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

Sometimes, the best intentions are best left elsewhere. I had no sooner sat at the bar in Les Deux Salons to peruse the soft drinks menu than James O’Brien sat down next to me and said ‘vodka martini, straight up, with an olive, hello Al’, like my own personal James Bond. Moments later Nick Revell arrived and ordered the same, but ‘gin, with a twist’ and so I had to follow suit, although with an olive as I actually like martinis. Our choice of three subtly different variations might be a happy metaphor for why we work so well together on No Pressure To Be Funny, but I think it’s more likely to indicate, as my girlfriend later pointed out, that ‘you three are such fucking champagne socialists.’

The room is a real charmer in itself – having caught just the right whiff of Parisian grandeur mixed with something a little louche (some of these words are French) and bohemian (one is Czech, apparently.) We took our cocktails with us through a busy, but not hurried, restaurant and settled down with the menus and some excellent bread that didn’t appear on the bill, for a change. One of the joys of working with my two companions is our propensity to have really good lunches on the pretext that we are in fact ‘having a meeting’, and so I should mention that this was our third visit. Previously, we have always gone for the set menu – very good value at £15.50 for three courses – but emboldened by ‘chemistry’ as James described the effects of his martini, it soon became clear that this wasn’t going to be one of those meals. Well, we had made a saving on the bread.

James opted for a fish soup which he declared ‘very fishy’ by which I think he meant delicious, not suspicious, as were my Cornish sardines with lemon, capers, chilli and toasted sourdough. Nick had tomato salad ‘forgotten varieties’ which true to their word, I have forgotten, but which came with fennel and olive oil – hugely fresh and tasty yet subtly palate cleansing. Between us we had ticked one of every starter section except Les Terrines (lovely chap,) but I’m sure I shall be returning to correct that soon, preferably on a Friday, as that is the day that their classic bouillabaisse ‘Marseille style’ is one of the Plats du Jour. This was a Thursday, which offers Navarin of Lamb, but we were now looking to the next chapter heading on this extensive, but impressive menu. I’m often wary of this many dishes on one piece of paper, but as there wasn’t one duff note (nôte d’uff?) in the entire meal, perhaps I shouldn’t be.

The mains were superb. Luckily, we are three people who know each other well enough to spend a considerable amount of time passing bits of food across to one another, so I can tell you that James’s calf’s liver and bacon was both succulent and rich, as well as properly crisscrossed with carbon from the grill, and I am still smiling at the thought of Nick’s bavette steak. Not always the easiest cut, this was handled perfectly – chewy yet tender and bloody and very, very tasty. In fact, possibly the only thing better was my saddle of rabbit – an absolute classic, executed perfectly; salty pancetta giving way to tender, moist rabbit and an offal stuffing that was borderline illegal. A beautiful carrot puree, spring chard and some stolen pommes frites made this probably my main course of the year.

All of this was washed down with a lovely Quatre Chemins, Pays du Gard, which felt like a snip at £18.50, and probably went some way to explaining the grabbing motions when the dessert menu arrived, and the decision to have a carafe of Sauternes from it, among other things. My tarte au citron was everything I expected – it is exactly the sort of dish that this kitchen would seem unable to get wrong – but the real stars were two iced peanut butter parfaits with roast banana. This dish alone means I am under pain of death to visit again and was sweet, crunchy, cold, hot and probably as bad for you as it felt good.

We couldn’t resist finishing off with a small plate of cheese to share – a lovely Rocquefort, surprisingly good smoked cheddar (smoked cheese usually reminds me of school dinners and plastic,) an ash coated chevre and something that was distantly related to Chaumes in that it tasted heavenly but would still make your fingers smell if you picked it up. Thoroughly sated, we ordered coffees, and Nick and I had a couple of Trepout VSOP’s – James opted out at this point as he’s got something called ‘children’ who were going to need ‘picking up’ later in the afternoon, while Nick and I ventured into Soho. After a couple of drinks, Nick headed home, while I ended up being roared at about Jesus by a Scottish actor who had seemed perfectly good company up until that point. None of this was enough to detract from the memory of a quite exquisite meal – at £225 including service it was by no means cheap, but for what we had I still think it was great value, if not of the everyday kind. I don’t do stars, but Les Deux Salons would get five, and is one.

Sept 2011

No Pressure To Be Funny will be starting a two month weekly run at The Leicester Square Theatre from Oct 12^th. Guests already confirmed include Clive Stafford Smith, Rich Hall, Miranda Sawyer, Andy Hamilton, Mitch Benn, Matthew Norman, Holly Walsh, Paul Sinha and Matt Forde. A Christmas show – No Pressure to Be Festive – will be taking place on Sunday Dec 18^th.

Ah, Nottingham. Bows and arrows, merry men and medieval taverns, or gun crime, stag nights and binge drinking, if you want to be a bit more twenty first century about it. And comedy clubs – three new ones in the last year – clearly designed to distract the townspeople from arguing about which of their pubbes is the most olde. I was at The Glee for the weekend with Ian Moore, Nick Doody and John Fothergill, who I’m very lucky to count as good friends as well as great comics. (This being Nottingham I should probably call them jesters, but I do have some rules.)

On Saturday, I wandered into the Lace Market to follow my normal routine – stare longingly at the windows of watch shops and then try on lots of clothes I can’t afford. Luckily, Flannels didn’t have a Holland Esquire jacket I wanted (at least not in the right size) so this freed up a bit of extra cash for lunch. It is thought processes like these that will see us out of the recession.

The first thing I noticed about Iberico was how close it was to a La Tasca. Now I’ve only eaten in one of these once and it wasn’t completely awful, but I’m pretty sure the proprieters of the Nottingham branch were less than thrilled when Iberico opened its doors round the corner. In football terms, this is a bit like Notts Forest finding they have to play Barcelona every day, although that analogy doesn’t work completely as Forest have had some success in Europe, which is more than you can say for La Tasca.

Iberica is located in the ‘historic’ Galleries of Justice. If that sounds a bit…Inquistiony for you, rest assured – it has nothing on the sacrilege that is The Pitcher and Piano in the church next door – but it does have something of the dungeon feel to it. It was going to be pretty difficult to import Spanish weather to the Midlands anyway, let alone into a gothic basement, so Iberico has done the next best thing and imported some quite wonderful ingredients instead. The lunch special – two tapas, Catalan bread and dessert for a very reasonable £11.95 – is only available Monday to Friday, but this didn’t bother me as I was getting quite excited just reading the menu and am clinically incapable of choosing only two tapas dishes anyway. Fresh sourdough arrived to help me think, with olive oil and balsamic vinegar so sticky it even stuck to the bread properly.

Paleta Iberico de Bolleta D.O, Aged Manchego.

We started with ham because you have to. I managed not to order the most expensive, settling for the Paleta Iberico de Bolleta D.O (still £13.95,) alongside some aged Manchego with sweet pickled figs and smoked paprika. Everyone knows all about black pigs and acorns by now. All I’ll say is that if I was on death row, I think there’s a good chance I’d order charcuterie for my last meal  – obviously I aim to get executed at a very high end place. There’s something almost forbidden about really good cured ham that does strange things to me, and with the cheese and figs I was already making the weird appreciative noises that I may have mentioned in previous posts. Meanwhile, Catalan bread – a kind of Spanish bruschetta on lightly fried bread with tomatoes, garlic and herbs – had my taste buds telling my arteries to be quiet.

Catalan Bread

They (the arteries) were in for a fairly rough ride. Next up, two courgette flowers stuffed with Monte Neblo goat’s cheese in a crispy batter and drizzled with honey. The person sat opposite me said something about things being too rich and sweet at this point, so I think we can discount her opinions. Patatas bravas, triple cooked in goose fat, were a perfect example of a dish that is often done badly because it should be easy to get right, while Truffled Onglet beef was so rich it should probably have gone back to Spain to prop up the economy. Luckily the addition of broad beans and pickled shimeji mushrooms pegged it back to the merely wealthy.

Courgette Flowers

Ensaladilla Rusa – seared tuna with tomato and soft quails eggs – was all kinds of things, but mostly very clever and very delicious. The person opposite me doesn’t like soft egg yolks, so we shall continue to ignore her, although we did both agree that the one slight disappointment was the lime, salt and pepper squid. Small pieces of squid with a bit too much batter and not quite enough lime or alioli to prevent them being a little dry – they definitely suffered by comparison with the enormously high standard of everything else.

Truffled Onglet Beef, Ensaladilla Rusa

I don’t really think of dessert when I have tapas, and in any case, by this point the arteries had had a word with the stomach and they’d both agreed they were full. The bill, with exemplary service, water and a very nice glass of white Rioja, came to £73.76. For what was essentially a treat, I think that represents pretty good value, and as most of the comedy circuit is now spending more time in Nottingham than it used to, I‘m sure I will be treating myself again. Next time I should probably try La Tasca, but after this, I doubt I would do them justice. I’ll be too busy sitting in the Galleries.

Sept 2011

It’s rare that I prepare for a three course meal by snaffling my entire protein ration for the day before I’ve even sat down, but then again it’s even rarer for piping hot sausage rolls to start flirting with you from a bar top. Rarer still that they have a Scotch Egg friend who is waiting for you in the kitchen wearing nothing but curried mayonnaise, the saucy minx (ahem.)

Possibly the world's best sausage roll

We hadn’t booked at Pub du Vin for Sunday lunch, but were looked after impeccably by very helpful staff who sat us on high stools with menus. In retrospect, it was remarkable that a table became available so quickly, as within minutes the whole place seemed full of prospective diners, but this was quite enough time for me to decide that I had to try one of those sausage rolls. This was, quite simply, a great decision. As Dickens is to Dan Brown so the Pub du Vin sausage roll is to Ginsters. Buttery yet utterly greaseproof pastry wrapped around a generous portion of beautifully seasoned, deliciously moist I-can’t-bring-myself-to-call-it-sausagemeat, helped along with the merest smear of Colman’s, but also perfect without, I’m sure. In fact this was so good that I had to try the Scotch Egg, which had also been recommended by a complete stranger at the bar. Although not in the same league as the sausage roll, the soft yolk and mayonnaise still made it a pretty darn exciting example of its oeuvre, which I desperately hope is as bad a pun as it’s trying to be.

Scotch Egg with curried mayonnaise

We were then sat in the bay window, eyed jealously by the empty Indian restaurant opposite. The room itself is light and airy, with photographs on the wall occupying that tasteful area just south of arty. I’m not a huge fan of the trompe l’oeil ‘brickwork peeping through’ paintjob; the place looks great – why make it look like your wallpaper’s peeling? I wasn’t keen on the mural in next door’s Hotel du Vin when I popped in there for coffee recently either, but this is not Art Ponce, so I digress.

The menu is refreshingly simple, with five or so starters and mains and three specials chalked on the wall. We shared a pea, broad bean and goat’s cheese salad which was delightful – sun dried tomatoes and curdy cheese giving it a real punch, balanced by the freshness of the greener ingredients.

Pea, broad bean and goat's cheese salad (sorry)

The only real problems came with the mains. My lobster bisque (one of the specials) had to go back as it was lukewarm at best, so by the time we had worked out that the roast beef was also a little on the tepid side we felt it was a bit late to send that back too. The staff did, however, deal very efficiently with the problem – the fact I had to ask for another spoon when the replacement bisque arrived meant that it also came with a free glass of a very good New World Pinot Grigio, which was appreciated. The bisque was superb – melting salmon, red mullet and a large shell-on prawn in a velvety, rich soup with none of that slight tinniness that normally stops me ordering it. I also made the unusual discovery that if you want to mop your plate, bread is for losers – steal some Yorkshire pudding and you will be rewarded with a kind of lobster choux bun that is as delicious as it is surprising. The roast – temperature to one side – was a little light on the veg, but the beef was excellent and as rare as we were told it would be. Like a flirty sausage roll.

Roast beef, Lobster bisque

I shouldn’t really have had pudding, but I feel it is my duty to try every crème brulee that is offered to me, martyr that I am. This was up there with the sausage roll – smooth custard delicately (and not over-) flavoured with vanilla, topped with exactly the right amount of caramelized sugar to shatter pleasingly under the spoon without over sweetening what lay beneath. One of the best I’ve ever tasted, and there have been a few.

The bill came in at a very reasonable £53.10, service excluded. I’d actually forgotten the sensation of being able to reward service on my own terms; something I value as both a former waiter and a sentient human being. What marks good service out is how they respond when things go wrong, as opposed to when they’re going right, which they did for the vast majority of our meal. I truly dislike the term ‘optional service charge’ when it is clearly anything but. Pub du Vin doesn’t have an optional service charge because it doesn’t need one. And you can’t say rarer than that.

Aug 2011