought they were dead. They weren’t.)

The meeting was intended to be a chat about my continued inability to make any headway onto the nation’s airwaves (something I am very good at) and on that level, was quite a success (we both agreed that I had made very little headway onto the nation’s airwaves.) However, the producer in question also happens to be a lovely chap who has actually done what he can to redress that situation, as well as a proper comedy fan, so what we really did was gossip for an hour which was a lot more fun for all concerned. In the interests of appearing businesslike, however, I had asked a friend for any tips on a suitable venue and she had recommended Verru.

Home cured gravadlax

Now, perhaps the idea of Scandinavian food cooked by an Estonian may not ring everyone’s bell, but I’ve been to Tallinn and loved it and everything Scandinavian is so hot right now it hurts. Although a lot of it is cold, obviously. This wasn’t perhaps the place for foraged brambles and sea buckthorne (I’m not sure I’d want to eat at a place that foraged heavily in the Marylebone area) but from what we had, I’m sure they’d make pretty good fist of it if you asked them to. Verru is building quite a reputation, which given it’s 26 covers meant I had the choice of the two remaining tables, and opted for the one not actually in the till, but on a comfortable green leather banquette between a couple of tables of men in suits spending other people’s money. It’s a properly handsome place in an understated way, and the Maître d’ was charming and looked about twelve, as I’d been told he would, and gave me some quite stunning garlic bread, which I hadn’t. This was not your buttery, Britain thinks it’s France in the 70’s type affair, but beautifully fresh bread with the cloves baked through it; if garlic bread really is the future, then this is it.

On the evidence of the à la carte, this is definitely a place that I want to come back to and spend some proper money, but, as I said to the producer, the lunch special at £12.95 for two courses looked particularly inviting (and I wonder why I’m not more successful.) This was clean and deceptively simple cooking, which also had the added benefit of being delicious and so healthy I felt like finding a fjord to chuck myself in afterwards. An exemplary plate of home cured gravadlax, with blinis and pickled cucumber was deemed a great success, whilst my skandi fish soup was delicious – precisely chopped baby vegetables and delicately poached white fish swimming (not literally) in a clear broth that had taken all the attendant flavours and put on something of a party for my mouth. Not a wild party, admittedly, but some kind of sophisticated soiree, which is much more the sort of thing I’m interested in these days.

A terrible photo of a great pollack dish

A good entrecote steak was perfectly cooked, as advertised, which did strike me as a little odd – I’m yet to see a restaurant offering imperfect cooking, though I’ve eaten in plenty. It was perhaps not overly Baltic, but the nettle and herb sauce took care of that, and came with some chips that I have to say are the best I’ve eaten in London. Heston can triple fry all he likes, but these weirdly cylindrical things had been finished off in some form of flying animal fat and as a result, frankly pissed all over the Dinner version down the road. Not an image I’m hugely proud of, but a truthful one nevertheless. My pollack was a more complex affair, with more chopped baby vegetables alongside chickpeas, chorizo and pomegranate all happily singing from the same song sheet. My taste buds were getting quite into the swing of things by now, and the fjord was definitely starting to beckon.

Having put the comedy world to rights between us, a couple of coffees and a bill for just over £40 added to the general feeling of well being. Rather like the British public and my broadcasting talents, I have a distinct feeling that in terms of Verru’s potential, we had only seen the tip of the iceberg, but this is a perfect place for either a business lunch or something a little more sociable. Luckily, as I said to the producer, I thought we’d managed to combine the two rather nicely. Which is probably just shorthand for saying I’d nicked his chips.

Jan 2012

Well, not all of it, obviously. However, if I listed everywhere I ate over four days it would make the title of this post somewhat unwieldy and give extra publicity to Le Pain Quotidien in St. Pancras, where I drank some brown frothy milk that I can only think is a way of hurrying French people out of the country. Still, it can’t be any worse than making them leave from Waterloo.

Even people who don’t like France or the French (they’re called ‘bigots’) can find something to love in Paris. If you’ve not been, well, buy yourself a guidebook. I’m not going to do the full cultural tour, because this is Food Ponce, so you can only imagine how pleased I was by the name of the road in the picture above (look carefully.) I will say – I preferred the Musée d’Orsay to the Louvre, and I surprised myself by not being disappointed with the Mona Lisa. Do book online, as you get straight in, which is particularly handy if you don’t wish to queue around the glass pyramid, where the absence of rain is more than compensated for by a combination of fountains and gale force winds. The Pompidou Centre is worth a look both inside and out (this is a brilliant architectural joke) and the view from the top is worthy of the Eiffel Tower. Not that I’d know, because I didn’t go up the Eiffel Tower, but if you do, please pop in to Le Jules Verne and let me know if the scallops starter really is worth €62. Even in a city as expensive as Paris, that made the eyes pop out, as, I imagine, did the sight of Tom Cruise proposing to Katy Holmes in the same room, though for entirely different, libelous and unsubstantiated reasons.

Terminus Nord

Our hotel was by the Arc de Triomphe, thus placing it firmly in the mythical Tourist Dining Exclusion Zone which gets mentioned so often by the guidebooks you’d think they were bringing back the guillotine for anyone tempted by an overpriced croque monsieur within spitting distance of the Champs Elysees. This led to that uneasy feeling that we were about to make a horrendous mistake in the culinary capital of the world. We’ve all been there – I’ve made catastrophic errors in my home town (never, ever, eat in Trattoria Da Aldo on Greek Street,) but generally I just go on instinct, which served us fairly well here as we walked past Les Gourmets Des Ternes about three times, arguing. It was when we got inside that things got amusing. As soon as we walked in, we were spotted (not difficult, we were only the second table to arrive) by Jean-Francois Marie, his open necked shirt and his white tuxedo. To give you an idea of of the man, it’s probably best just to look at the website, where there’s a video and 52 pages of photos of him with customers.

There are photos on the wall, there are tablecloths embossed with signatures and doodles from former celebrity diners, including Jack Nicholson and literally hundreds of people I’ve never heard of. I feel sure that despite my sub ZZZ non-celebrity status (I was once on Richard and Judy,) if he’d had the slightest inkling I’d ever been near a stage, bulbs would have started flashing, as he seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t just attend the opening of an envelope, he’d insist on hosting the after party too. Luckily, as we made it fairly clear we weren’t after his ‘amazing pepper steak’ he left us in the capable hands of a nice chap who looked disconcertingly like Despicable Me. We could have spent quite a lot of money had we wished, but instead simply went for a rather nice ‘fromage de tete’ – which you can order in France because it’s not called ‘brawn’ – then a serviceable cream of vegetable soup and a reasonably decent moutarde de lapin served with tagliatelle which came to €50 with a couple of glasses of wine. As we left, no one took our picture, which left us feeling as unremarkable as the food. Nonetheless, the place retains a distinctly Parisian feel, I’m sure there were a lot worse places in the vicinity (shouted the guidebook,) and I know Jean-Francois would feel he was worth the visit.

Bouillabaisse

We stumbled upon a nice little tip for lunch the next day – the Café Des Officiers, about ten minutes walk from the Eiffel Tower, and therefore just outside that particular T.D.E.Z. I did go for the croque monsieur (you have to, at least once,) but what was really impressive was a special of onglet de boeuf with fettuccine, which was bloody (and) tasty. With a couple of coffees and water, the bill came to €35, which almost resembled a French bargain, so I marched off to look at a bit more art feeling terribly Parisian despite a slight tendency to murder the language at regular intervals.

Dorade with endive and herbs

That night we opted for the first of our recommendations, from a friend who has a place in Paris so actually knows stuff. As you come out of the Gare du Nord, you will notice a garish red sign blaring the words Terminus Nord at you. Do not be put off. Once inside you’ll find a beautifully preserved Fin de Siècle brasserie, all glass, mirrors, linen and very…Gallic. Except for the staff, who were far more charming and helpful than stereotypes would suggest. In deference to my surroundings, I had what can only be described as the full French – snails, bouillabaisse and profiteroles with a glass of Sancerre. Snails are weird. No matter how much you try, you can’t get away from the simple fact that you would be unlikely to relish tucking into a plate of them unless they were absolutely drenched in garlic, butter and parsley, but they were, and I did. The bouillabaisse was big and hearty and served in a tureen that added to the fun, even if it lacked the complete oomph of the very best versions I’ve eaten. I’d heard the profiteroles were the best in Paris and they did not disappoint. Only three of them, but filled with an ice cream in which you could see the vanilla seeds and a chocolate sauce that was properly decadent. An onion soup opposite me was a meal in itself (apparently,) ‘gorgeous’ and ‘one of the richest things I’ve ever eaten,’ which is patently bollocks as she then went on to nick a profiterole. We spent €80 including service, and were so impressed we made time for coffee and croissants there on the morning we left.

Tartare de boeuf

On our last evening we found ourselves at Les Fines Gueules, a tiny little 20 cover place in the cellar of a rather good looking bar just behind the Louvre and another recommendation. Unfortunately, the cold that I had been fighting off for the past few days turned up on the way there and utterly mugged my taste buds. I’d like to write an informed, and, I imagine, glowing review of the place as everyone was very nice and very helpful, and I could tell by the textures of what I was eating that I was in the presence of some very good cooking. Unfortunately, and excuse my French, I couldn’t taste a fucking thing. Speaking of which, don’t ever try to explain this to a waiter with limited English in your limited French whilst pointing at your nose – no one comes out of it looking good. A scallop ravioli in a saffron sauce looked and felt magnificent, but no, nothing – the same for a dorade with endive, fresh herbs and a balsamic reduction. I’m told they also tasted magnificent, but not as good as a tartare de boeuf enlivened with little shavings of pecorino. This was to have been the big culinary hoo-hah of the trip, but I’m afraid to say I even skipped dessert because it was, frankly, pointless to spend any more than the €85 we already had.

Some Art

Luckily for me, I’d already had a wonderful time, a truly memorable meal at Terminus Nord and now I’ve got ‘a little place I know’ to visit, if only to find out if it’s as good as I think it is. Taking into account its location, I think we can safely assume the answer is a resounding yes, but I’m planning to go back, just to make sure.

Jan 2012

Despite its reputation for arctic temperatures, the weather in the North East seemed to be entering into the spirit of the Christmas/New Year hiatus by taking the week off too, which was handy as I went naked in order to fit in with southern preconceptions of the Geordie dress code. This allowed me to walk around the disgracefully picturesque town of Yarm in nothing but a scarf and happily munch a curd tart from the local bakery completely anonymously. Unfortunately I blew my cover by continually saying ‘Yarp’ like the bloke from Hot Fuzz because I thought it was funny, until someone noticed and made me remove the scarf.

I can report with some certainty that Eaglescliffe has one of the least attractive train stations I have ever visited, although the train that brought me to it was quick, clean, spacious and properly wi-fied up so as a result I have decided to take Grand Central Rail to all my destinations in future. I’m sure this won’t be a problem because, as we all know, the entire rail network is now predicated on being a bastion of choice for the ‘customer’ rather than an antiquated, over-priced anomaly that doesn’t do ‘passengers’ and would be put to shame by nineteenth century India.

Pea & pistachio roulade

Speaking of India, the last time I ate vegetarian food was at Rajdhani Thali, and to be frank, as a somewhat helpless carnivore, it is not an option I return to on a regular basis. Morally, all the arguments for vegetarianism receive a resounding tick from me, but then again, so does the smell of a bacon sarnie. However, Eaglescliffe does have an award winning vegetarian restaurant called The Waiting Room, which slightly makes up for the lack of one in the station next to it (a waiting room, not an award winning vegetarian restaurant.) I really don’t think it’s right to review a meal you’ve been taken out for, so I shall be brief, but I would like to say that their pea and pistachio roulade was a thing of beauty – one of those unusual vegetarian dishes where you can say you didn’t miss the meat at all and actually mean it. All five of us were similarly impressed (my hosts are regulars) and as I washed everything down with some very tasty Long Wall Mouse Blonde Beer, I reflected that eating less meat was something I must file away with all the other New Year’s resolutions I’m not going to keep. Proving that there’s no such thing as a holiday from this business we call show, The Waiting Room also doubles as an occasional performance venue, and comics who have played there include Stewart Lee and Josie Long, so they’ve got pretty good taste in comedy too.

This part of the world has not been tremendously well served by the comedy industry in recent years. Despite the brilliance of Geordie comics such as Ross Noble, Gavin Webster and Jason Cook, there has been a noticeable absence of decent venues for them to perform in. The Hyena was the only comedy club for miles, but now there are excellent gigs (so I hear) at the Stockton Arc and perhaps most significantly, The Stand has arrived in Newcastle. Rather than gush too much, I’ll just say that I wish all clubs (festivals and probably countries) were run with the same ethos that Tommy Sheppard brings to his quietly growing empire, and I cannot wait to play the Newcastle Stand in April. I’m quite excited about the Glasgow one the week before as well, but I’ve played there many times, so I already know it works, even with this accent.

Carpaccio di manza

One of the other reasons I’m looking forward to going back is Newcastle itself, which has a rugged handsomeness that is perhaps missing from its more effete Georgian cousins, Bath and Edinburgh. It also has some stunning newer achitecture – including the Millennium Bridge, the quite beautiful Sage concert hall and the Baltic Centre – I know the last two are in Gateshead and the bridge takes you there, but I doubt you’ll hear them complaining. In addition to this there is a very good Italian restaurant in the shape of Marco Polo. To be honest, from the outside it looked a bit bland and corporate, but once inside it had that cheery buzz of a popular place that knows what it’s doing, and the dark wooden interior had a kind of cosiness that put paid to my initial reservations. The menus themselves (see photo, above) are a bit faddy – long thin things that fan out – but the contents divide nicely between those dishes you’d expect to find in a city centre Italian and a few surprises. A basket of breads including a quite brilliant pear focaccia served with very nice Colovita olive oil and balsamic vinegar further improved my (already quite good) mood.

Radiatori al ragu

I managed an emphatic return to my meat eating roots by ordering a whole plate of the stuff, raw. My carpaccio di manzo was delicious – good beef with lemon juice and olive oil nicely enlivened with shavings of truffle, parmesan and a selection of micro herbs including baby beetroot shoots. For mains, a beef ragu was rich and hearty, pepped up by chianti, rocket and ricotta that was, nonetheless, no competition for my rabbit and leek cannelloni. The meat was ground down with the leek, beautifully seasoned, and then given a hefty kick by the wild mushrooms which, along with some dots of pesto, gave a lightly creamy mascarpone sauce the desired lift. I don’t often order pasta, but here I was very glad I did. Employing my customary restaurant meerkat stance, I was able to peek at other people’s dishes and it struck me that Marco Polo is the sort of place you could go for both a major celebration, or the quick lunch that we were after. That is not an easy trick to pull off, and sure enough, as we were leaving, a large party of children entered the building, so that was lucky. The bill, not including excellent service, came to just over thirty pounds, which seems reasonable, even if I did rather spoil any savings by going and blowing a load of cash on a Vivienne Westwood suit half an hour later. In my defence, it was so massively discounted in the sales I couldn’t very well not buy it, and I do need something to wear in April, if only to stop perpetuating ghastly comedy stereotypes.

Dec 2011

The Festive season. A time of peace and joy to all mankind, unless of course you are a comic, in which case it is often a time to be ignored loudly by large groups of people who are unsure why there’s someone nearby not talking about them into a microphone. Why do we do it? Well, the money, obviously, if not the huge sense of artistic satisfaction. Having said that, I had a perfectly pleasant December, and if the worst Christmas gig you have is one slightly rowdy night out of three pretty good ones at the Comedy Café you can count yourself lucky.

Yim Wah Express

I had a short run of shows at The Junction, which I’d not visited since a trip to see A House support The Blue Aeroplanes nearly twenty years ago – which will mean nothing to those of you who are not aficionados of early 90’s indie bands. It was excellent incidentally, and if you get nothing else from this review, do yourself a favour and get hold of a copy of Swagger. You’ll see what I mean.

I used to visit Cambridge quite often in those days as two of my best friends were studying how to be braying alcoholics at the rugby club, sorry, University. Actually, that’s terribly unfair (on one of them,) but the city always fascinated me with its mixture of brilliance and privilege, the two of which did not always go hand in hand. I hadn’t been back for some time, apart from playing the Magdalene College ball a couple of years back which pretty much reinforced my old prejudices, but what I noticed this time was how homogenised this undeniably beautiful city has become. The same old names you see clogging up every high street somehow become more depressing when they’re overlooked by King’s College at Christmas and you can hear the choir practicing.

To be fair, I hadn’t done any particular research as regards restaurants, which may explain why we ended up in Pizza Express. I have nothing against Pizza Express, in fact I rather like it. It’s hardly foodie heaven though, and I wouldn’t have mentioned it had I not ordered a Da Morire Romana pizza – Gorgonzola D.O.P, caramelized leeks, artichokes, pancetta, rosemary and chilli oil on an extra thin base. Apparently it was dreamt up by one Simon Pritchard from over 60,000 entries to win their ‘Create Your Pizza’ competition and I can genuinely say it is one of the nicest pizzas I have ever eaten. I even tweeted about it. The saltiness of the gorgonzola (with a bit of help from the pancetta) lifts everything to another level, nicely rounded off with a little chilli kick. No more Mr Fiorentina (with mushrooms instead of olives) for me. I have found my pizza. Everything else was, well, Pizza Express, which might explain why they’ve been doing so well for so long. Having said that, a week later I was in Norwich where there is a branch attached to the gig, and I have to report that they slightly overdid the oil, making for a greasier experience, which I suppose just goes to show that every Pizza Express really is different. Except it isn’t, is it, and that’s why we like it – at just over £20 for two it’s a pretty reliable option on other fronts too.

Soft shell crab

The next day, partly because of some decent write ups in the window but mainly because good Chinese restaurants should always be full of Chinese people (© my parents’ generation) we decided to try Yim Wah Express for dinner. Clearly everyone eats in a hurry in Cambridge. At this point, I must recommend their website as it gives you a better virtual tour than I can. The place was not quite full, but had a nice buzz about it, with friendly staff and an interesting looking open kitchen at the far end.

The menu was fairly extensive, as they tend to be, including some interesting challenges such as shredded pigs stomach and garlic broth, but we were only after a light supper. A starter of soft shell crab was very tasty, although the batter was a little dry and floury. Honey roast pork was delicious – moist, rich meat with a nicely sweetened crust and plenty of rice, mopped up with kai lan (Chinese brocolli) and oyster sauce. I had gone with the chef’s recommendation of beef with chilli oil Sichuan style. This is similar to the food cooked at one of my favourite Soho haunts, Golden Day on Shaftesbury Avenue, although there it is Hunanese rather than Sichuan, but one thing both traditions have in common are chillis, and lots of them. Look at the picture – it’s quite an odd feeling to tuck into your meal knowing that you are seconds away from sweating like someone doing something wrong somewhere inappropriate.* However, when done well, as it was here, the heat enhances the ingredients – in this case beef, aubergine and mushroom – in a way that makes the dish much more interesting than merely fiery. I have to say I prefer the Golden Day dishes I have tried (principally the sea bass and the chicken) mainly because they were less oily, but this was still a success, in a restaurant I would definitely return to. They’ve got pigs ears and trotters that need trying another time, and this is clearly a kitchen that knows it’s way around a pig, even if I wasn’t being one on this occasion.

Appropriately enough, at this point we had to fly. The bill came to a thoroughly reasonable £37, excluding service. I would like to have paid with my American Express card for thematic reasons, but I don’t have one. Instead, I contented myself with patting my stomach and saying ‘that will do nicely’ as I left for my gig, and played The Blue Aeroplanes loudly in the car on the way home.

Dec 2011

*comedy staple – feel free to add your own ingredients.

I was in Manchester last week to make a short film written and directed by my good friend Mick Ferry. I played a particularly nasty corporate type interviewing a hapless candidate played by the excellent Alex Boardman, and began by overacting massively until I was instructed by Mick to just pare it down to ‘the normally cutting sarcastic twat you usually are.’ So, quite a stretch then. Clearly, for all their civic pride, Manchester still needs to import cutting, sarcastic twats from London, which may explain why the BBC is moving there.

I had a few hours to kill after we wrapped (you’ll have to get used to the terminology – I’m going to be unbearable after the Oscars,) so after a quite unpleasant Guinness in the KRO Bar I went looking for somewhere to eat. I have always been a fan of the Malmaison chain, even if they do have a nasty habit of appearing as the slightly tacky celeb and footballer’s hotel of choice. I ate in the Manchester branch in similar train catching circumstances a few years back and was impressed both by the service and what I seem to recall was fairly classic and not inexpensive brasserie cooking. I’ve since sat in the bar trying to look like I’m friends with Rob Newman and Johnny Vegas, and have always found the place on the bearable side of trendy – if Wayne Rooney wants to nip out for a fag, so much the better.

The old restaurant is now gone, however, and what we have in its place can only be termed a ‘high concept makeover.’ Well, there are other terms you can use, but I’m trying to be nice. We should start with the name. John Cleese stated that his three rules of comedy were,

‘No puns, no puns and no puns.’

I think this is a bit harsh as the work of Tim Vine, Milton Jones and Gary Delaney will attest. However, it is an excellent rule for restaurants (if not hairdressers.)  As a fully qualified comedian, I am able to tell you officially that Smoak is an awful pun on any number of levels. If I need to explain why, then perhaps you should stop reading and go and work for one of those rebranding agencies that have the temerity to charge tens of thousands of pounds and call themselves creative just because they’ve discovered a new font.

Tuna carpaccio with Facebook

So, I don’t like the name, which is a shame, because they’ve plastered it everywhere in an attempt to create an on message trendy U.S smokehouse feel to the place through the medium of brushed steel, banquettes and animal cadavers. Oh, and Brazilian coffee sacks on the wall in the bar too, for reasons unknown. However, the welcome was smiley and efficient and I was immediately found a seat, next to what appeared to be a bunch of hairdressers, interestingly enough. Quite how The Velvet Underground playing in the background fitted in with the intended ambience is beyond me, but as I settled down with the menu I rather enjoyed the incongruity.

Much play is made both on the website and the menu about the Josper Grill which is essentially Spanish, hot, and in cheffy terms, shit hot right now. I have to say, I find the website very irritating – I want information, not paeans to a mythical chef called Mr Sharp – but Smoak probably finds me equally annoying for not ordering something off the Josper. I’m really sorry, and when I next want a steak by Piccadilly Station, I may well re-visit and re-view, but on this occasion, I just wasn’t in the mood. Added to which, there are some interesting alternatives, so I plumped for the tuna carpaccio and the poached loin of lamb.

The tuna was excellent – apparently there was aniseed cress and a soya and lime dressing, but what I got was more chilli heat with a little of the lime and a dressing that steered just the right side of ranch – an intelligent and interesting alternative to normal steakhouse fayre. I hoovered it up like Lou Reed with a line.

Poached lamb, fine onion tart, beans, peas and morels

The lamb was less successful, because it felt like a number of dishes not sure which way to jump. It looked lovely – moist, if slightly bland lamb that was, for some reason, resting on an onion tart. Both were fine, but like a number of the celeb couples that will inevitably eat here, I just wasn’t quite sure why they were together. The vegetables and morels were arranged artfully, but a little under seasoned with an over reduced sauce, and goat’s cheese may be on trend right now (see Dinner) but here it felt like an afterthought. As a whole, the dish wasn’t bad, just a bit confused, which I think is a criticism you could level at the whole venture. I passed on a dessert menu which included jam roly poly, banana split and chocolate sponge mainly because it seemed intent on taking the smokehouse concept and inserting it into Grange Hill.

Maybe I’m being a little unfair – service was excellent and the bill came in at just over £30, which is steep, but not massively unreasonable. I have to say I preferred the restaurant’s previous incarnation, but then maybe Smoak is not aimed at me, and I hardly gave it a fair crack of the whip by not ordering from the grill. Before I left, however, I did use the gents, only to find the urinals were fashioned from ol’ tin buckets, which was a conceptual step too far even for me. As it was, I made my way to the station after my latest trip to Manchester, reflecting that it’s one thing for me to overact, but quite another for a restaurant’s loos. I might have to send Mick Ferry in there to give them some direction.

Nov 2011

So. It’s a big day. Let’s say momentous. I’m not that bothered, frankly, as I think most right minded people aren’t, but there are certain signposts in your life, and I’m now probably beyond the halfway point when it comes to ticking them off. This, in fact, taking into account modern life expectancy and David Cameron’s insistence on raising the retirement age until we’re all dead, may well have been the halfway point, so what do you do on your 40th?

A martini, as opposed to, say, the deposit on a small flat.

Well, if you’re my girlfriend, you manage the impossible and book a table at the newly crowned best restaurant in the country for lunch. And then they confirm by email and so do you. And then they phone you to confirm that you’ve confirmed. And so on. And then you turn up a little before twelve because they’ve insisted that you have to. And because you’ve been waiting for this, you’re quite excited, and you order a martini when someone deigns to come to take your order. A lovely Tanqueray 10 martini that you later find out costs twenty-three quid. I know. But you don’t know that, because you are in the bar, waiting to go into the best restaurant in the country.

And at twenty past the appointed hour, you are still waiting to go into the best restaurant in the country, until eventually you manage to catch someone’s eye and ask when you are actually going to see the interior of the best restaurant in the country. And, despite mentioning that you were here to eat when you arrived, they don’t seem to believe you. As a result, four different people approach you to check that you have made a reservation for the best restaurant in the country, with a number of interesting enquiries such as,

“Are you sure you have made a reservation at the best restaurant in the country?” (OK, I may have slightly made that one up,)

And the perennial favourite,

“What was the name?” (this one I didn’t, but they did ask it a number of times, just to make sure I got it.)

In retrospect (I had a lovely birthday, by the way, thanks for asking) my favourite bit of the meal was my girlfriend thrusting her iPhone at a member of staff to show her their confirmation email. Steve Jobs did not die in vain.

Under a jelly mould, a man discovers some sort of primitive timekeeping device. The only other one in the building is being used to cook pineapples.

An hour after we arrived, we were taken through to the best restaurant in the country, the interior of which, I have to report, is a bit brown, although I like the jelly moulds on the walls. There was one thing missing, though. No one said sorry. Someone ‘didn’t understand what had happened’ but that was about it. I didn’t understand what had happened either.

I was still excited. I was in the best restaurant in the country, and I could see the pineapples turning on their special Swiss-made turny thing. And Meat Fruit kept on running past me looking like it could do with more toast, sorry, grilled bread. You’re definitely in a destination establishment when you know half the menu because you read the papers.

To be fair, in most other respects, the best restaurant in the country was marvellous. The staff were delightful and my only real complaint was that you had to either go for the house wine (a mere £20) or remortgage. The house wine was very adequate, and could nearly have made a whole martini.

Lemon salad

We decided to go for the set lunch at an almost martiniesque (do I stop now?)  £28 for three courses. My pig’s ear ragoo (I’m unclear about the spelling, also, but that’s how they did it,) was rich and tasty, if a little bit unsurprising. Her lemon salad on the other hand, with goat’s cheese curds, was exactly the sort of thing I’d been hoping for, so we swapped, which was her idea. Intricate tastes. That’s how I’m going to describe it – stunningly simple, and yet terribly complex and delicious. Apparently curds are very now.

For mains, the cured salmon was cooked on one side, what they did with beetroot astounded and, oh, it’s too difficult to explain, but it was lovely. My Bath Chaps were also lovely, as Bath chaps tend to be (Kingswood School ’82-’89, I thank you,) with a lardo topping that was much nicer and cleverer than a protein membrane has any right to be. We also had triple cooked chips that were, frankly, chips. I had been led to expect miracles, but that is probably media hype rather than Heston Blumenthal’s fault. There is so much hype around Heston I sometimes wonder if Quaker Oats think they have made a mistake not putting snails in their cereal boxes.

Cured salmon with beetroot and chard

Where Dinner really got me was dessert, which is unusual. Her Raspberry Loaf was a genuine delight, but my Chocolate Wine was something else. All that stuff I wrote about Franklin’s chocolate pot? Forget that. (Really, don’t – it’s amazing, and they’re nice to you.) The wine itself I could probably do without – it was perfectly interesting, but the chocolate tart was the star – the sort of thing that would have Belgians weeping and doing bad things to the Congo. Utterly divine, and I mean that to be as camp as it sounds.

Bath chaps with lardo

We finished with coffee and a bill of £125. I’m really glad I went and I’m enormously thankful to my girlfriend for managing to organise the experience, because the place is booked solid. Would I recommend you go? I’m not sure. Of course, if you want to say you’ve been. Amazing food and a lovely view of Hyde Park. The clientele still made it feel a little like a hotel restaurant, which, after all, is what it is. I would have loved to place a few of the One Hyde Park residents on the Swiss turny thing alongside all the other pineapples, but the point is, I was made to feel enormously unwelcome when I was doing something that should have been a big deal. If you’re going to be a big deal, don’t fuck up other people’s.

Raspberry Loaf

In the evening, we went to Mien Tay with some of the finest people known to humanity. Turns out, it’s one of the best restaurants in the country. It cost about a martini each. I had goat, which was a surprise, because I thought the Mandarin Oriental bar staff had already got mine.

Oct 2011

My friend Philippa and I have shared many things over the years – flats, holidays, Blackadder fandom bordering on the obsessive, a comedy club (she ran it, I just turned up occasionally) and a love of good food and drink. Together we have darkened the doors of The Savoy Grill, The Seafood Restaurant, Lower Slaughter Manor, Seabar and others too numerous to mention, or in many cases, remember. L’Escargot is certainly a bit of a blur for Phil, although that was thanks to the combination of a highly polished floor and heels rather than the (very good) wine list. While sharing a lovely Sunday lunch at José after she had run a half marathon for the Tall Ships Trust, in memory of a friend who is no longer with us (see previous post,) I had also promised to help her move house. Though not quite a gargantuan effort to move her drinks cabinet six inches closer to Berlin, this did entail moving most of her possessions a good two hundred and fifty yards across Peckham Rye and, of course, lunch.

We were, frankly, gobsmacked by how good it was. I hate to ruin the suspense, but Franklin’s is a wonderful place. I have become slightly worried that Food Ponce is becoming one ringing endorsement after another, so for the sake of balance, I might point out that while the food in the Fox and Grapes in Wimbledon isn’t bad, £47 for a pub lunch for two with no booze is taking the f**king piss, which is why it’s not getting a full review, even if Claude Bosi is in charge. Franklin’s, on the other hand, gets my undivided attention.

Although it advertises itself as a restaurant, there is a pubby feeling as you walk into the bright and airy bar, which is no bad thing (there is more formal seating in the back, and a function room downstairs.) I was immediately impressed by the selection of beers on tap – a couple each of good lagers, bitters and ciders, a local pale ale and a Guinness. Who could need more? Well, we could actually, as I was driving, and so ginger cordial was procured from their farmshop next door (I know, you’ll like this place) and Phil made a couple of minor forays into a wine list that was clearly selected with the same good taste as the beers.

Ex-mussels

We shared half a dozen Colchester oysters to start, with a pickled onion vinaigrette that was a nice change from the routine shallot version, and prevented us from making any inroads into a rather interesting selection of bar snacks while we ordered the rest of our meal. I had the lunch special at £16.95 for three courses, although this did involve a sneaky pudding exchange for which I think we were forgiven. Phil started with a very tasty pork tenderloin with aubergine and paprika – although the meat was a little dry, which was our only criticism of the entire meal. My mussels with chorizo were plump, juicy and lifted to something completely other by the addition of small chunks of fried bread. I ended up drinking the broth straight from the bowl because sometimes you have to.

Kidneys & pease pudding. Plaice, shrimps, chicory & olives.

I think I fell properly in love when my kidneys arrived. I did take a picture of them on their own, but haven’t included it as their triumph is not an aesthetic one. Beautifully earthy kidneys in a rich mustard sauce accompanied by a pease pudding full of bacon bits. Something even better appeared to be happening across the table – Phil’s whole plaice with brown shrimps, chicory and olives was a thing of beauty, all its constituent elements marrying in a way that would make a Mormon jump for joy, if they’re allowed to do that sort of thing. Perfectly cooked fish, salty shrimps and a little char from the chicory all cut through by the slightly acid tang of the olives. Absolutely stunning. I’d moved on to a raspberry spritzer by now because I know how to live, and the bell from the kitchen when a dish was ready was making me salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Reading this back, I realize I must be a delightful dining companion.

The desserts were well worth a dribble too. My lemon tart was a great big citric smack, although because I have been watching the Great British Bake Off I was about to comment on how, if I was being super-picky, the bake had not quite made it to the very centre of the pastry base when Philippa quite rightly shut me up with a spoonful of chocolate and orange pot. With a little cream sloshing about on top of it, we were not originally sure we had got the right dessert, but hidden underneath was ‘possibly the densest thing I’ve ever eaten. In a really good way,’ and I had to agree, even if I prefer her description of José’s meatballs from a literary point of view.

Raspberry spritzer

We finished with coffees and a small Armagnac for her as the sun of a ridiculous Indian summer filtered in through the windows and convinced us that for once, everything was well with the world. Old friends and new discoveries – even the music was good. As our bill arrived with the same friendly and unhurried efficiency as everything else we had asked for, I seriously considered popping along for the Rugby World Cup breakfast offered at the weekend, but decided East Dulwich was a little too far to travel that early in the morning. More importantly, I would hate to associate Franklin’s with any kind of disappointment.

Sept 2011

Having never been to the Dome before, and only really being aware of its farcical role in the dawn of a new century, the fact that it is now quite a good music venue is of little interest to me, or will be until I go and see The Fall there next month, at which point it had better rock. However, as a friend was completing Run to the Beat, which finished right outside, I was able to go and have a nose close up. Surprisingly, I found myself rather taken with the large tent where the Queen held hands with the Blairs to sing Auld Lang’s Syne (where was that river of fire?) to compound the nation’s embarrassment at having held a New Year’s Eve party that was less a celebration and more a happening waiting to accident.

The Union Square inside the venue is fighting a brave, if losing battle against its inevitable corporate soullessness, but as we stood around congratulating those who’d actually done anything apart from turn up to a pub on a rather nice Sunday, it became apparent that, due to an unspecified cock up, half our number had repaired to Bermondsey for lunch. As a result my friend and I had to join them in José, which turned out to be the happiest accident of them all.

I am no expert on Spain, but I know what I like and I really like good tapas, as was evidenced by my recent visit to the excellent Iberico in Nottingham. The vibe here is rather different, which is only to be expected given the size of the place (tiny,) the light (from the big yellowy thing in the sky) and the location (the bohemian oasis that is Bermondsey St.) Tapas is generally such a civilized way to eat, as the growth of ‘small plate’ dining over here would seem to attest – see Terroirs, amongst others, for details – although I did once eat at a short-lived ‘Italian tapas’ place just off Carnaby Street which was as wrong as it sounds. I have seen some some complaints flying around the internet concerning how busy José can become, and it is fair to point out that in Spain, this would be just one of a number of eateries you could dip in and out of before you slipped into a sherry induced siesta or started complaining about the bullfighting ban. However, one (Juan?) José is very much better than no José at all.

Chilli & garlic prawns, Tomato & onion salad, wine list

As we arrived, our party were sat around one of the few tables – most of the eating areas are along the bar or at the shelves in the windows – leaving little room for us. We stood at a barrel, which was fine – we were offered stools but declined on the grounds that my friend’s legs would probably have started seizing up if she stopped using them. Service was sunny and efficient, and it didn’t take us long to get going. I stuck to water, but my companion opted for a well deserved glass of white Rioja – it was called Tremendus, and it was. You can do serious damage to your wallet with the wine list here, but then that’s half the point. You can also save a bit and channel the funds into Iberico ham instead, which is of course what I ended up doing. The ham was heavenly, but then at £9 it wanted to be.

Morcilla with broad beans and almonds

The food was almost uniformly excellent, with superbly fresh ingredients, brilliantly handled. Large prawns came with just the right chilli and garlic kick while chicken livers were moist and irony in a way that even Americans could understand. A tomato and onion salad cut through the meatier dishes beautifully, including some lamb meatballs with spicy tomato sauce that my companion memorably described as ‘unlike any other meatball I’ve had – not radically, just a step to the left,’ which is of course where you’ll find all the best commentators. The squid special came with a superb allioli, although only one of the advertised runner beans turned up and the morcilla with broad beans and almonds was delicious even if I felt the morcilla a tiny touch overcooked. But this is to be terribly nit picking – the mackerel (with peppers and fantastically crispy skin) was so fresh I’m surprised it didn’t swim off.

We eventually called a halt to proceedings as it was becoming clear that otherwise our waitress was going to bring us the entire menu, and finished off with a couple of cortado coffees, which were actually among the highlights of an already highlight heavy meal. Like a large cappuccino shot at perfect drinking temperature, these were, funnily enough, one of the first things we discussed later in the week over lunch in East Dulwich, more of which in the next post. Our bill came in at a pretty reasonable £59, and while I would recommend heading to José during the less busy hours of the day, the Juan* thing I would definitely recommend is heading to José, whether by accident or not.

*sorry

Sept 2011

I have been driving the length and breadth of this country for about ten years now as I am still unable to convince audiences to come to Battersea in plentiful enough numbers to earn a living from SW11 alone. Bristol is one of those cities, to which I would add Manchester, Cardiff, Sheffield, Leeds and Liverpool, whose recent regeneration has put paid to much of the aesthetic damage done to them in the post war years and which have emerged bright, polished and with a new Harvey Nichols or at least a very shiny House of Fraser to show for it. Even Birmingham has got a Selfridges, so clearly they knew I was coming. I’m especially familiar with Bristol as I went to school in nearby Bath, have many friends there, and it has been home to three comedy clubs – Jesters, The Comedy Box and Jongleurs, for some time. Jesters is presently re-developing in the city centre (if you can’t beat them…) The Comedy Box continues to put on excellent bills at very reasonable prices and Jongleurs is still operating from its original venue which is handy for all those stags and hens who couldn’t read a map if they had to find a new one.

I was very interested to walk down to the new Cabot Square development to see a really handsome job of high street rejuvenation, incorporating all the retail outlets that modern Britons would inevitably whither away and die without. Most striking of all is Cabot Circus, one end of which is now occupied by a Brasserie Blanc. I didn’t go inside The Friary Building, but M. Blanc waxes lyrical on their website about its previous incarnation as the old Quaker meeting hall and how he’s converted it. With all that religious baggage I suppose someone had to, but the location and the building itself looked lovely on a bright September day.

As our cities have rung out to the sound of building work, so our televisions have reverberated to the rise of the TV chef. Raymond Blanc is perhaps one of the most ubiquitous, but has never seemed to quite vouchsafe a place in the nation’s hearts like a Hugh, a Heston or even a Gordon. Perhaps it is the perceived superiority of his Manoir au Quatre Saisons that still seems out of reach to most of us, in a way that a Fat Duck or a St John’s just doesn’t. Maybe it’s that rumours of his financial demise abound just before he rebounds with a new series of ‘The Restaurant’ or a range of brasseries bearing his name. Maybe it’s just that he’s French. I hope not, but I, like, I suspect, many others, have always admired his obvious passion for food, without particularly warming to the man himself. Which is hugely unfair, but then these perceptions were, to an extent, borne out by my meal in Bristol.

Ham hock terrine with sauce gribiche

This from M Blanc on the website –

“I am often asked what a Brasserie Blanc is. Well if the Manoir is a delicate waltz then the Brasseries are the Can Can. For sure, this is not a place for refined haute cuisine and three course meals. Rather, Brasserie Blanc is a place for relaxed enjoyment where I can offer you simple, high quality food that comes as close as possible to the meals that my mother prepared for me at home in Besançon and at a price that encourages you to visit us regularly”

Sweetcorn chowder

Now I have no idea how this was a Can Can as opposed to a delicate waltz, but I would say that I think I see what he’s doing and it nearly works. We had a brilliant meal. Unfortunately there were two of us. On the positive side, the surroundings were delightful, as were the staff, and the lunchtime deal of 2 courses with a glass of wine for £12.95 is very good value. A sweetcorn chowder was creamy and tasty and came with popcorn floating in it, which was a clever touch, accompanied by a perfectly good glass of sauvignon blanc. Ham hock terrine looked very pretty but was hugely underseasoned – not bad, just boring, a bit like my glass of rosé – and only slightly lifted by a bland sauce gribiche. My main course, on the other hand, was lovely – a beautifully cooked piece of buttery plaice with runner beans and new potatoes that would have had me looking very favourably on the whole experience, were it not for the terribly dry and uninspiring beef Provençale with pilaf rice that arrived on the other side of the table. Neither of us were tempted by the desserts, although I’m sure at least 50 per cent of them would have been very good.

Plaice with runner beans and new potatoes

So, more of a Can Can’t than a Can Can. However, at £30, excluding service, this still represented something of a bargain, which has given me cause to question why I have previously wanted to Blanc Raymond. I won’t be rushing back, but I think a combination of the setting and an eye to judicious ordering will see me returning, if not regularly, then at least until Maman Blanc comes to perform in the Battersea area.

Sept 2011

After the delights of Les Deux Salons last week, it was really not my intention to be going all out high end French restauranting again for a while, but then I have no power over when birthdays fall or the fact that for various reasons I had to take an old friend out in the Islington area to celebrate his. I lived in N1 for many years, and was always slightly surprised that for such a supposedly socially mobile area, the majority of its restaurants were as disappointing as the government that resulted from the deal struck in its most famous one. Granita is long gone, replaced now I think by some Tex Mex joint, although I did have a great meal there years ago. It was a date, and I seem to remember things working out for me too, despite the idiocy of taking the girl in question to see Gary Oldman’s light romantic comedy Nil by Mouth first. I don’t know what I was thinking, but clearly Granita was a magical place for negotiations, and the food was excellent.

I also ate at Almeida when Terence Conran first opened it, and was very disappointed. My overriding memory is of garlic, garlic and more garlic. Now obviously I like garlic, but not that much – I came away smelling like the French do in crap jokes. They also put tomatoes in a Coquille St Jacques, which is just plain weird. By a bizarre quirk of fate, my friend and I went to school with one of Conran’s sons, who once took him on a family holiday where most of the cooking was done by a chap called Simon Hopkinson who was trying out dishes for some new venture called Bibendum. Now that’s what I call self-catering. Almeida is no longer a Conran concern, and the chef is one Alan Jones, but I would go as far as to say Mr Hopkinson would be hard pressed to improve on what was coming out of his kitchen.

Cornish crab and avocado tian

We started with a couple of glasses of Piper Heidsieck at a frankly irritating £20, but it was a birthday, so I mustn’t carp, although in drinking terms, I much preferred the very versatile Beaujolais-Villages (still not given away at £32) we had with our food. I went for Cornish crab with avocado tian, confit tomatoes and lemon olive oil and dared them to put garlic anywhere near it. Mr Jones clearly wouldn’t dream of it – this was all the things it should be; the crab was the star, but wouldn’t have performed nearly so well without the supporting cast – with the added crunch of a melba toast and sparky green shoots to lift the whole dish. This contrasted nicely with the rich, earthy wood pigeon and puy lentils across the table, which came with lardons and a beautifully reduced sauce.The meat/fish theme continued into the main courses as my friend went for plaice with girolles, artichokes and a shellfish foam – very clever cooking, and a good example of the subtle difference between here and Les Deux Salons – both are excellent, but there are perhaps just a few more bells and whistles (and foams) involved at Almeida.

Wood pigeon and puy lentils

Whether or not that is a good thing is up to you. On a simpler level, my suckling pig was just the porkiest bit of pork I have ever eaten. It had the sort of piggyness that would have Jay Rayner reaching for tissues. Again, what he’d be using them for is up to you. Incidentally, if you didn’t know, Pommes Pont Neuf is French for chunky chips.

After the brilliance of the mains, the desserts were a slight disappointment. I very much liked my caramel and cocoa nibs crispy thing (called a brislet on the menu, although I can find no mention of this word anywhere else in the world, except in reference to a township in Polk, Minnesota,) but the pannacotta and red wine poached cherries were fairly unremarkable, and the crème brulee was a little shallow and not quite as smooth as it might have been. By this stage, we’d come to expect better things, but then the bar had been set very high.

Suckling pig, Le Chunky Chips

The bill came in at just under £150, including efficient and friendly service, although I did find the addition of a pound for Action Against Hunger a bit ridiculous. I’m happy to pay it, and obviously I admire the charity and the sentiment, but a) I had no idea it was going to be added to the bill and b) when you’ve just spent 150 quid on dinner for a blog called Food Ponce, one pound for Action Against Hunger just sounds like you’re taking the piss really, don’t you think? Again, I’ll leave that up to you.

If you had to decide between Les Deux Salons and Almeida, I have to say I would probably opt for the former, but this particular Tour de France was a close run thing, and the food at the Almeida is unrecognizable from my previous visit. Things change over time, which is of course why the birthdays keep coming. Sometimes, that’s no bad thing.

Sept 2011