Ciroc Vodka: A Rapper's Delight.

Ciroc is a so-called ‘super premium’ French vodka derived from snap frost grapes rather than the traditional corn, sorghum, rye, wheat or potatoes. The juice of Mauzac Blanc grapes from Gaillac, and Ugni Blanc grapes from Cognac  is extracted and cold fermented before a lengthy distillation process can begin. The Mauzac Blanc grapes are four-times distilled in traditional copper-pot stills, whilst the Ugni Blanc enjoy their distillation in steel column stills. The combination of the two is then distilled once more in copper stills which the manufacturers insist give Ciroc it’s distinctively smooth finish. I thought this a ridiculously drawn out process for a vodka, but having tasted Ciroc, I make them right.

The vodka is very lemony in the mouth, with an almost liquorice after taste. The light smooth finish and fresh character make it a delightful drink for sipping over ice. There was none of the ‘burn’ associated with other vodkas I might mention, and amazingly, no hangover! Perhaps I’ve finally found my perfect drink?

The aspect of Ciroc which all of my friends were most aware was not (surprisingly) the laborious distillation process, but its association with Sean Combs (or Diddy/P. Diddy/ Puff Daddy/ Puffy) which has seen the rapper and business impresario promoting the brand since 2007. Rather than a regular endorsement contract, Comb’s company Sean Combs Enterprises will take a 50% share of the profits, which could amount to over $100 million over the course of the deal.

I was curious about the ‘snap frost’ grapes touted on the bottle as the distinguishing factor that marks Ciroc apart from its competitors. They appear to be grapes harvested after the first frost, like those used in the production of eiswein in which the grapes are frozen on the vine, leaving the sugars to concentrate resulting in a sweet wine balanced with high acidity. Ciroc is definitely a sweet vodka, and would combine well with any citrus-based mixers to draw out the acidic undertones.

Oringinally published at The Culinary Guide.

Homage to Homard.

Aren’t lobsters bloody fantastic? Perhaps rather churlishly, I announced over dinner last night that I would be happy to eat lobsters every day for the rest of my life. With the benefit of hindsight and in the cold light of day, I can see that this is ridiculous and would take away the fun of eating lobsters on special occasions. Unless you eat lobsters daily, like others eat eggs or bread? Thought not. Because they are special occasion food, reserved for high-days and holidays, and to eat them with any more frequency than this would be to ruin their special appeal to me.

 That said, I could do with eating a few more than I have been. I was reminded last night how blooming marvellous this crustacean is when it’s snappy and fresh and covered in delicious garlic butter. I went to Riddell and Finns on Meeting House Lane in Brighton, which sounds a bit like a seafood restaurant in Harry Potter might, and is indeed fairly magical inside. Diners sit at long marble benches with candelabras in the middle, dripping with atmospheric candle wax. The chairs, however are most uncomfortable, and left a ‘basket’ impression on the back of my thighs, not cool. The walls are covered in old-timey photos and mirrored tiles with French writing on, to give a suitably elegant and nostalgic feel to the joint. But you care not for such details, you want to know about the food!

 I ordered a whole grilled lobster with garlic butter and set about it with my shell-cracking device and teeny fork-pick with gusto and relish. I fear this was a most unappealing sight, but I cared not a jot. The lobster was a good size, with plenty of claw meat and a good fat tail. I ordered fries to go with it, but should have asked for more bread to mop up the tasty garlicky juices left behind. Next time.

 Another lobster experiences has just occurred to me, which escaped the notice of this blog. I am getting slack, forgive me. For my friend’s recent birthday we went to The Big Easy on The King’s Road for a lobster chow-down which horrified my vegetarian friend (again). We tore at the red beasts and dribbled sweet juices down our chins in our eagerness to tweeze out even the tiniest morsel of meat. The table was a tragic vista of discarded shell and balled up napkins as the final diner set down their fork, like there had been a lobster Armageddon. We paid £15 a head for a lobster/chips/salad combo, with a margarita thrown in for good measure, and though the lobster was on the smallish side, and the house band were a little long in the tooth, you really can’t argue with those prices.

 Riddle and Finn’s is significantly more expensive than that, but it’s infinitely more refined and benefits from no in-house band belting out mid-90’s soft rock standards. To surmise, both offer a great lobster experience for very different situations. Although, I can’t really imagine a bad experience if there is a lobster involved somewhere along the line. Can you?

 Riddle and Finn’s
12b Meeting House Lane

Brighton

BN1 1HB.



The Big Easy

332 – 334 King’s Road

London

SW3 5UR

Amazonica

Following the crushing defeat at the hands of the Germans on Sunday, my friends and I sought to smother our misery in a pillow of food. Obviously nothing even slightly Germanic could be countenanced, so we used a handy-dandy i-phone app (how modern!) to find a nearby restaurant meeting our requirements of 'cheap' and 'not German.'

We came up with Amazonica, which is a Columbian restaurant on Brixton Road. How novel! We exclaimed as we walked down the street, reminiscing fondly on the Cuban feast we enjoyed so rapturously in New York. How delicious! We squealed as we read the menu outside, deciding in our minds between crispy belly pork with red beans and steamed tamal. How quaint! We rhapsodised as we entered the wood panelled interior, complete with jazzy dance floor out back.

How thoughtless, we winced when we noticed the "highlights" of the afternoon's sporting debacle playing on a loop, showing on a television at the back of the restaurant. How rude! We growled when they refused to turn even the sound off when we asked them to, tears in our eyes. They then proceeded to LAUGH at us, for being upset about the sporting failings of our nation.

Frankly the food is irrelevant when the customer service is this poor. We were made to feel as though we were imposing upon them for daring to order food and spend money in their establishment. Perhaps I'm being naive, but I thought that the customer was always right, if I ask a restaurant in which I am spending money to turn the television off, I expect them to do so. To play something repeatedly which is clearly upsetting your guests, is very strange indeed. To laugh at them is rude.

Who has a television in a restaurant anyway?

Greek Beach by the Thames.

A charming PR exercise to encourage tourists to visit the economically devastated cradle of democracy.
We all know that the Greek economy isn't what it ought to be, but the Greek Tourist Board are seeking to dispel the newsreel images of angry rioters and plucky protest dogs and persuade tourists to return to the country in an effort to wiggle out of their economic crisis. New for 2010 is the ‘You in Greece’ campaign, which invites you to imagine yourself in Greece, and then make your dreams a reality by actually going there. Hence the arrival on the Southbank of the Thames, of the Greek Beach at Gabriel’s Wharf.

The tourist board have shipped in tonnes of sand from the islands of the Aegean and populated them with sun loungers to create an 'authentic' holiday experience in SW1. With a plethora of delights from Hellenic delicacies such as spankopita and kofte, to beach football, sand sculpting and frosty pints of Greek beer, you'd be forgiven for thinking that there's no reason to board a plane to enjoy the Mediterranean.

Unless however like on the day of my visit, the weather falls somewhat short of Grecian. In place of endless blue skies, sparkling seas and searing heat, I sunk my toes into the damp and chilly sand under a slate-sky and beside the murky waters of the Thames. That said, I'd recommend a visit if the weather picks up, I daresay that after a couple of pints of Mythos or a glass or two of retsina that you’ll be feeling distinctly Mediterranean. Lie back on a sun lounger, listen to the DJ beats and imagine you're sitting in an olive grove in sunny Greece. Then book yourself a flight and plough some cash back into the ailing Greeks’ empty coffers.

MEAT WAGON!

Finally we made it to the Meat Wagon BEFORE they sold out of meat for the evening. This was my third attempt to buy a simple burger from these maestros of meat, so you'll excuse the excited upper case  typing. For those of you who don't know, the meat wagon is essentially, a burger van. But it's the best goddamn burger van you've ever been to. The meat is all ethically sourced and blah blah blah, but it tastes bloody DELICIOUS. Polly and I were so excited, we ordered a Coney Island Dog to start with, which was a purely gluttonous move. It looks hideous, but it was very tasty. It's essentially a beef sausage topped with chilli con-carne, jalapenos and onions. Our long-suffering vegetarian friend was disgusted.

There's not a lot I can say apart from go. We waited an HOUR AND A HALF for our burgers, but every meaty mouthful was worth it. Burgers and 'dogs are £5-6.

The Meat Wagon
Follow them on Twitter to find out where they will be next.

Mrs Paisley's Lashings

Mrs Paisley’s Lashings at Holmwood House.

Elegant dining with a conscience.

Jo Wood and Arthur Potts Dawson have returned with characteristic flair for another seasonal Mrs Paisley’s Lashings hosted at Jo’s stunning Kingston home; Holmwood House. Arthur’s eco-friendly and sustainable approach to restaurant dining coupled with Jo’s dedication to bespoke producers and local produce create a truly unique pop-up dining experience. The series of events are sponsored by Hendricks Gin, the three little words that every girl dreams of hearing.

The idiosyncratic organic gin infused with rose and cucumber was used to great effect to create a range of summery cocktails such as the Holmwood Punch and also the Mrs Paisley’s Mojito, which also include fresh herbs from the Holmwood garden and honey from Jo’s own bees. Working my way through the carefully crafted menu I was thoroughly convinced of the fact that Hendrick’s will be featuring heavily in my summer drinking plans.

Six courses of organic delights including summer vegetable risotto, Bayonne ham and beetroot salad, spring chicken with garden greens and a lemon tart left me groaning but thoroughly convinced of Jo and Arthur’s opinion that local, organic and seasonal can still be delicious and glamorous.

Profits raised from Mrs. Paisleys Lashings will be ploughed back into creating Mrs. Paisleys Gardens in schools across the UK.  Jo and Arthur are helping set up small vegetable patches in inner city schools to teach younger generations about the importance of growing your own and the benefits of eating good organic food.

Originally published at http://www.theculinaryguide.co.uk/

Barbecue Forever!

Sunny weather means only one thing, (apart from instant sunburn for the pasty among us and inappropriate levels of nakedness amongst the fat and drunk male population) and that thing is barbecue! The ancient method of burning meat over open flames has remained popular throughout the ages for a reason: burnt meat is damned tasty.

I kicked off my 'summer of jerk 2010' with a few dozen pieces of jerk chicken. Here is the recipe (it belongs to Gizzie Erskine):

2 tablespoons of English mustard
2 tablespoons of vinegar
Juice of 2 limes (add zest too if you like)
4 tablespoons of honey
3 scotch bonnet chillies (4 if you're feeling crazy, seeds and all)
6 chopped spring onions (or regular onions)
5 cloves garlic
Handful of thyme
handful of oregano
Sea salt.

Mix everything together and rub it into 12 slashed chicken thighs. BBQ the hell out of them.

I followed this with a rack of ribs, they are covered in tasty tasty smoky marinade, which you make like this:

Squidge of ketchup
Splash of Worcester sauce
Splash of Tabasco
Splash of vinegar
Dab of English mustard
Squirt of honey
Tablespoon of brown sugar
Teaspoon smoked paprika
S&P
3 cloves of garlic crushed
Splodge of soy sauce
Splash of oil

As you can see it's not an exact science, just taste it until it's nice, then smother it all over a rack of ribs. BBQ the hell out of them.

We also had some prawny skewers, which are just prawns marinated in lime, garlic, chilli and oil. Do not BBQ the hell out of these, or they will be horrible.

I cobbled together a store-cupboard cous cous involving, in varying quantities:

Lemon juice
Olive Oil
S&P
Roasted red peppers
Tinned black olives
Dried cranberries
Raisins
Chilli
Coriander
Mint
Cherry tomatoes

Which was very nice indeed. I find cous cous and similar grainy things very versatile and difficult to cock up. Chuck in whatever you have knocking about in the cupboard and it'll probably be pretty tasty. Unless what you have in your cupboard is tinned peaches, sardines and peanut butter.

The food is all well and good, but the mighty gods of the barbecue demand booze, and gallons of it. I'd stolen some pretty dodgy Cypriot white wine from the fridge at work, which was frankly unfit to consume au naturel. Aware of the rule that fairies die when you waste alcohol, I decided to improvise to avoid wastage.

I chucked a couple of bottles into a pitcher with some sliced up lemons and oranges, and topped with ginger beer. This proved both highly intoxicating and quite delicious. Inspired by my new policy of 'whack it in a pitcher with a load of ice and drink it fast' - we created several further rounds of cocktails involving rum, prosecco, vodka, gin and basil. I cannot tell you the quantities or combinations, because frankly we were too drunk to remember. Use your initiative, and very little in the way of mixers and you can't go wrong.

Thursday Night Market (chicken on my stoop)

Since the recession closed most of the shops in Granville Arcade in Brixton, a company called Space Makers have been filling the empty units with pop-ups and short-term lets to keep the area ticking over and stop the space falling into disrepair or being sold to developers. There is an excellent article explaining this (far more eloquently) here.

As a result there are some really sweet little places in there now, a retro sweet shop, a Greek restaurant, a seafood place and a fancypants pasta cafe. The maze of avenues is becoming pretty gentrified as evidenced by the frequency of the likes of me and my white middle-class friends running about buying flat whites and artisan breads.

On a Thursday the market stays open until 10pm, and in an attempt to keep it 'Old Brixton' my friends and I decided to go for some jerk for dinner. Usually we frequent Bamboula or Negril for our jerk fixin's, but we switched it up this time and went to little more than a shack with an oil drum barbecue outside. I'm glad we did, it was easily the best chicken I've had. Ideally jerk chicken should be blackened by the flames of a barbecue for that deep charred flavour, citrusy but salty and warm with spice. This was all of those things and more. I think the experience was possibly improved by eating it with our hands on a ramshackle stoop in front of a poster of the emperor Haile Selassie. Old Brixton indeed.

Take Two (possibly Take Zwo, the sign is ambiguous)
Coldharbour Lane
At the Brixton Village Entrance, Jct Atlantic Road.

The Cheap Greek

Now I know that The Real Greek may not be the most authentic cuisine, according to my learned Greek friends, but at the moment they have a deal which includes SIX dishes and TWO drinks for £20. In my opinion this is well worth getting involved with. You can then tuck into a very cheap and pleasant dinner with a friend for very little money. Look at what you could order!

(I do not know the names of any of these dishes, it's all Greek to me [did I? Yes I did]) The offer is running until 23rd February 2011, so there's plenty of time to take advantage, hell, you could even go twice or even thrice if you're feeling crazy. The Real Greek will also be donating £2 of each bill to charity, so that's another good reason to go.

What are you waiting for? Download the voucher here immediately.

Village East

Naomi and I made another stab at this modern brunching lark on Saturday, but didn't manage to meet up until 2:30pm so it was really more of an early dinner by the time we took our seats at Village East on the newly trendy Bermondsey Street.

We had what was a pretty decent lunch, I chose a burger topped with foie gras and caramelised onions and Jones had hake with a clam 'casserole.' I am normally a bit sceptical about jollied up burgers, because really all I'm interested in is the quality of the meat and whether they've cooked it how I've asked them to. The meat in my burger was good, it had been cooked medium rare causing me to exclaim "look! pink in the middle, they never do that!" and was still juicy but with a charred crust. Top marks on that. The little piece of liver on top was a bit lost in a burger really, so I picked it out and ate it separately. Soft sweet liver doesn't really have a place in a lump of meat in a bun affair in much the same way that Billie Piper has no place in a metal band.

We had deserts because 'we deserve it' although in reality we don't really deserve it, and after my gluttony in America, all I deserve is steamed veg and broth. But we ordered anyway, because we are greedy. I had a crème brulee which was all right, not the best I've had (which incidentally was at The Green at Goose Green, home of the best club sandwich I've ever had, and now sadly closed. Why God? Why?!) It was sort of bland and eggy, not vanilla-y enough, but the crust was good, so it was around a 7/10 overall. Naomi had honeycomb semifreddo with poached plums which she declared 'all right' too.

We decided that Village East was about that, 'all right' nothing special, and when we received the bill, it dropped in our estimations yet further. With a bottle of wine and a bellini each our bill came to £85, which for a burger lunch is a bit strong.


Village East
171 Bermondsey Street
London SE1 3UW
020 7357 6082

Possibly the happiest event of my life to date.

I can't believe I did my entire New York write up without mentioning our finest hour: The Brooklyn Fried Chicken Cook-Off.

Tiring of persistent drizzle we fell into a small neighbourhood 'pub' where we were delighted to discover $3 pints of weak beer. We decided that this was as good a place as any to regroup and decide where to head next. It was then that the eagle-eyed Ceilidh spied a sign on the door and went to take a closer look. This friends, was the sign:

We made some enquiries with the fellow who appeared to be in charge, and imagine our delight when he said that the chicken was not only free, but that we were actively encouraged to eat as much as we could. This was surely turning out to be the best day of our young(ish) lives.

Excitement was building as dozens of locals brought trays and dishes of family recipe fried chicken through the door and placed them on the pool table at the back of the bar. I overheard snippets of conversation in which secret ingredients were discussed in hushed tones. Apparently Cap'n Crunch cereal makes a good addition to batter. Talk of brining and soaking in milk abounded and I realised that there's a lot more to fryyyyyin' chicken than I had ever imagined, I suddenly felt very English indeed.

People also carried in great serving dishes of sides; coleslaw, potato salad, mac and cheese and pickles to place alongside the trays of chicken glistening under the lights. Sauces were nestled amongst the foil trays, with some opting for traditional barbecue, others choosing Thai chilli sauces or even infused vinegars to dip their chicken into. I went virgin on all of mine in the interests of a level playing field.

On the orders of the master of ceremonies we pounced on the table, piling our plates high with pieces of friiiiied chicken and returning to our table to chew enthusiastically on the bones and swill it down with watery beer. We then marked each chicken out of ten, sadly I was pretty lax in my marking as I'd failed to note the contestant numbers in my excitement to consume as much as humanly possible. When will I learn?

We finished up with a summer berry cobbler and yet more beer before groaning off into the night clutching at our bellies. The bar also had a free brunch station at the back offering bagels with various toppings which you could just go and help yourself to. I think there really ought to be more free food in bars and pubs in the UK, surely it'd be helpful to soak up some of 'binge drink Britain's' rowdy behaviour?

New York

So the three people who regularly read this blog may have noticed that I've not been updating with my usual regularity. This is because I've been eating myself unconscious in New York, and my fingers are now too fat to type accurately.
I shan't bore you with a separate post for each of the 2,000 restaurants that we ate in, merely provide you with an overview of the high- (and low-) lights.
Since we were in the big 'apple', we made a solemn yet unspoken vow not to eat any fruit for the duration of our stay. Instead we insisted that almost everything that passed our lips was either deep fried or coated in sugar, or both.


Kicking off with a pizza the size of Jupiter, our arrival on the culinary map was well and truly marked for our poor weak British stomachs. Starved and exhausted after a long flight, a curtailed tube (subway?) journey and the effort of dragging two suitcases around the streets of Manhattan for half an hour, we arrived at our hotel and flopped onto our beds. Realising that we needed sustenance immediately if not sooner, we headed out with resolutions to just 'go to the first place we see and eat everything they sell.' The first place we saw was a pizza place called Sal's which apparently George Dubbya has eaten in. We purchased the last pizza they had, demanded that they sprinkle sausage all over it, and returned to our hotel. It became clear that the reason this was the last pizza in the shop was because all of the families of twelve, football teams and morbidly obese grease-chuggers were in bed or had dined elsewhere. We could probably have fed six with our table-sized pizza, but instead we decided that it would make a fine breakfast and boxed it up for the morning. Keeping it classy...As a first New York meal, it was pretty faultless and did the job of expanding our stomachs for the gastronomic onslaught of the week to come. The base was light but chewy and the toppings were neither overwhelming nor underplayed.





After trailing around in the rain all day, peering at skyscrapers obscured by fog and cloud and shivering in our 'summer' jackets and flip-flops, we treated ourselves to dinner at the Grand Central Oyster Bar to cheer ourselves up. This was only really effective in the short-term. Whilst I enjoyed my oysters, even without dipping them in KETCHUP like my fellow diners (really, who does this?) and the mountain of fist-sized scallops DEEP FRIED IN BREADCRUMBS (we had to keep up the 'vow of the fried food' somehow) I emphatically did not enjoy the vomiting, hallucinations, cold sweats and other ahem, side affects which saw me languishing in a pool of my own sweat on the bathroom floor at 3am crying and praying for death.


Despite this brush with death (dramatic, me?) I have not been put off oysters, I see them as a sort of extreme food, and the risk of illness only really makes them more exciting for me. Every mouthful is a terrifying dance with dysentery, but that's a risk I'm willing to take. Christ I'm daring.
Fully recovered but planning a low-key day food-wise; dry bread, plenty of water, the odd piece of fruit or maybe a plain muffin, you know, the sort of thing that people recovering from near death situations exist on so as not to enrage the beast that's taken residence in their stomach who insists of rejecting everything that enters his realm in the most violent and unpleasant way.


This did not last long as Polly and Ceilidh wanted to visit Katz's deli, made famous by that scene in When Harry Met Sally, which apparently gives them leave to charge eye-watering prices for bagels. We took our seats next to a wall crowded with photos of famous folk buying salami and so forth at the legendary deli, and ordered ourselves some pastrami bagels. Just a light little thing for my delicate constitution you understand, I really couldn't cope with anything heavy or rich...
Thick wedges of pink pastrami glistening between the black sides of pumpernickel bagel and enormous pickles set us on our feet for the day, which was fortuitous since we were very nearly knocked off them when presented with the bill...

Following a dogged day of sightseeing and endless pavement pounding, we found our tired arses at Madison Square Park where we were delighted to see the Shake Shack, a mecca for burger lovers, a contingent which we certainly count ourselves amongst. The fabled queues were not super long and within about 15 minutes we were squealing with delight as our buzzers vibrated and we rushed to collect our burgers. Foolishly we had opted for mere single patties, a mistake rectified when me and Polly returned two days later and went for the full double experience. Coupled with a 'concrete' - a solid ice-cream milkshake full of peanut butter, cookies, sauces and all manor of cavity inducing 'mush-ins' our cholesterol was sky-rocketing but our hearts were contented. Sitting on the little tables in the sun-dappled park with the Empire State Building soaring into the sky behind us was one of my warmest memories of America.

Following a fraught journey on the inscrutable underground system, Polly and I arrived in Williamsburg, Brooklyn where we promptly deposited ourselves in the nearest 'pub' Spike Hill and ordered some strong liquor and a bottle of wine. We repped our nation admirably in the drinking stakes that night, which saw us through post-game drinks in a dive bar, swing dancing in a speak-easy and vodka in our hotel room. Brits on tour. Apart from the life-giving cocktails, we shared the biggest bowl of olives I've ever seen, some very good home-made houmous and a heavenly pulled pork sandwich which was one of the best things I ate on my trip. Sticky smoky shredded pork in a bun with barbecue sauce and coleslaw, I would eat this every day if I had the metabolism for it. 

What else did we gorge on? Honourable mention must go to my friend Diana who cooked us a beautiful Puerto Rican meal of chicken, red beans, plantains and rice despite being dead on her feet from two weeks of Grand Jury duty, a full-time job AND a university course. She is a miracle in tiny human form for the energy that she manages to maintain despite existing on about two hours sleep a night, I'm delighted that she's soon to marry my friend Jamie, a Londoner who moved to Brooklyn five years ago.
On Diana's recommendation we went to check out Cafe Habana for some Cuban food and ambrosial frozen cocktails - I won't forget the Morita in a hurry, a lethal combination of mojito and margarita. I went for pulled pork (again) but this one was casseroled in a citrusy marinade and served piled high with yellow rice and black beans. Having never tried Cuban food before, I'm now searching desperately for somewhere in London where I can feed my new pork addiction. Speaking of which I bought a hilarious recipe book called Pig: King of the Southern Table which I will report on in the fullness of time, probably when I’m back eating solids rather than salads in a bid to return to my pre-holiday weight.

Between these mammoth meals of fried meat and carbs we managed to squeeze in a couple of cupcakes from Magnolia and Sugar Sweet Sunshine respectively and a mother load of Reese's peanut butter products, for which I have a special weakness. Owing to my peanut butter addiction, it would have been remiss of us not to visit the Peanut Butter cafe, which serves The Elvis, a deep-fried peanut butter, maple syrup and banana sandwich with optional bacon. I balked at this, but ordered a maple peanut butter and bacon sandwich which was not deep-fried, and can report that it is a fine if slightly alien combination. We left with a couple of jars of flavoured peanut butter (cinnamon raisin and maple syrup) with which I think I will be making cookies from. Actually it's more likely that I'll just be eating spoonfuls of it from the jar. 

 You’re probably feeling a little nauseous just reading this litany of food with which we abused our waistlines, so I shall leave you. I must pop out to buy more elasticated-waist trousers, or sweatpants as my American friends would have it.

Barely remembered Barrica

I went to Barrica a few Fridays ago to celebrate the beginning of my holiday. I should have written about it straight away but I had to pack in a mad hurry and get myself to the airport as, true to form I had failed to prepare, and therefore prepared to fail. Also I had a couple of bottles of wine afterwards, so my memories are a bit hazy. Just for a change. It must be such a comfort to you that I'm giving such accurate and considered feedback on these places, else however would you know where to eat?

I remember that the dishes were all delicious and a far cry from the horrible greasy uniform tapas that you get so much in London. Each plate was a different pop of flavour and the dining room is bright and airy, though we sat in the front next to the big windows facing the street as it was a sunny evening and it helped us to feel very European. Chicory with blue cheese and almonds, and baby squid with red onions were stand outs for us, but we were disappointed not to see marrow bone on the menu.

The staff are charming and very helpful, overall it is a very good place for some dinner, though don't go if you're starving, or it'll cost you a small fortune to fill your belly. I'd recommend going after work to sip sherry at the bar and dipping into a few tasty morsels to stop you falling over with drunkenness rather than for a slap up meal. Unless you are rich that is, in which case, fill your boots.

The genius of Nana.

Today Nana is going to someone else's house for a party, I am staying at home. My grandparents have a more active social life than I do. I would be thoroughly depressed by this were it not for the fact that I got to watch her make this beautiful lemon meringue cake. Note her mastery of the meringue form, unlike my sad attempts. She's so clever!

Were I to attempt this recipe I would undoubtedly cock it up, but Nana is no amateur and she always gets results. Jimdad says that she's only ever cooked one thing that he didn't like, and it was meatloaf. I think we can forgive her that...

I've just realised that since I'm not going to the party, I won't get any cake. Suddenly I feel duped for accepting the simple joy of watching my Nana make a cake, when I should have been demanding a slice. I didn't even get to lick the bowl. Sigh.

Recipe:
FOR THE CAKE
3 unwaxed lemons
200g softened butter
200g caster sugar
3 medium eggs
250g self-rasing flour, sifted
6 tbsp milk

FOR THE MERINGUE
2 medium egg whites
100g caster sugar

FOR THE FILLING
250g tub mascarpone
2 tbsp sifted icing sugar
half a 450g jar of lemon curd (Nana made her own, because she is legendary)

Preheat the oven to 160C/140C fan/gas 21/2. Line the bases of 2x20cm sandwich tins about 5cm deep with nonstick paper. Grate the zezt from the lemons and put in a bowl with the other cake ingredients. Beat together with an electric hand whisk for 2-3 minutes until light and fluffy. Spoon into the tins and level the tops.

Whisk together the egg whites until stiff, then gradually whisk in the sugar until the meringue is stiff. Spoon half the meringue over each cake and spread to within 2cm of the edges. Swirl the meringue with the tip of a knife.

Bake the cakes for 35-40 minutes until the meringue is crisp and golden and the cake is firm. Test by inserting a fine skewer through the meringue - if just a few crumbs stick tot he skewer, the cake is ready.

Allow to cool in the tins for 10 minutes, then invert each cake onto a folded tea towel and then invert again onto a wire rack, so that the meringue is uppermost. Leave to cool completely. The cakes will keep for up to two days in a tin at this stage.

Beat together the mascarpone and sugar and swirl the lemon curd through. Set one cake on a serving plate and spread with the filling. Top with the other cake and dust with icing sugar. Nana added some raspberries to the centre and top, more for decoration than anything else I think.

Friday cake

I met a friend after work yesterday for a slice of cake. I thought this very civilised, as usually I would meet her for a drink. After sharing a slice of Mrs Marengo's white chocolate and pistachio cake, we did indeed revert to form and hit the next door pub for a vodka and tonic or three. You can't fight who you are.

Mrs Marengo's is a vegetarian cafe and cake shop, but as a committed and evangelical meat eater I can say that you shouldn't let that put you off. The interior doesn't have even a sniff of the hemp and hair shirt about it, with pretty pink tables and piles of Willy Wonka meringues in the window. Our cheesecake was excellent, though more cakey than cheesecakey. I sort of wished I wasn't sharing.

Mrs Marengo's
53 Lexington St
London W1F 9AN
020 7287 2544

Scandinavian Kitchen

Today Polly and I went to visit the Scandinavian Kitchen for an exciting sounding 'smorgasbord' of lunchtime delights. There was a very huffy and irritable man making a fuss about waiting all of 40 seconds for potato salad, I wished he would shut up and stop being such a twat. Just wait your turn, the food will arrive, and really, how hungry can you realistically be? The service was actually very brisk and polite, so obviously he was just unstable on some deep psychological level.

I went for potato salad with red onions and chives, a roast beef open sandwich and what I thought was a ham wrap, but was in fact salmon, which I don't like. Polly had a meatball open sandwich with beetroot salad and a ham and cheese wedge. I was jealous of Polly's lunch, mainly  because it featured more meat and was a bit more substantial and I am greedy. My beef open sandwich was served on dense rye bread and topped with mustard mayonnaise and some sort of crunchy scatterings, which I cannot identify, but which were pretty nice. Pickles too, which I must eat more of in light of how much I like them. Polly was impressed by the cutlery, which was not only substantial, unlike the terrible brittle offerings from so many other lunchtime haunts, but biodegradable. Good work.

The Scandinavian Kitchen is lovely, I think next time I will eat in (instead of on a bird poo-spattered bench on the ugliest street in London) and I will definitely have a slice of LOVE cake (Their capitalisation, not mine) which is a chocolate sponge topped with gooey chocolate and coconut. You can also buy Scandi food in their deli/shop at the back, so there's no earthly need to ever go to Ikea again. Hooray!

The Scandinavian Kitchen
51 Great Tichfield
W1W 7PP
Twitter.

Leon Dinner Menu Launch

Henry Dimbleby is, as reports suggest, a very generous host. Last night I enjoyed a jolly good feed at the Ludgate Circus branch of his Leon chain, a pretty decent splash of wine, and a brownie to take home with me. It was like going for dinner at your mate's house, when they've anxiously cooked too much and wrap it up in tin foil for you to take home and leave in the fridge for 3 days then chuck away. By which I mean very welcoming and warm.

Highlights were the lamb and beef meatballs in tomato sauce, a mild vegetable curry and sweet potato mash, which was almost enough to make you give up 'real' potatoes. I could eat chorizo until my arteries furred up, so I was pleased to be presented with a board of the stuff and gaily chomped slightly more than my fair share. Apologies fellow diners. The dishes were diverse in their origin but worked well together, so you could merrily order from around the globe safe in the knowledge that it won't end up in a terrible cross-cultural disaster on your plate. Phew.

Lovely, all. However the best thing about the evening by far was the banana split. Yes, a banana split, the kitsch childhood desert of choice is making a return to polite society, and I'm bloody glad of it. I last ordered a banana split on holiday in Spain when I was 14 years old. Until last night I thought that this was the only acceptable location and indeed age ceiling for guilt-free banana split consumption. To order one at twenty four and under the grey skies of London would be embarrassing; the sort of thing a maiden aunt would order on her birthday trip to the Harvester.

Leon's banana split is, of course free range and organic and whatnot, but it's also delicious. Three scoops of ice cream is the future, I refuse to accept anything less after my dinner. Two scoops of milky vanilla and one of strawberry that tasted like seaside holidays, a banana (of course) and proper squirty cream topped with almonds and for everyone on my table but me, salted caramel sauce combined to make a banana split that your maiden aunt would approve of, but wouldn't embarrass your trendy friends, as long as you told them it was ironic.
(Apologies again for the appalling quality of the photos, I really need to up my game.)

Urban Family Easter

When my friends and I realised that our beloved families were all jetting off on holiday over Easter weekend and we were not invited, something had to be done to prevent us from sitting alone and dejected in our respective homes, stuffing chocolate rabbits into our cakeholes and wailing.

As has happened so often in the past when our biological families have let us down, the urban family came to the rescue. I offered to make a Sunday roast, however following the insane folly of drinking buckets of wine on an empty stomach for a marathon period during the boat race, I wasn't feeling in tip-top cooking mode. I found myself in Tescos on Sunday morning, confused and bleary eyed, with no recollection of why I had made the journey. I bought some mini eggs and 3 organic leeks and went home. I hate that brain-muffling fog that a hangover induces, whereby you have no idea who you are or what you're doing, but with the niggling fear that it's something important and you're on the brink of cocking it up.

Luckily I'd prepared a Nigella Chocolate Truffle Meringue Cake in advance, because that's just how I roll; super organised and domesticated. In reality pre-preparation is an absolute necessity in my life since I'm drunk most of the time, and if I didn't cook in advance during the scant windows of sobriety that pepper my life, I'd probably starve to death. Following my meringue hell of the previous week, I was a bit sceptical about trying again, but I'm a plucky sort, so I rolled up my sleeves and got cracking. I'm pleased to report, it went pretty well. I'd venture so far as to say that anyone could make this cake. It's basically chocolate and cream poured into a cake tin...

Ingredients:

FOR THE BASE 1 egg white 50g caster sugar 2 teaspoons cocoa drop of wine vinegar FOR THE TRUFFLE FILLING 400g dark chocolate 60ml rum (I substituted coffee) 60ml golden syrup 500ml double cream cocoa to decorate Serving Size : Makes 10–12 slices    Preheat the oven to gas mark 4/180°C. Line a 20cm springform tin with baking parchment and oil the sides with some flavourless oil; almond would be good, I used vegetable. Whisk the egg white until foamy peaks form and then whisk in the sugar a little at a time to make a thick, glossy mixture. Sieve over the cocoa and sprinkle with the vinegar, and whisk again to combine everything. Spread as evenly as you can over the bottom of the prepared cake tin and then put in the oven to bake for 15–20 minutes.Mine needed around 25 minutes, but do check after 15.     Melt the chocolate with the rum and syrup in a bowl over a pan of barely simmering water. Remove the bowl from the saucepan and let it sit off the heat for 5 minutes or so. Whisk the cream until it thickens slightly – it should be slightly aerated and have the consistency of thick pouring custard, no thicker. Pour into the chocolate mixture, beating gently until everything is amalgamated.     Pour into the meringue-bottomed tin and cover the springform with clingfilm, and put in the fridge for a night or day, or for up to two days.    A short time before you are ready to serve the cake, take it out of the fridge and let it lose its chill. It will be easier to spring open if the chocolate truffle filling has become less fridge cold, although you don’t want soft room temperature chocolate.    Spring the cake free, then transfer to a plate without removing the base unless you think you can with ease (and have one of those big round spatulas). Smooth the sides with a spatula if you want a smarter look, and push the cocoa through a sieve to dust the top of the cake. I put some mini eggs on the top to look festive.   It was a very nice cake, and really very easy to make. You can't really eat much of it though due to the insane richness, so I've got most of it in the larder and I'm not really sure what to do with it. Ideas on a postcard please (can you freeze it?)

Walbrook & Avon

Walbrook & Avon is a stylish restaurant that pops up about once a month in the delightfully old school F. Cooke's Pie and Mash Shop on Broadway Market. It is run by the very clever and talented Paul Allen and Polly Clifton, whose motto is 'cook food, serve love.' How lovely. It was with gleeful anticipation then that I headed to Hackney on Sunday. Following the cake feast of the previous day after which I feared I would never be hungry again, I was relieved but not surprised to note that my appetite had returned; it would seem that my capacity for gluttony is almost unrivalled.

We were greeted with English Bellinis made with perry, raspberries, lime and mint which managed to ease at least one of our party who had sworn off booze in the wake of a particularly brutal hangover back into the swing of things. In fact she enthusiastically accepted a top-up. It was lovely to be reminded that once upon a time we didn't live in this terrible grey vista of chilly misery, but frolicked, bare limbed in fields and parks, sipping cider from the bottle and laughing gaily at the sun (!) I had all but forgotten about this alternative (imagined?) life, but remembered instantly upon tasting my English Bellini. It seemed an auspicious start.

Things continued well with summery Pintxos served from the counter. Feta and beetroot with toasted cumin seeds, devils on horseback, croquetas of pea and broccoli and mackerel and horseradish, and olives all went down an absolute storm. My party had several hushed and frantic conversations about how we could eat more of the tasty morsels without appearing too greedy in front of our fellow diners. We ended up passing  the counter more times than was perhaps strictly necessary on spurious errands to the front of the shop, just so we could eat more of the delectable bits on sticks. It was declared that we would be happy if all we ate for the rest of our lives was devils on horseback, fortunately this was not necessary, as there were two more courses to come.

Rolled pork belly roasted in cider with red onions, accompanied by garlic and rosemary roasties and spring greens was a perfect Sunday meal, the pork was neither too fatty, nor dry. Even the fussy vegetarian in our party was delighted with her field mushroom stuffed with cauliflower purée and parmesan. A resounding success. Yet more delights were to come in the form of a chocolate brownie with raspberry coulis and crème fraiche. Were I forced to make a teeny complaint, (not so much a complaint as an observation) I would say that by giving some diners larger brownies than others, a fight almost broke out at our table. Perhaps we just care more about brownies than most. Or perhaps we are just greedy.


I'll definitely be returning to F. Cooke's for future pop-ups, the combination of great food in slightly quirky surroundings (I was sat opposite a Diana 'People's Princess' poster) with the added degree of smugness when looking out at the passers-by gazing in is a definite winner. I literally cannot imagine anything more stressful or upsetting than preparing nine dishes for thirty five people, so it's a relief that I know Paul, who appears to take all of this in his stride.

Walbrook & Avon's Blog
Facebook and Twitter.

Camberwell Tea (gin)

Saturday saw the resurgence of the celebrated Camberwell Ladies Institute of Tea, hosted at the lovely Hannah Osborne's flat overlooking the green. Such genteel surroundings for what would inevitably descend into a gin-soaked cake binge. And so it was, as 6 full hours after arriving, decked out in floral frocks and high hopes, we rolled out of Hannah's flat and onto the bus, cheeky bottle of wine in hand (sorry Boris), to hit the pub in epic fashion.

That's not to say that we didn't dutifully and enthusiastically observe the twin pillars of tea-party hosting: tea, and indeed cake. I can say with complete honesty that I had a lovely cup of earl grey before proceeding to slosh 14 bottles of cava down my throat. There was coffee too! Oh yes! However it is with shame in my heart that I admit to you that we splashed rum into our coffee, just in case it sobered us up too much...




But the cake! Oh what cake there was! From delicate caramel tartlets from Polly Button, to rich and chewy brownies from Ceilidh, a splendid angel's food cake in the shape of a butterfly, magnificent cinnamon buns and my own chocolate and peanut butter cupcakes. We also enjoyed a gin (yes GIN) and white chocolate cake, as it seems we are incapable of digesting anything that hasn't first been soaked in booze.

But not upon cake alone did we feast, oh no, for there were many and varied savoury delights for us to stuff ourselves with. Bruschetta,  tiny elegant sandwiches, baby sausages in honey and mustard, not one but two pasta salads, cheese scones and itsy-bitsy cheese and spring onion tarts. The weaker amongst us feared there would be no space for cake, but the more hardy struggled on, realising that this was a marathon not a sprint.

My cupcakes are from a recipe in Gizzi's Kitchen Magic and worked out very well, even if I do say so myself. I substituted the chopped Reese's Pieces for Reese's peanut butter chips, and placed a slice of peanut butter KitKat chunky on the top. These were imported from BULGARIA by my lovely friend Jess, as Nestle tragically stopped producing the bars in the UK the day after my birthday. What a gift Nestle, thanks very much. They were a bit on the large size as I made 12 instead of the recommended 18, so if you try them out perhaps you should stick to making 18 slightly smaller ones.

On a far less successful note, I attempted a hazelnut and passion fruit pavlova, because everyone always says that pavlovas are sooo easy to make and sooo forgiving if you cock them up, and they just look sooo spectacular, it really is worth making one.

Well, the people who said that are liars. My pavlova was an absolute disaster. I don't know why, again I followed all of the instructions to the letter, but still it ended up gungy and flaky and AWFUL. I can probably attribute the failure to two things; my eggs were not fresh enough and I am not very good at things like this. I should have expected calamity when I attempted a desert named after a ballerina, for grace and finesse are not my watch words in this life. I tried to claw victory back from the jaws of defeat by turning my failed pavlova into an Eton mess, as that's what people always tell you to do. Sadly mine ended up looking like a bowl of cold sick. But frankly everyone was far too drunk to notice.

Peanut Butter Cupcakes.
Ingredients:
170g softened butter
170g golden caster sugar
3 large free-range eggs
170g self-raising flour
3 tablespoons cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking powder
3-4 tablespoons milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
handful Reese's peanut butter chips/ 6 Reese's cups, chopped.

Frosting:
200g peanut butter
170g icing sugar
150ml full fat cream cheese

Preheat the oven to 170C/ gas 3. Put 18 cupcake cases in the holes of two muffin tins. Place the butter and sugar in a mixing bowl and beat with an electric mixer for five minutes or until pale and creamy. Whisk in the eggs one by one until combined. You may find that the mixture curdles a little, but it should come back together when you add the flour.
Sift over the flour, baking powder and cocoa, and stir in. Loosen the mixture with 3 tablespoons of milk and the vanilla extract. The batter should fall off the spoon easily; if you think it's too thick, add another tablespoon of milk. Stir in the peanut butter chips/ Reese's peanut butter cups.
Divide the mixture between the cupcake cases and bake for 20-25 minutes. Check that they are done by sliding a skewer into a cake; if it comes out clean, it's done.
Leave to cool in the tins for 10 minutes before turning out onto a rack to cool completely before icing.
To make the peanut butter frosting, beat together the peanut butter, icing sugar and cream cheese until smooth and creamy. Use either a knife or a piping bag to ice the cakes. Top with chopped Reese's peanut cups.

From Gizzi's Kitchen Magic.