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

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

Some art I don’t like

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

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

Marjoram cream, roast peppers, croutons & flowers

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

Crispy pork, black pudding and Belford egg

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

Lemon curd ice cream with meringue

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

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

THAT burger…

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

Apr 2012

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

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

Sea bass with crab & sweet potato cake

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

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

Boudin of pike

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

Haggis, neeps and tatties

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

Guinea fowl Kiev

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

Coconut pannacotta, arancini & mango

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

Apr 2012

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

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

One man and his 'pie'

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

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

Dover Sole with lime hollandaise

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

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

Apr 2012

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

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

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

Interior with rubiks cubes...

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

'Majestic' roast chicken

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

Apr 2012

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

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

Wood pigeon with pumpkin and sage

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

Pork belly

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

Mar 2012

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

Sea bass with crab risotto

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

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

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

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

Fish stew

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

Pork belly

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

Jan 2012

* Like, with a snowplough, or something.

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.