Resistance is futile...

Silent and clear spring skies, thanks to Iceland’s volcano, made this particular Friday even harder than usual to resist escaping the chains of wage slavery early. So I pushed the ‘off’ button on my computer, told my work colleagues what I thought of them (I didn’t actually, but one day... one day!!) and headed down to Borough Market to get some gastronomic inspiration, purchase a bottle or two of wine, and meet with a few fellow bloggers and tweeters.

Coffee fuelled chatter between @Tehbus, @gingergourmand, @KaveyF and me, in the ever bustling Monmouth Coffee shop, came to a conclusion when we decided to go next door to Neal’s Yard Dairy.

Where the outside was noisy, busy and colourful, with it’s Victorian terrace of tea coloured bricks (where’s the bunting?) and glossy paint touches, the interior was spacious, cool and white walled; hallowed even. Hints of dampness barely noticeable against the strong aromas circulated around the shop; temptations of hard, soft and cream cheeses piled up on counters, slatted shelves or in tubs, lured the customer to purchase. This was the perfect environment for a cheese lover; pieces of heaven, rind coated and wrapped in waxed paper.

I held back, merely happy to watch Kavey’s love and knowledge of cheese in action. My hands remained firmly in my pockets refusing to open the floodgates of purchasing (the principle being that one purchase leads to an avalanche of useless purchases and eventually to an empty wallet and a red face). And I did hold back. I resisted, I really did. However, in the street by the entrance to the shop, they had pitched a stall of their top sellers. And that is when it happened. Like Kavey’s Stichelton, I crumbled in front of everyone, and bought the cutest little ‘handbag-dog’ of a cheese: Milleen.

So how does one go about describing this pocket of joy? This modest purchase, this tan and mud coloured roundel of about 4 inches in diameter; soft-skinned rind speckled with mould and the criss-crosses where it had been resting? How indeed?

Made from pasteurised cow’s milk and traditional animal rennet, it is washed in water. The humidity and proximity to the coast (Eyeries, Co. Cork) does the rest, creating the perfect environment for the soft cheeses the Steele family produce, according to the Neal’s Yard.

Released, at home, onto a wooden board, the kitchen filled with high smells of cabbage, earthy muddy aromas, straw and a hint of, well, wee actually. Yes, I said ‘wee’ (did they really only wash the skin in water?!) Clashing with the strong aromas of a simple roast chicken I could barely smell the wine that I had also bought at the market (a post on that later). Having been wrapped in waxed paper, in a bag that sat in my rucksack, it was clear why I nearly had the carriage of the train to myself.

Cutting into this cheese was almost ritualistic; silence and awe (helped by a candle lit room). Barely resistant skin gave way to a light cream soft centre. Salty sweetness on the tongue, made rich and luscious by a creamy egg yolk quality. This gave way to a slight graininess (that possibly meant it should have been brought out earlier), contrasting with the grassy elements of the rind, toffee cloyingness to the teeth and long lasting flavour.

Ignoring any bread, I went hell for leather with the Milleen and the (almost) matched glass of wine. And so it went. Gone. Disappeared. A mere will-o’-the-wisp of a cheese, or maybe I was really just plain greedy. However, sated, I was glad I only fell for the one cheese.

Neal’s Yard Dairy, Borough Market, 6 Park Street LONDON SE1 9AB
T (0)20 7367 0799 E boroughshop@nealsyarddairy.co.uk

Woodbine’s Good Friday Fish Pie Experiment

An abortive attempt to booze cruise my way through Norman France left me with an empty fridge and the question of what to eat. I should have been sitting in front of a mouth wateringly hot and cheesy galette, maybe with some added local ham, tan in colour and grainy in texture and served with sparkling locally made cider in an earthenware tea cup; bubbles complimenting the grainy crepe.

However, the sea was too choppy for the ferry (a catamaran style, hence it not running) and I returned with an unchecked shopping list and a bag empty of duty free delights and French produce.

The fact that Waitrose had an offer on their fish pie mix had nothing to do with it, not at all. I had the spring of the Easter bunny, the joys of Easter, the inspiration of the old tradition of fish on Friday, and what better day than Good Friday? I decided to tackle my very first Fish Pie (no, it really is my first time) and see how it goes.

My mouth was watering for flakes of pearlescent white fish, pink sweet prawns, rich salmon flavours and hints of smoke from the haddock; elements of spring from the fresh, green petit pois, contrasting sharply with velvety egg yolks, peppery parsley and the slightly salty creamy fish sauce. Sliced potatoes layered fish scale style on top to complete the picture. Hang on... sliced potato? Well, yes. I want my pie’s topping to reflect the contents. (I have sighed at several recipes by the great and good who have mashed their potatoes. Is it just me?)

The mixed bag consisted of ivory white fish (Coley? I forgot to ask), bright golden smoked haddock, glistening salmon chunks in orange-red hues, and from the freezer, pale pink prawns, petit pois, and a further sliver of salmon asking to be used up. The rest came from a raid on the cupboards.

So off we go:

1lb of mixed fish
250g prawns (defrosted)
150g frozen petit pois (defrosted)
1 scallion shallot (banana shallot)
3 eggs hard boiled and quartered lengthways

1 bay leaf
500ml fish stock
250ml white wine
250ml double cream
2 egg yolks
Juice of a lemon
Salt and pepper for seasoning

1lb potatoes (maybe a bit less) sliced to about ½ centimetre thickness.
Parsley
Butter

Mince the shallot and place in the bottom of a pan with the wine and bay leaf, boil for a few minutes then add the fish stock. To the liquid add the cut up pieces of fish and poach for about 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, in separate jug, mix the egg yolks and cream together with the lemon juice, and season. Drain the fish, returning the stock to the pan, and place in a deep sided gratin dish which has been buttered. The sauce is made by spooning about 2 tablespoons of the hot stock into the cream mix, then pouring the cream into the pan of hot stock, whisking constantly. This needs to boil until it is reduced to a double cream consistency (do not be afraid to let it really bubble).

To the gratin dish of fish pieces, add the prawns, peas, some parsley the hard boiled eggs, mixing carefully. Pour over the thickened sauce and then place the potato slices on top (some will sink but it should settle) in a scale style.

Place the dish on a baking tray to avoid the sauce bubbling over and bake at 180c for 45 minutes or until the potatoes are done. Serve with a sprinkle of parsley and some lemon wedges.

So how did I fare? Well, not a bad first attempt, even though I say so myself. Any thoughts or tweaks? The sauce could have benefited from further reduction, and I only used half a lemon. It did have good flavour thanks to the stock and the egg cream thickening (rather than the cloying effect a roux can give). However, if there had not been smoked haddock in the mix, I might have thrown in a tiny frond of tarragon, a mellow aniseedy contrast to the lemony zing. I might have added a sharp saline kick of smoked bacon. There could have been potential to add anchovy essence, the sharp briney fishiness working well with the boiled eggs...if, if, if... If I had done that, perhaps I would be moving from fish pie to lily gilding.

A bit of a tart...

Having made a mess in Aunt J’s kitchen with my Good Friday fish pie experiment, she, with the patience of a saint, then took me to where she stores the wine to see what was on offer. Chardonnay came to mind; lemon zing and light oak complementing the smoked fish and the lemon juice that had been thrown into the pie. However, the answer lay in the word “experiment” and, as with the pie, so with the wine, with a bottle of Domaine Ventenac, Vin De Pays Cotes de Lastours, 2008, Chenin Colombard 12% (Waitrose, £6.99). Oh dear, oh very dear.

Pouring the wine into our glasses, the colour was a light straw colour, very pale. Lifting it up to a white background it was possible to make out the green tinges of the wine, giving hints to what was to come on the palate. My glass was a little too dish-washer worn to notice any legs but the rim was as clear as the wine itself.

Putting my nose into the glass and trying to avoid the pervasive smell of fish that was wafting around the house, there were light floral hints and appley greenness; citrus, some pears, and an apricot honey that gave it a light almost sugary quality. However, it was very green.

What hit the mouth initially was the instant gooseberry and sharp mineral flint sourness; an insanely mouth puckering acidity of Granny smith apples and quince tartness (potentially from the additional Gros Manseng in the blend, though this is only meant to be about 10%). Redeeming this slightly was the vague honeyness from the Chenin, a honey and lemon lozenge; lemon pith; grass and herbaceousness; metallic pencil-lead flintiness. The creamy element had an almost, and I feel strange sharing this with you, raw and beaten egg white flavour before sugar has been added. Think meringues with a hint of lemon (I use lemon, some people use vinegar, a technique I picked up from Arrigo Cipriani’s “Harry’s Bar Cook Book”).

Leaving the glass to rest further in the hope that the woody, bitter herb after taste would lift, and the floral and honeyed qualities of the Chenin would come to the fore, my mind wanders to the wild and rocky garrigue of Lastours, only tamed by the vineyards of Alain Maurel’s winery, as the website would have you imagine. This, of course is slightly fantastic as Domaine Ventenac sits in the foothills of the Black Mountains, the same ones as St. Jean de Minervois and St. Chinian though about 50km further west. But we are 10km north of the very dramatic Carcassonne the medieval town rebuilt by Viollet le Duc and star back drop of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, so the fantastic allusions should remain.

Given the vines grow in a good draining mix of crumbly white calcium soil with an underlying magnesium loam (both of which would explain the flintiness of the wine) and some clay (preventing the grapes drying out completely), there is little danger of producing flabby wines. Strong Mediterranean winds from the south and cooler breezes from the Massif Central in the north give the vines plenty of air, avoiding the mildew that the Colombard is prone to.

Returning to the glass, there is a faint mead-like quality of honey on the nose. After a while some of the edge has gone giving over to the nicer honey subtlety, this is followed by the fruity citrus follow up... high, high high acidity. Puckering sharpness returns but less dramatic than before. It has lost its bitter herb quality. The long, long, very long finish is of riper apples but definitely Granny Smith rears her aged head here in this young wine. Still got that mouth-watering long finish some minutes on.

What amazes me is the disappointing combination of these grapes, bottled up to sound like something a bit ‘classy’ (to use a term). Chenin, a native to the Loire, gets full honeyed dried apricot flavours and aromas in warmer climes such as the obvious South Africa. Here, in the Languedoc, where the climate is much warmer and drier than the Loire, this wine is high in acidy and very little else. The honeyed apricots are trampled on by limes, quince, bitter apples and flint. Mix this with the neutral crisp sharpness of Colombard, a grape used mainly in the production of Cognac a little further west, throw in a touch of Gros Manseng (I admit having to look that one up!), and this is the result: disappointment.

Overall, my thoughts about sipping a gentle creamy and slightly buttered chardonnay still remain (though I am no great wine matcher). The label on this wine bottle says it is perfect with seafood and shellfish; however, it is too flinty and acidic, and would destroy any subtle sweetness that you get with a scallop or a prawn (or whatever). This would be great with a lemon tart, clearly because it is lemon pith and it is very tart. Whilst it did mellow, I wouldn’t want to have this again (not even with a lemon tart). For me there is no rounded edge, no honeyed apricots and no creaminess.

Adding some camp to Campari...

I have to admit, the end of Lent gets me itchy and excited. My enforced teetotal abstinence is coming to an end (I feel that if I am entitled to a holiday, why shouldn’t my liver!?) and I crave the most knockout of drinks rather than a simple glass of wine; gins, vodkas, light coloured spirits, Negroni Sbagliatos. Negroni Sbagliatos? Ok, so not an obvious choice.

Down the dark, narrow streets, firmly in the Centro Storico of Rome, minutes from the Piazza Navona and close to the Sant’Angelo Bridge and Pantheon, is a buzzing bar, heaving with all sorts of Romans and tourists: Antico Caffe della Pace. It was here I tried my first real Negroni, and here also, that I discovered its slightly more fey but infinitely more enjoyable sister, the Sbagliato.

The Negroni, according to the cocktail books of old, is 1/3 Cinzano Rosso, 1/3 Campari and 1/3 gin, served in a shot glass with ice and a twist of lemon peel; bitter herbs from the Campari (the drink of the Romans) mix with nutty gin and the sweeter lifting vermouth of Cinzano Rosso. The lemon peel continuing to bridge the bitter elements, the ice punching through the heavy elements of the liquors.

Where the Sbagliato differs is the lack of gin, instead using Prosecco. More frivolous, more drinkable and less likely to make you keel over mid conversation. Served in a longer glass, the same measures apply for the Campari and the Cinzano Rosso, pour the blend over the ice and then top up the glass with Prosecco. Finally, add a full, fat, round slice of orange not a peel of lemon. Lighter in flavour the bitter herbs are sweetened by the lemon and apple elements of the sparkling wine. Complementing this is the orange slice which again serves to bring the herbs and bitterness together with the sweeter vermouth elements and, of course, the light fruits of the wine.

Salivatingly satisfying, hugely restorative and better than chocolate... well almost... Happy Easter.

Sustenance and sustainability...(not a Jane Austin sequel)

Moonlight glistened on dark water and the reflection of light sparkled, adding a dreamy quality. Dreamy? Isn’t this Newcastle? Well, er, yes. Between the Millennium Bridge and the wonderfully monolithic wrought iron Tyne Bridge, that makes Newcastle’s landscape famous; along the quayside, with Baltic, the brutalist art museum, and Norman Foster’s undulating curves of the Sage (Newcastle’s equivalent to the Sydney Opera House, according to the taxi driver), in the new heart of Newcastle, lies one of the City’s prize assets.

Café 21 is the inspiration of Terry Laybourne, author of the cook book Quest for Taste, and the first chef to bring a Michelin star to the North East. Although the Café's aim is for informality, the initial impression, from the sleek bar, dark wood surfaces, dimmed lights and hushed tones of the diners (through enjoyment, I should add), is of formality and this is reflected in the menu, bringing together classic European dishes and English food, most of which is locally sourced from artisan producers.

A combination of work and a chaotic journey north had darkened my mood. It was late and I was tired and cranky, so I felt disappointed that I didn’t have time to indulge in a couple of dishes or more. I settled, though, on the one dish that could ease my mood and hit all my bases at once; the North Country Hot Pot (well I am in the North!) with ham knuckle smoked sausage pork belly and lentils. Pork, pork and smoked pork! (Did I mention the pork?)

Brought to the table in a cocotte big enough for two but with a perfectly portioned plate for one. A cloud of steam released the sweet smell of meat and muted woody aroma of lentils as the lid was lifted.

Succulent hock from Middlewhite pigs, boned and slow cooked, pulling apart to the touch of the fork, and with biting-into-velvet softness. Adding to the richness of flavour, a generously thick slice of salted pork belly, stripes of pink meat and full flavoured off-white fat. Smoked Morteau sausage from Lyon, thick cut discs, finished the combination of meat flavours, spongily resistant and gently smoked; sweetness, smoke and savoury. Smooth textured lentils cooked in ham stock formed the luxuriant base to which fibrously crunchy French beans, wilted baby leaks and green leaves, chateau-cut carrots and potatoes, were added. Fully satisfying and just right, so sad it had to end so quickly.

Back to the dreamy quality of Newcastle, and the palate of colours, sights and sensations in my mind as I drift off to sleep with a smile painted on my face. I am looking forward to going back.

Café 21, Trinity Gardens, Quayside, Newcastle upon Tyne NE1 2HH T: 0191 222 0755 www.cafetwentyone.com

You can’t always get what you want...

As Julie Christie might have said in the film Darling, “Chelsea is so gay” (well not in the modern sense of the word, but then again, I was surrounded by interior designers and arty folk so who knows?) Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Instantly trendy places come and go like shooting stars, and older ones from the time of Darling exist but never adapt. And, two minutes walk from the King’s Road is such an establishment.

Pellicano sits behind the lumbering blocks of flats on Sloane Avenue, and is frequented by the transient clients staying there or local people. Although it had a modern feel it was still very old fashioned. So it was with a certain apprehension that, dressed to pull and surrounded by the arty and interesting crowd, I accepted a glass of light and apple and lemony Prosecco and joined in the revelry. But that was where the problems began.

I was hungry, very hungry, so I decided on a starter of Tagliatelli with Rabbit; visions of creamy yellow tagliatelli contrasting with pale pink fleshed rabbit and flecks of maybe, parsley or thyme. However, reality kicked in the moment it arrived.

This was a rather hearty portion for a starter (serves me right, I guess), and my vision of pale yellow pasta and meaty ragu was distracted by a rather mean desert spoon serving of shredded and cheesy rabbit meat placed in the centre on top. The pasta itself while glistening was slightly over-cooked.

Over-cooked? Well that might be a bit harsh, but I wonder; were they catering for an English palate or were they too busy to cope? Either way, it is meant to be the genuine Italian article. Regardless, it was just a little too soft. Not al dente enough. (I once went to a place near the Vatican that served pasta so al dente that I wondered if water had actually been applied. But I digress).

I guessed that this was farmed rabbit, rather than a fuller flavoured wild rabbit, as it didn’t have that slightly woody, gamier quality that I thought it should have (it has been a while since I last had rabbit so please correct me if I am wrong), and it is the end of the hunting season. Drowned by the flavour and made slightly greasy by the cheese, it tasted more like the meat in a tin of Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup, so a desert spoon was more than enough. I was left with an acrid after- taste and the desire to dive into a glass of the red wine staring back at me in a wanton manner.

My main course Quail with Fennel and Pancetta on Polenta. Again, I imagined pancetta wrapped roasted birds on a bed of golden polenta. This was close, presented with Italian panache and looking quite appealing, there were two pretty, boned, roasted-to-a-chestnut colour quail nestling in soft, creamy mash and surrounded by a rich meat jus; two bronzed bathers on a golden atoll surrounded by a dark sea; parmesan and sweet saline smells from the polenta and pancetta. Ah, but again, what met the eye failed to meet the expectations of the mouth and mind.

The quails were stuffed with the fennel and pancetta giving them a plump cuteness and keeping them moist. Sadly, however, the overwhelming flavour was of pancetta; pancetta, pancetta, pancetta. The subtlest hint of aniseed and the tiniest meaty taste of the quail struggled to rise above the bacon. Nor were they helped by the not-so-subtle parmesan in the polenta, nor the jus. Keeping with the sixties film quotes, Michael Caine’s “you were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!” cry to his bomb expert for a more subtle approach to cracking a nut comes to mind, the complete lack of balance in flavours and excessive use of bacon was equally heavy handed.

Will I go back? Let’s put it this way, the only things that came out tops were the prosecco and the postcard that came with the bill.

Pellicano, 19-21 Elystan Street, London SW3 3NT

The pleasure of Polpo..

Polpo is a busy and bustling Venetian style ‘bacaro’ in Soho, which serves light plates of regional food and wine, and was once home to the painter Canaletto. Having read so many excellent reviews and, on a few occasions, pressed my nose to the window like a Victorian waif to peer inside, I leapt at the invitation by @R_McCormack and @Tehbus to go for lunch.

Arriving fashionably late (I now realise what that term means… London Transport!) I was greeted by Russell, he of Polpo and @polposoho, who took me down toward the back bar and offered me a drink as I met my fellow tweeters. What was so good about the whole experience (apart from the food Russell, apart from the food) was the feeling that we were just picking up a thread of conversation, as if we had known one another for years and could go on talking until the sun went down; a real treat.

So what did we eat? Let’s start with the appetisers we shared: Two perfectly formed mouth sized balls of Arancini served skewered on a long cocktail stick. Golden crispy coated rice mixed with cheese that pulled away in chewing-gum fashion as it was bitten in half. Crunchy skinned fondue soft centred balls, given texture by the rice; richness and lightness.

White moussed puffs of creamy salt cod, a nebulously light taste of fish on a golden disc of polenta; softness, lightness, fishiness atop the gently resistant-to-the-bite grilled polenta. I should say salted cod, because of the difficulty in shipping in salt cod from Italy. Either way, the chefs have worked on interpreting and translating day-to-day cod into the salt cod before us; clever stuff.

The non-fish eating member of our table allowed me to dive into the salt cod (why does “swim with the fishes” come to mind? This is London, not the Bronx) in exchange for the prosciutto and mozzarella.

Round 2 (Now I have the theme to Rocky in my head), the plates. I don’t normally get excited about Fritto Misto. I guess it is because it seems like an easy option rather than going for something more creative, more unusual; different. However, I am glad it was chosen. I really enjoyed the sunshine yellow, lightness of the batter and the melt in the mouth squid; the soft and sweet prawn meat, and crispy crunch texture of the fish; more-ish, greedy temptation.

A salad, well, it’s a salad right? Not quite. Aniseed flavoured shaved fennel, curly leaves of endive; a bitter sweet blend of flavours, mixed with slightly perfumed almonds. That is a cleansing salad!

Pork belly, a clear favourite; meaty-succulent sweet and tender enough to pull apart with the fork; contrasting textures of softness and crunchy hazelnuts and crisp peppery radicchio.

A fresh yeasty based Pizetta arrived, cooked to perfection (for me) egg with runny yolky richness, subtle cheese flavours and garlic perfumes cut clean by spinach.

In my greed and praise for the other plates I almost forgot this, and how could I? A deliciously rich flavoured terrine of tender, dark rabbit meat, refreshingly light, crumbling under the knife onto the thinnest of French toasts; pinky meat flecked with sweet apricot and subtle herbs.

Embracing the Venetian theme, the gastronomic carnival continued. Round 3 (ding ding): The ox tongue and lentils was an ‘out there’ choice, something I was curious about but needed to taste. Nor was I disappointed. Meaty-firm slices placed fallen Domino style (did you spot that reference?) on a slightly minty lentil bed. Velvety pulses, tender meat, and a fresh flavoured herb brought extra life to the dish.

Blackness brought a deliciously Gothic end to our choices from the squid ink; liquorice smiles bringing levity to the conversation. Cuttlefish, simmered slowly, so very slowly in its own ink given an almost electric charge by a tangy gremolata. @R_McCormack and I were in two minds about this (well for this course, there were only two of us eating!) Whilst the joy of cuttlefish ink is found in the deep, rich, earthy brine quality that lingers on the tongue, coating the mouth with its long finish, the lemon zest adds another dimension, keeping it fresh and light; which I liked. This was served with a side plate of soft polenta drizzled in olive oil.

And so we stopped; the huge selection and our expanding waistlines brought an end to the feast. To ensure we were steady on the road, my tweetamies had Affogato al caffe. Like a flashback from the 70’s with Coca Cola floats, the gelato, rich and egg yolk yellow-cream was placed on top of the espresso to melt and dissolve into the drink. I looked on with envy.

This was such a good experience, made great by the food and conversation. I am looking forward to returning. Thanks to Russell and the Polpo team, and of course my tweeter friends.